The thing about men like Wade is that they don’t show up empty-handed. Not at first.
They show up with charm and “potential.” With big talk and half-built dreams. They make you think you’re building something together. Like you’re a team, and their ambition matches yours.
But eventually, you realize you’re just the gas in their tank. I’m the meal they keep returning to because they know I’ll feed them. And I do because I’m nice like that.
Wade used to say,“When I make it, you’ll never have to lift a finger.”
Meanwhile, I was lifting everything: rent, groceries, date nights, and his ego. Every time the world knocked him down, I built him up. It became a full-time job.
I paid for his weed when he said he needed to “relax before agame.” I paid for his future as the quarterback while he watched me work to make something of myself.
The night I left him, he had the nerve to call me selfish.
Said I was “changing.” Like that was some kind of crime.
And maybe to him it was. But I grew tired of dating someone who was a dead weight in designer sneakers, being the only one who knew how to budget a dream. And at night, I would lie awake, running the pros and cons of him through my head, wondering why I was still with him.
Why did he have to treat my passion for music like it was a threat and not a gift?
Now, when men look at me like I’m the prize, I clock the hunger behind their eyes.
Some want the shine. Some want the shortcut. But none of them want me, the real me. I don’t blame them. I didn’t grow up with much. Daddy only came around when he needed money to gamble or pay for a night at a homeless shelter so he could take a shower.
I know better than to trust anything a man says. Mama still falls for every line. But me? I will smile and keep my wallet zipped and my heart zipped tighter, and my legs crossed.
I’m done being someone’s quick ride to being relevant. I’m done dating men who see me as a meal ticket instead of a partner. I worked too damn hard to climb out of the hollow to let another man hitch a ride on my back.
From now on, if someone wants to stand next to me, they’d better already be standing on their own.
The lights blind me before the first note ever leaves my lips.
It’s always like this—too bright, too loud, and overwhelming. But when I step up to the mic, heels planted, and my heartbeat thudding in time with the bass, everything stills. I don’t see the crowd. Not really. Just silhouettes, phone screens, a sea of mouths already waiting to be fed.
They want heartbreak. They want to feel something. And lucky for them, I’ve got plenty of it living in Pine Hollow. I might be young, but in a trailer park, dreams mostly die on the wooden floorboards.
I can feel the heat of the stage lights baking into my shoulders, even though it is warm enough without them. Vegas nights don’t cool down the way people said they did. They get darker and louder.
The field is dressed like a dream—glowing fairy lights overhead, golden moonlight rippling across the sea of people. The air is filled with a soft hum of anticipation that buzzes under my ribs like a caffeine rush.
This isn’t my usual scene. But tonight, I am the voice beforethevoice.
The crowd stretches out before me, clustered in the open-air arena. The summer breeze greets me like a long-lost friend. I take a deep breath, inhaling this moment before I step up to the mic.
Rose Maghee, my teenage idol. And I’m opening for her!
There’s a moment before you speak into a mic — when the air is holding its breath, and so are you — that feels like I’m standing on a ledge. It’s not fear, exactly. It’s the anticipation of becoming someone people are about to look at, listen to, and, if I’m lucky, maybe even remember. I’ve seen Rose live in that space like it’s her home. For me, it’s still a possibility that’s buzzing.
People stand fanned out across the courtyard, drinks in hand, laughter in the corners, and the energy is coiled tight enough to snap. The lights are soft amber and gold, framing the stage in a way that makes everything look a little too magical to be real. Vegas knows how to dress for a moment.
I step up to the mic.
“Hey y’all,” I say, steady and clear. My voice is warm, as if I’ve practiced it for years, but I haven’t. Shay always says ‘fake it until you make it,” and tonight, that’s what I’m doing. I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve the billing under Rose’s name. I don’t deserve the fancy hotel room. But I’m willing to earn it. “How’s everybody feeling tonight?”
A roar rolled back at me, louder than I expected. Good. They’re excited. I look out, and everything is a blur with lights colored like confetti. They’re here for Rose, not me. But maybe if I sing perfectly, they’ll like me.
“I’m Kate,” I said nervously. This is a huge venue, and it scares the Bejesus out of me. I keep my feet moving, or my nervous knees will lock. I’m almost afraid to take a step, fearful that I’ll trip over an electrical wire to the speakers. But I shake it off. I adjust my sweaty hand on the mic.
“I have the honor of getting this party started. I know you didn’t come here to listen to me ramble, so I’ll keep this sweet and Southern.”
