The Way Back Home (18 page)

“Is it that Kayelee girl again?” she asks.

“Well, she's not helping,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But it's typical Kayelee Ford. She retweeted all the
Rolling Stone
stuff. She posted a pic of Adam playing in
her
band a couple of years ago at her debut release party, with the hashtags belikeme and shineourlighttour. And now she's doing this big free concert at the same rodeo where I got that bad press. And I know it shouldn't, but it eats at me a little.”

“Hmmm,” Bonnie murmurs.

I look over at my reflection in the French doors and realize my hair is wild, frizzy and sticking out every which way. I try to smooth it down and finally just take the ponytail holder from my wrist and pull it up in a loose bun on top of my head. It makes me think that's kind of how my life is, like I think I look one way but the world sees me in another. I think about how easy today was and how different my life would be if I'd never been discovered in the first place. Nobody cared about anything I did a few years ago. Now it's like every step I take is in the wrong direction.

“At the end of the day,” I admit as I swallow a lump in my throat, “I guess I just feel like I'm letting everyone down.”

Bonnie grabs two spoons and brings over our midnight snack.

“In what way do you feel like you're letting everyone down exactly?” she asks.

I shrug. “I guess it's like, I don't know, maybe I'm living a lie.” I glance over at her, and she raises one eyebrow but doesn't say anything. I take a bite and think about what I want to say as I chew. “Like my fans and my family and my friends—well, everybody—they all think I'm this charming, easygoing, sweet, perfect role model when in reality, sometimes I just want to cuss or spit my gum on the ground or flip off the paparazzi. Sometimes I want to scream at reporters and tell everybody to mind their own business and get a life instead of constantly commenting on the way I live mine.”

Bonnie nods as she eats.

“And yes, the clothes are amazing, but I don't love being constantly dolled up and paraded around. My shows are exhausting, so on my days off, I want to wear sweats and go a day without showering and watch a marathon of
The Voice
, which I can't say in interviews because then the
American Idol
people would get mad. It's all so bananas!”

I start to take another bite, but my mind is racing now. “But no, I can't say anything off script because my team is carefully curating my aura, my ever-important image, and God forbid I stray from the perfect Bird Barrett that my fans—no, my fans'
parents
—want me to be.”

I glance over at Bonnie, whose blue eyes are bright and crow's-feet are deep. “Feel better?” she asks.

I take a big bite of peach cobbler and grin. “Actually, I do.”

“Oh, Bird, they all know you're not perfect,” she says. “You're human. You can't be charming or sweet every minute of the day, because you're a human being. Sometimes people forget that about celebrities, but we're real people. They think we're real when we're putting on a show, and they think we're fake when we do something real.”

“Yes!”

“No one, in reality, is the person they project, even and especially celebrities. But take the average Joe, too,” she says. “Everybody's on Facebook writing things like, ‘Little Johnny ate all his organic vegetables!' so they rack up all those likes and comments and such, but they aren't posting, ‘Little Johnny still sleeps in my bed. And he's nine!'”

“True,” I say with a laugh.

“Nobody's putting it all out there, Bird.”

“Yeah, but it's one thing for my fans to not know the real me, but now I'm not even getting along with my family or closest friends. I have to be so many different versions of myself: boss, friend, sister, girlfriend. And when those things conflict, it all blows up in my face. Or rather, I seem to blow up, and it's not pretty.”

“You're tired, honey,” Bonnie says. “And I'll tell you another thing—you're jealous.”

I scrunch up my face. “Jealous?”

“I'm telling you,” she says. “People would think I'm crazy to say that the rich, famous girl is the one that's jealous, but your family gets to go eat wherever they want whenever they want. And your friends can date and make new friends without ever wondering if the people they meet have ulterior motives.”

I take another bite and chew on that. She's right: My friends and family have a certain freedom that I don't have, but it's not fair of me to hold it against them.

“And they all get to make mistakes, little ones or—” She pauses, sets her spoon down with great concentration, and I can tell she's going back in time. She swallows hard before she continues. “Or big, fat, humongous ones—but they all get to make their ‘just human' mistakes behind closed doors.”

Gently I ask, “Are you, maybe, talking from experience?”

She sighs and nods. “Bird, honey, I ran with a wild crowd when I was younger, and I was the wildest of them all. I had more money than I had sense, and there was always a party or an after party or some way to ‘relax' after a show.” She shakes her head.

“So you quit singing when you sobered up?” I ask.

“No.”

She looks out the window for a few seconds and finally says, “Bird, I quit singing when my boyfriend and I went joyriding, three sheets to the wind, and ended up with our car wrapped around a tree.” I feel my jaw go slack. Bonnie answers me before I can ask. “He didn't make it.”

“Oh, Bonnie,” I say, reaching over for her hand. “I'm so sorry.”

She pulls away and pats my own hand before picking her spoon back up. “So I got sober, I eventually got married, and I quit the business.”

“I can't believe I didn't know all that,” is all I can say.

