Whiskey Lullaby(39)

“Shut up.” I shoved Benji hard enough that he stumbled.

“Come on, man, you leave for Nashville tomorrow.” He caught his footing and smacked me on the back. “You just better not forget us. I expect the royal treatment at your first CMA. First class flight, front row seat, some hot blonde to pose as my arm candy. And hey, hey,” he grinned wide. “Make sure she’s got one of them coochie piercings.”

I glared at him.

Trevor tucked the case of beer under his arm, popping the tab to his Coors and taking a gulp. “I can’t believe this shit.” He took another sip, then burped. “This fucker’s about to be a big damn deal.”

“Hell, we don’t even know if the album’ll get picked up.”

“Brice-fucking-Taylor, bitch!” Trevor shook his head. “He said it’s golden, right?”

I shrugged, and he stopped, turning to face me as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.” He smiled before walking off. “Now, you won’t ever hear some sappy shit like that come outta my mouth again.” The music from the dock boomed through the air accompanied by the shouts and screams of people jumping into the lake.

The pier was covered with people dancing, drinking, kissing. And as we made our way down the slope to the lake, it felt like every person we passed stared. Assholes I didn’t like stopped me to take a picture, and I started to wonder if maybe I wasn’t cut out for this shit. I mean, I hadn’t even recorded the album, but, for that little town, the fact that I was going to Nashville—the fact that I had met Brice Taylor and sang on one track for his next release, well, that was enough. I was famous to them.

“Shit,” Trevor said. “This is nuts!”

“Yeah.”

When we reached the pier, Benji climbed up onto one of the picnic tables, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted: “Hey, fuckwads!” The crowd didn’t quiet down. “Hey! Hey!”

“What the hell is he doing,” I asked Trevor. He just shook his head and tipped his beer back.

“Hey!” Benji clapped his hands, then whistled. Most everybody turned and looked at him. “Fucking finally!” He cleared his throat before pointing at me. “You all know Noah Greyson, right?”

Everyone glanced in my direction.

“Well, tonight’s his last night in little ole’ Rockford, Alabama, in case you didn’t know. He’s getting the fuck outta here!” He raised his beer, and everyone followed suit. “So, cheers, fucker. Do us all proud.” He grinned. Everyone shouted before gulping down their drinks. Benji jumped off the table, and just like flies on shit, everyone crowded around me. Somehow, through the throngs of people, I caught sight of Hannah standing on the end of the pier with her eyes locked on me. Damn, I should go talk to her… But people grabbed me, taking selfies, telling me how amazing it was that my dreams were coming true. Those people didn’t fucking know me, I’d never dreamed of becoming famous because I’d never believed in myself enough to dream up bullshit like that. I just thanked them and nodded, then took the beers and shots they shoved in my direction. An hour later, I was shitfaced and signing some girl’s tits while I tried to look through my blurred vision for Hannah somewhere in the crowd.

“Man.” Trevor slapped me on the back while the topless girl threw her arm over my shoulder. “This is the fucking life!” he slurred. “The life.” He reached over and pinched the girl’s nipple.

Flashes from phones went off, and the girl leaned in to my ear. “I want to fuck you so bad.” She rubbed over the front of my jeans.

Smiling, I pulled away a little. “Nah, you don’t.”

“I do.” Her tongue trailed over my throat, and a group of guys standing in front of me stepped away, revealing Hannah watching from across the yard. Our eyes locked. Another set of fireworks exploded, the red color dancing over her face. Her nostrils flared, and she rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright,” I said, shrugging out of the girl’s hold. I took a few steps, stumbling as I fought to maintain my balance. For a second, I thought I should go after Hannah. Grab her hand and spin her around. Kiss her. Hell, maybe tell her that I hadn’t washed the pillow she slept on because it still smelled like her.

But I didn’t. I just stared at her until she turned away and headed toward one of the houses.

I told Hannah when we first met that she would end up hating me, and by the look she’d just given me, I was pretty sure she did.





