The Way Back Home (16 page)

I blink fast a few times, stunned by his reaction. “More dates?” I say quietly.

“Bird, you can't afford to take a single wrong step right now,” he goes on, all brass tacks. “Don't you see that? It's
you
they're feeding off of,
you
they're still talking about, so it's
you
that has to hold your chin high and prove everybody wrong. You think your fans are angry now? What do you think will happen if you go canceling the concert they've been looking forward to for months?”

My head pounds. I hear what he's saying, but I honestly don't know how much longer I can keep this up.

“Fansfirst,” Dan says, quoting a hashtag I use a lot on social media.

I steel myself for another rough patch and weakly reply, “Fansfirst.”

B
Y THE TIME
we reach Tupelo, Mississippi, the next day, whatever crazy virus I've been fighting has finally taken hold of me. I slept the whole way in a NyQuil-induced haze, and now I'm halfway through the show, running on fumes, but determined to be perfect. I can't give the media or these Southern fans even a moment of negativity to latch on to. Dan was right: After the rodeo and
Rolling Stone
fiascos, I cannot afford a misstep.

“Hey, are you feeling all right?” Stella asks during the quick change for “Before Music.” Dylan and I bring the whole show down for this special number, lights low and everything. We perform on stools at the very end of the T, almost in the center of the floor seats. It's intimate and sweet, but I only have a short video promo to hold the crowd over for my quick change, so I always stress this part.

“Yeah,” I say as I dive into the dress she's holding out for me. “But I flubbed a word in the second verse of the third song, and it's been on my mind ever since.”

“Nobody noticed,” she says as she pulls the dress down and fluffs the skirt.

“I noticed,” I say, my throat on fire. “Jordan, can I have a drink?”

My stage manager hands me a bottle of water, and Stella stands back and looks at me, smiling. I return her gaze, wondering what the heck she's doing. “You always look so pretty in this dress,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching a hand around my back. “Are you going to zip it up, or is it just as pretty hanging open?”

“Oh my God!” she says, running around me. “I totally flaked.”

“And the belt?” I ask as I hear the video wind down. I'm glad that I can stay in the same cowboy boots at least.

“Yes, it's right here,” she says. But when she bends down to grab it off the floor, we both realize that it's already connected. “Oh no,” she says, fumbling with the buckle as the lights start to lower.

“Bird,” Jordan says, taking the water from me. “You need to get out there.”

“I know my cues,” I snap. “I wish my wardrobe assistant did.”

I jerk the belt from Stella's hands, looking away from her big hurt eyes to wrap it around my own waist, tucking it in as I walk forward, since there's no time to buckle it. I hear Dylan start to play the opening melody and freak out. “I need my mic! Come on, come on!”

“Bird, I'm sorry about the belt,” Stella says as I grab the microphone from Jordan.

“Either hit your cues, or I'll request Amanda from now on,” I reply angrily before heading toward the stage. I hear the harshness of my words the minute I say them, but there's no time for apologies. The truth is that these days on this tour Bird Barrett has to be perfect.

The tension is thick in my dressing room after the show. Stella and Amanda work quietly as they take inventory of my wardrobe and pack it away for tomorrow's show. I crank up the P!nk playlist on my iPhone and slam my jewelry on the vanity, still fuming about the flow of the show and how it was basically the worst one of the tour so far. “I feel like I ought to give those fans their money back,” I grumble.

“Adam had to take a call with his manager, so he went on out,” Dylan says as he lets himself into my dressing room.
Oh no, Dylan. Please, whatever you do, don't knock.

“Thanks,” I say. It's not like I was going to get a Coke with him anyway. Ever since Fort Worth, I've headed right for the bus after my shows, pushing myself through these performances and running on empty. He's apologized a thousand times about the rodeo thing, and he was supportive about the
Rolling Stone
article (although he used the dumb cliché that “all publicity is good publicity,” which really irked me), and for the past week, things between us have been super tense. He may have meant well, but the way he's reacted to the chaos surrounding my life just magnifies the fact that he has no idea how different things are in the big leagues.

“Hey, what's wrong?” Dylan asks.

Surprised and a little moved at my brother's concern, I turn to face him. “Everything,” I say honestly. “I think this virus that I've been fighting has finally turned into a full-on flu, I'm under tremendous pressure, and I feel like I'm losing my mi—”

But I quickly realize that my brother isn't talking to me. He has made his way around the clothing rack, where my best friend is now crying in his arms, her shoulders shaking as he rubs her back. I feel a pang of guilt—I know I shouldn't have snapped at her during the show—and suddenly I feel the kind of exhaustion that literally weighs me down, my chest constricting as if I were pinned under a boulder.

I spin back around in my seat and chug an entire bottle of water. Then I throw my things in my big purse and turn off my music before making my way to the door. I need to think of a way to apologize to Stella, I guess, but I really don't have it in me right now.

