“And...?” she prodded when I didn’t divulge more details.
I roughed a hand down my face, not wanting to get into it, wishing I could erase the conversation from my head. Really, I wished I could erase the conversation from my reality. “And he’s still an asshole. Followed me out to my car, started talking all kinds of bullshit about you and my family. Basically he said he’s just gettin’ started.”
From across the distance, I could almost see the expression on my girl’s face. The worry and fear she felt every time Jennings was mentioned. The way she wished she could erase it, too.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I murmured.
“No, don’t say that. You don’t have anything to be sorry about. This…we’re doing this together, whatever may come. Until then, we can’t give him any part of us. Any of our time or our thoughts or our energy. I refuse to give him any more.”
God, she was a fucking miracle. A positive light shining bright, bright, bright.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. What Jennings had said about her mom was nagging at my consciousness, every part of me needing to know more. I got the phone as close to my ear as I could, wishing there was a way it could get me closer. My voice went tender, because fuck, this girl eclipsed all my hard.
“Tell me a story, Shea from Savannah.”
HER BLACK PATENT DRESS shoes clicked on the wooden stage floor that was nearly as black as her shoes, except for the scuffed-up spots where Shea could only imagine instrument boxes had been dragged or where shoes had danced.
She knew she should have been looking up instead of studying that floor, but today the butterflies she normally got felt more like bees. Nerves droned in her ears and swarmed in her belly.
She just wanted to make her momma proud.
Coming to a stop at the front of the stage where a piece of tape made a line at the microphone, Shea forced herself to finally look up.
She could do this. She’d had enough lessons and enough auditions to know what was expected of her.
A spotlight blinded her from above. She squinted and tried to make out the few faces in the front row of the almost-empty music theater. It was impossible, but she knew they were there.
At the ready to critique, judge, and assess.
She was used to it by now.
Well.
Almost.
She wasn’t so sure she’d ever get used to some of the mean things people would say.
The rejection.
But it was the disappointment on her momma’s face that always bothered her most.
And this one was important.
During the entire car ride from Savannah to Memphis they’d made just for this audition, her momma had drilled it into her. It’s big, baby. You land this and we’re set. You have to be at your best and nothing less.
Her momma had purchased a brand new dress for this audition, the lacy material tight at her neck and wrists. It landed below her knees.
Her momma said it was modest and pretty. Just what they were looking for.
Shea scratched at the itchy material when those bees buzzed, and she shifted on her feet, feeling she might be sick while she waited for instruction.
A deep voice rolled through the milky fog. “Can you tell us your name, please?”
“Shea Bentley,” she drawled quietly into the microphone, having to hike up onto her tippy-toes to reach.
“Okay, Shea Bentley, you can begin.”
From where she sat at the piano, Shea’s momma looked at her from over her shoulder and played a single chord. A cue that went along with her stern look.
Focus.
And Shea did.
Just as her momma dove into the music, Shea dove deep and found that place inside where she felt it. Where she felt it right in the center of her heart.
Just like her grandma had told her to do.
Even though she sometimes didn’t feel quite right—and so many times felt like crying instead of smiling because she always seemed to mess everything up—standing there, singing this song?