38





Noah





Fall 2016





I popped another beer and turned the page:

I blocked you on Facebook the day after the 4th of July party. The day that you left for Nashville, because I didn’t need the temptation. It was too easy to click on your page and look at your pictures. But It didn’t matter that I blocked you, you were everywhere. Leave it to me to pick the guy from small town USA that would skyrocket to fame. God, I saw you on Good Morning, America and Ellen. Then there were the tabloids at the checkout lines. Anytime there was a picture of you with a supposed fling, my skin heated. I couldn’t help but picture you kissing some other girl, fisting her hair, telling them how good she felt.

I hated being that girl.

She was never that girl. Hell, I had only fucked a girl once after her, and even then, all I could think about was Hannah, so what was the point? Having meaningless sex had lost its luster.

Every song, Noah. Every single song seemed like you wrote it about us. Then again, they could have been written for any girl from Rockford, couldn’t they? I’m sure you took tons of girls out to that pasture, out to the airport. I’m sure plenty of them fell asleep in the bed of your truck. Maybe you climbed every girl’s tree, but one—one song I know is mine because you wrote it for me. Unless that was a lie too.

What had I lied to her about? I didn’t lie about a damn thing. Not one goddamn thing. I took another gulp before going back to the letter.

The first time I heard that song on the radio, I wasn’t prepared. Oh, it sent a flood of memories raging through me, churning up emotions I tried so hard to keep locked safely away. I remembered the way you smelled, how warm your skin felt against mine. It was like fifty lashings straight to my heart all while making me feel ashamed. Ashamed that I gave in to all the pretty lies you told me with your kisses. That I believed the way you touched me held any meaning. I’m not sure what bothered me more: that you fooled me, or that I fooled myself.

Do you know how hard it has been to just get over you when I couldn’t even get away from you? I mean, I cut you out of my life... and every time I see your face, I question whether I did the right thing by never telling you. I feel that twinge of self-doubt, of stupidity for falling so easily for you even though you warned me I would hate you. You knew, didn’t you, Noah? You could tell that I was more into you than you could ever be into me. But you just couldn’t tell me that because you needed the affection. I can’t blame you. You’d felt abandoned most of your life, so as much as I want to, I can’t fault you for letting me love you. I made you feel good. You made me feel safe.

I remember thinking all I wanted to do was prove to you that you were enough—I would have loved you had you let me, but I wasn’t enough, and you proved that when you didn’t even fight for me.

Jesus Christ! She was more than enough, and I would have let her love me had I just fucking known.

I guess maybe I should thank you because you took the worst part of my life and made it bearable. You promised we’d get through it.

I got through it. When she passed, even though you weren’t there, I found comfort in your voice on the radio. I went to sleep listening to my song because it reminded me of how it felt. And at that point, I just needed something familiar.

I placed the letter down and sat back in the chair, the wooden legs groaning. I gulped down what was left of the beer and grabbed another bottle, pacing a few times before sitting back down and snatching up the letter again.

You told me you cared for me.

But I loved you, that’s why I told you it wasn’t enough, Noah. I needed you to love me, not look at me like a dear friend. You told me you couldn’t lose me, and yet, you just walked off.

Daddy asked me to stay away from you, but I didn’t. I loved you too much to have someone tell me what to do. Months after you left, he confessed that he told you to leave me alone, and while that should make it better. It doesn’t, because you didn’t fight for me, you didn’t even argue, and that’s when I realized it was a one-sided love affair.

We never said goodbye, and it’s hard to let go of someone when there was never any closure. I’ve had many nights lost to the thought of what may have happened had I told you. I’ve woken up one too many times with the taste of your lips heavy on my mind. I want you to know how much you affected me, and I pray that writing this letter will allow me to walk away—to let go of those memories, and the hurt and anger that fires through me when I hear your name.

You made me believe you were something you weren’t and loving a ghost for this long has nearly ruined me.

Hannah

Frowning, I downed the beer while I stared at the words on the page. I loved that girl. Hell, she just said every song I wrote was about her—how could she believe she meant nothing? You don’t write songs about someone that didn’t fucking matter to you.