“Who died and made you queen?” Dylan demands, cutting me off before I exit the room.

“Excuse me?”

“People make mistakes, Bird,” he says. “And that girl over there? The one you
supposedly
think of as your best friend? She's completely torn up because you spoke to her like a piece of dirt during the show.”

Fire flames in my gut. I want to kill somebody. “Hey, I'm just taking the tour seriously like my big brother asked me to back in Vegas. Remember that? Remember when you went off on me in front of the whole band and crew during rehearsal? How all these people are counting on me for their jobs?
I
do. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“That doesn't mean you have to go diva on everybody,” he says. “You can still show a little respect.”

“Respect?” I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, you're right. Stella, I'm sorry I didn't respect you enough when you messed up your cue and interrupted the flow of the show. Dylan, I'm sorry I don't respect you enough when I let y'all shack up on my bus every night and pretend not to hear you making out.”

“You're acting like a jerk,” Dylan says, his blue eyes steely.

I'm sure mine are the same as I step toward him. “You have no idea what it's like to be me right now,” I say. “This is a big old fun adventure for everybody else on tour, but when one thing goes wrong—anything—it's
my
name that gets dragged through the mud. Okay? It's
me
that everybody hates. So you two hate me now, too? Fine. Join the club.”

I storm past him and speed walk through the passageways toward my bus. I don't want to run into anybody, talk to anybody, or be around anybody. I want to fall into my bed and shut out the world and turn off my brain and cry myself to sleep… again.

When I swing open my bus door, I race up the stairs and run smack-dab into Adam. “What are you doing in here?” I ask.

“Bathroom on my bus is broken,” he replies.

“Still?” I ask, squeezing past him. “God!”

“Hey, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. It's just—you can't just come over here anytime you want.”

“Why not?” he asks from behind me. “I'm your boyfriend.”

I spin around. “And I'm your boss!” I exclaim.

Adam looks like he's been slapped in the face. Immediately, I put my head in my hands and feel it pounding. This has been the worst night. “Adam,” I say, calmer. But before I can make it right, he turns on his heels and leaves me standing in the aisle alone, wondering how I got here.

“Bonnie?” I say later when she answers the phone.

“Honey, what's the matter?” she asks, immediately hearing the sadness in my voice.

A quick sob escapes. “Everything.”

“Oh, Bird, I've been there, sweet pea,” she says, her voice soothing through the phone. It hits me how badly I miss her, how I miss life off the road, how I miss… myself.

“I know what's been eating you,” she finally says when I sit quiet on the phone, afraid to talk too loudly because I don't want Stella or Dylan to overhear. “There's not exactly a Bird Barrett lovefest going on in the media these days, is there?”

“No,” I manage. I put down the phone and blow my nose before talking again. “And I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to make it right.”

“Listen, you can't please all the people all the time,” she says.

“I know, but now—” I try to catch my breath. “Now it's like I'm becoming the person they say I am. I've been so sick and I don't know if that's why, but I was really rude to my best friend tonight, I had a fight with my brother, and for some reason, I just completely treated my boyfriend like the hired help.
Who am I?
”

I sob again, crying hard into my pillow to keep the noise down, my chest heaving.

“Come find out,” Bonnie gently suggests. “Take off a few days and come stay with me at the farm. Let me nurse you back to feeling better, and I don't mean just getting over that cold. You need to walk barefoot in the grass or jump in a pile of leaves. We can ride horses, and I'll make you sweet tea, and we'll write a song. Just come home a little while, Bird.”

“I can't leave the tour right now,” I lament. “We've got two more shows this week, and my fans already hate me. Imagine if I cancel on them.”

“Everybody needs a day off, Bird,” she says. “Exhaustion is a real thing. What will your fans think if you collapse on the stage? Or if your crew leaks it that you've become a prima donna?”

I chew my lip.

“Maybe before Thanksgiving,” I say.

“You going to make it that long?”

“It's just a couple more weeks, and then we've got a break.”

Bonnie sighs. “Well, you take care of yourself until then, girl,” she says. “And remember, the door's always open.”

Fresh tears fill my eyes. It seems like such a small thing, but it feels good to be worried about. “Thanks, Bonnie. I'll see you soon.”

We hang up the phone, and I close my eyes, lying back on my bed still fully clothed as I let the recent events of my life replay in my head. I have to get ahold of what's happening to me and around me. I have to be better.

My phone beeps, and I look down at a text from Adam:

Dear Boss, thought you might want to know about this.

Attached is a link to a story about Kayelee Ford setting up a special concert at the next Fort Worth rodeo, the theme of the article being about how she's giving the fans what I couldn't.

“No!” I shout.

Ignoring Adam, I text Bonnie a second later:

Prepare the guest bed. I'll be there tomorrow.