“There wasn't a soul on earth who
didn't
know about it at the time,” she says. “You want to talk about image and judgment and all that? I was every water cooler or dinner party conversation topic for months. Thank God they didn't have the Twitter yet.”

“I can't imagine.”

“But then somebody else's scandal came along. I was out of the spotlight. And since I had stopped singing, I was able to start over.”

“But didn't you miss it?” I ask. “I don't know how I would've gotten through something like that without music.”

“Oh, I've written enough songs about that time to fill five albums,” she says. “No, I can't live without my music, but I can certainly live without the fame.”

I take a bite and ponder that.

“But you, young lady, should absolutely not quit,” she says, turning toward me. “Do not let that be the takeaway from my sad story. Instead, you remember this: The greatest lesson I ever learned is that life is short, every moment spent with the people you love is precious, and every moment spent
doing
what you love is a gift.”

“‘Every moment,'” I repeat.

“Don't let your last be one you'd regret.”

“K
NOCK, KNOCK
,” I
say when Darryl and Bonnie drop me off at my house in Nashville the next day.

“We're in the kitchen!” my mom calls.

I drop my bags and take off my jean jacket, both excited and anxious to join everybody. My dad gets up from the counter and gives me a big hug, and when he goes to pull away, I squeeze tighter. I thought I'd want all this freedom on tour, but in reality, I've missed having him around. My mom is making dinner, so her hands are too messy to give me a hug, but she leans back and plants a loud smooch on my cheek when I walk around the counter to greet her.

“You have a good time, sweetie?”

“Oh, Mom, I needed that,” I say truthfully. “I really needed that.”

“Dylan, your sister's home!” she calls into the living room.

My brother is sprawled on the couch watching something on his computer. He looks up and gives me a nod but doesn't remove his headphones, and his eyes soon refocus on the screen.

I walk back to the front door and dig inside one of my bags for the Tupperware I borrowed from Bonnie. Dylan's not one to hold grudges, but I know him well enough to know that a thoughtful gesture goes a long way. So I grab a couple of forks from the kitchen drawer, walk over to the couch, and sit down at his feet, placing the plastic container between us and removing the lid.

He pulls his headphones down around his neck. “What's this?”

“Humble pie,” I say with a small smile. “I baked it last night at Bonnie's.”

He leans forward. “Looks a lot like pecan pie.”

I nod. “Yeah, I think the recipes are close, but to make this kind of pie you have to stir in a lot of self-reflection, a cup of remorse, and a dash of shame. The final touch is an apology—and I owe you a big one.”

He picks up the Tupperware and fork and takes a bite.

“Dylan, I'm sorry,” I say. “I shouldn't have gone off on you the other day. I've probably been pretty crappy to be around lately.” I gulp and look down at my hands. “I feel so terrible about the way I treated you and Stella and Adam. I was a jerk to a few crew guys, too. It sounds like such an excuse, but I really let the… well, all the stuff people have been saying about me…” I suddenly feel a lump in my throat, and I choke it down before going on. “I guess I've been letting it get in my head. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you guys, and I am sorry.”

“What?” he says, pretending he didn't hear that last part.

I look up and blow air through my hair. “I said I'm sorry.”

He chews thoughtfully and then says, “You're right. Humble pie is much better than pecan pie.”

I squint my eyes at him. “Hardy har-har.”

He smiles and then he says, “You know, Bird, you were right about one thing: I have no idea what it's like to be you. While you were gone, Stella and I Googled you. You haven't been acting like yourself, and we try to avoid the tabloids and Internet trolls and stuff, right? But I had no idea what was really happening—how badly people were giving it to you. There were some things that got me so mad
I
wanted to punch a hole through the wall.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking down at my hands. “That stuff hurts.”

“Well, for what it's worth, they're all pathetic,” he says. “Don't let scumbags like that get to you.” I nod, my eyes filling up with tears. He turns back to the pie and changes gears. “Hey, just six more shows before Thanksgiving break.”

“Yeah, I probably should've tried to push through, but honestly, I felt like I was losing it,” I admit, dabbing under my eyes.

“Eh, you do what you got to do,” he says with a shrug. Then he lowers his voice and says, “Jacob got a tattoo.”

I inhale sharply and glance over at my mom, who doesn't seem to be listening. “He'd better hide it when he comes home,” I say.

“He'll have to hide it for ‘Infinity,'” Dylan jokes.

I gasp. “No!”

He grins smugly and finishes off his pie.

One apology down, two to go.

“Stella's coming over,” Dylan says as he passes my bedroom later that night.

I look up from my guitar. “When?”

“In a few minutes. We'll probably just binge watch something on Netflix. It's cool if you want to hang.”

“Is Adam coming, too?” I ask quietly.

“Haven't heard from him.”

Sighing, I strum absentmindedly. “I owe both of them an apology, but Adam was short on the phone earlier and Stella's been freezing me out on text. I don't think she wants to see me.”

He leans against my door frame and crosses his arms. I can tell he's weighing his words. “She's pretty hurt, Bird. She feels like you've been acting differently toward her ever since we started going out.”

