Page 86 of Whiskey Lullaby


Font Size:

The opening act had just finished. I could hear the dull roar of the crowd chanting my name and clapping when I made my way through the backstage area. My manager, Debra, stood by the stairs that led to the stage, tapping her foot on the floor, glaring atme.

“Nice of you to showup.”

“I try to be fashionably late and all,” Isaid.

“Look, I went with country because I didn’t want to deal with the crap rock stars do, so don’t you start thisshit.”

I shook my head while the assistants fussed with my hair, my shirt. They slipped my earpiece on. Someone handed me a guitar. “I’mhere.”

She grabbed my shoulders and shoved me toward the steps. “Well, thank you for doing yourjob.”

I waited for them to announce me. I waited for the cheers to get nearly unbearable, and then I stepped onto the stage, slowly making my way to the center. The lights all directed onto me when I stopped in front of the mic. “Good evening, Nashville. How are y’all this fine evening?” The stadium erupted in cheers. “I just got back from Alabama, sorry I was a little late. So, why don’t we get the showstarted?”

I strummed over the strings, humming into the microphone. I sang the first line, closing my eyes and thinking of Hannah just like I did every show. When I got to the chorus, the words didn’t come out. I played it off, letting the audience sing along. I glanced out over the packed arena. I’d gone from a nobody from nowhere Alabama to the guy on stage with sold out venues and CMAs. So how in the hell did it feel like I’d just lost everything. Sure, I had money, a nice house, fame—I hadfame, but I had nothing because I didn’t haveher.

Every song I played was the equivalent of dragging a razor blade over skin. Cutting, making me bleed. By the end the show I knew I couldn’t keep doing this, I’d drive myselfcrazy.

Those fucking letters…there had to be a way to get toher.

39

Hannah

Jet lag is a cruel beast. I was dragging when I went to work that Friday. I’d been back for a week, but I’m a firm believer jet lag takes forever to getover.

Margaret walked out of the hospital and waved. “Dr. Henley is in a chipper moodtoday.”

“When is henot?”

“Very true.” She laughed as we passed eachother.

The distinct, high-pitched ring of Facebook Messenger came from my purse. I knew it was Meg, she was the only one that called on that thing. I stopped underneath the palm tree right by the hospital entrance to dig my phone out. I only had five minutes before I had to clock in, but, I rarely got to talk to her because she refused to acknowledge I was in a time zone seventeen hours ahead ofher.

“Hey,” I said as I walked into thelobby.

“Don’t get on the internet!” sheblurted.

“What?”

“Don’t check the internet for…”—she huffed—“maybe the rest of yourlife.”

“What in thehell?”

“Where areyou?”

The automatic doors that led to the ER whirred opened. “About to clockin.”

“What? What fucking time is it there? Isn’t itnight?”

“No, it’s six in themorning.”

“Oh my God, I thought it was night there when it was dayhere.”

“Basically, but it’s already Fridayhere.”

“What the… you’re a dayahead!”

“I have told you this a thousandtimes.”