“I try to stay neutral,” I say, defending myself. “I just don't always know how to be there for her when the stuff's about you.”

He nods. “I get that. It'd be weird if Adam tried to talk about your relationship with me. But he doesn't. 'Cause we're dudes.”

“Lucky.”

“But she's also miserable, Bird,” he confesses. “So I think you should come down. Make her listen. She's like Dolce without Gabbana.”

I look at him skeptically. “Do you even know who they are?”

He shrugs. “No, but I've heard her talk about them, and I know they go together. Just like you nerds.”

The doorbell rings and he takes off, hopping down the stairs like he hasn't seen her in months when they're actually together all the freaking time. I doubt
my
boyfriend wants to see me that bad. After the minimal texts we've sent since I left the tour, I wonder if he still wants to be my boyfriend at all.

“Hey, Stella, can I talk to you alone a minute?” I ask my best friend after the first episode of
Sherlock
. I joined them once the show got started and waved when she looked up, but she barely even acknowledged me before turning back to the screen.

She shrugs. “I'm pretty comfy.”

Dylan pulls his arm from around her shoulders and stands up, flopping her back against the couch abruptly. “Hey!” she protests.

“I'm hungry,” he says by way of explanation. “Be right back.”

I look at Dylan gratefully as he walks past, and then it's just the two of us.

Stella rolls her eyes. “I
was
comfy.”

I had put my guitar and songwriting journal by the door when I came downstairs, and I grab them now. Then I sit on the opposite end of the couch, giving her space, but facing her. “So,” I begin, my voice shaky, “you know how you always tell me that I'm better at saying stuff in a song?”

“Yeah?” Stella answers hesitantly.

“Well, there's something I need to say to you.” I open my songwriting journal to the last used page, where I wrote a song inspired by my talk with Bonnie. “I am so sorry, Stella.”

“Okay,” she says simply. She hates confrontation, so I know that while she says it's okay, that's only because she wants to get this over with. To really get things back to the way they used to be, it's going to take more.

“I am truly, deeply sorry for exploding at you the other night,” I go on. “First of all, it was totally unprofessional of me, but more important, I can't believe I treated you like that. I'm really embarrassed.”

“It's fine,” she says, waving me off, but I need to say more.

“Obviously, I wasn't myself—I haven't been myself for a long time actually—but hurting you at the Tupelo show hurt me, too. I'm mortified every time I think about it, and trust me, I've been thinking about it nonstop.”

“You weren't feeling good,” she says. “You'd had some bad days.”

“Don't make excuses for me,” I say. “You deserve an apology. And I'm sorry.”

She finally faces me full-on, looking almost relieved. “Thanks.”

“I went to Bonnie's and was able to relax and unwind and
sleep
and, I don't know, refocus on the things that are important to me. And you're one of those things, Stel. You're my best friend. My sister from another mister, right?”

She smiles.

I start to strum. “Bonnie and I were talking about how I'd lost my footing, not just with my career, but also with the people closest to me. And I realized that maybe I've been stumbling in my relationships for a while, which led to the recent… blowups. She told me to treasure every moment in life, and it got me thinking about how you've been there for me through really rough times—breakups and bad publicity—but how you're also there for me
always
—like just to help me pick out an outfit for an interview or something—and those moments mean a lot, too. So I wrote this song. It's for you.”

I look down at my guitar and focus on the chords, on the new song, on the apology and the heart behind it. And I sing from that place:

“Every moment I'm awake, the show goes on.

On stage for each mistake, I can't be me, I'm just a pawn.

The press says I shouldn't sing like that,

They say that dress makes me look fat,

So I'm here.

But I'm gone.”

I glance up at Stella, who is nodding along, not just to the beat but also to the message behind it, and I belt the chorus.

“I'd fly—if you weren't waiting on the ground.

I'd say good-bye—if I thought you wouldn't be around.

I'd cry—if you weren't here to hold my hand.

And I'd die—if you weren't here each time I land.”

She sniffs, and I glance up, see tears in her eyes, and look back down. I hope those are happy tears. I hope they're forgiving tears.

“Steady, strong, and true,”
I sing, emotion choking my own voice a little,
“every moment with you, gets me through.”

There's more to the song, another verse, chorus, bridge, the whole shebang, but Stella is crying pretty hard now, and my eyes have blurred over so completely that I can't see the lyrics scrawled in my journal anyway. I stop and lean forward, and Stella meets me in the middle. We hug, there on our knees in the middle of my enormous sectional, and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.

When we finally pull away, Stella passes me a few tissues from the box on the coffee table and we both wipe our faces and blow our noses. “You'd think we were watching a Nicholas Sparks movie in here,” she finally says.

“We
should
be watching one,” I say. Then I get an idea. “Let's queue up
Dear John
so when Dylan comes back in and thinks he's getting
Sherlock
, bam! Chick flick.”

Stella's eyes shine bright, and she gives me a high five. “Oh, buddy. It's good to have you back.”