Hideaway Heart: Chapter 11

THE FOLLOWING DAY, I stepped out onto the front porch around ten a.m., both hands wrapped around a mug full of hot coffee. “Morning.”

Xander looked up at me from where he sat in his usual rocking chair on the front porch, laptop open, cup of coffee in his hand. His dark hair was messy, making him look more rugged than usual, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, like maybe he hadn’t slept well.

“Morning,” he said.

Still in my pajamas, I crossed in front of him and lowered myself into the other chair, crisscrossing my legs pretzel-style.

“You sleep okay?” he asked.

“Like a baby,” I lied. I’d actually been pretty restless all night. “How’s the couch treating you?”

“Fine,” he said, taking a long sip of coffee. “It’s fine.”

I brought my cup to my lips and wondered if he was thinking about the empty spot next to me in the bed, and how it could have been his last night. “Thanks for making coffee.”

“I was up early. Decided to make myself useful.”

“I appreciate it.” A couple squirrels chased each other in circles on the gravel drive, then disappeared up a tree.

“Are you still mad?” he ventured.

“No.” I’d had plenty of time during the night to think it over. “It’s not like I don’t understand where you’re coming from, Xander. I get why you don’t want to mess around with me.”

“I do want to.” He shook his head. “I just can’t.”

I sighed. “I suppose I should be glad someone assigned to watch out for me has such a strong moral code.”

“My code obviously has a weak spot where you’re concerned,” he said. “But I promise, what happened last night will not happen again.”

“And I promise, I will not try to tempt you.”

“Good.” He paused, eyeballing my bare legs. “I don’t suppose you’d go put some pants on, would you?”

“I’ll get dressed in a minute.” I stretched my legs out in front of me, pointing my toes. “Looks like it’s going to be another nice day.”

He sipped his coffee and gave me a sort of grunt in response. “We made the news again.”

“Huh?”

He rotated his screen so I could see the photo of us on Splash exiting the restaurant last night, Xander one step behind me looking warlike and furious, me looking shell-shocked and pale after the kiss. “Look at my face. That’s me wondering what the actual fuck just happened.”

He turned the laptop to face him. “Sorry.”

“I’m teasing you. I’m sorry that you’re being photographed like this.”

“My fault. I thought we might be safe there, since it’s so out of the way.” He shook his head. “How do you ever get used to that, cameras in your face all the time? Not that this jerk was in our faces—he was obviously hiding across the parking lot.”

“He might not be a jerk,” I pointed out. “A lot of those paparazzi aren’t bad. They’re just doing their jobs. Trying to make a living like the rest of us.”

“It’s so invasive.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. But a lot of times, they treat you with respect. And some of them won’t sell a bad photo. It’s in their interest to play nice, you know? I’m more likely to give them a good shot if I like them.”

“You know them personally?”

“Some of the Nashville guys, I do. In fact, it was one of the Nashville photographers that pointed the finger at the security team when it was obvious someone was leaking details about my schedule and locations to media. That was helpful. But . . .” I took another sip from my cup. “There are definitely bad apples who will do anything for a buck.”

“Those guys are in every business.”

I glanced over and noticed he was frowning at his screen. “Everything okay?”

“Just dealing with some issues at the bar.”

“What issues?”

“You name it.” He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got supply chain issues with the barstools, Wi-Fi problems that no one can figure out, and my electrician bailed.”

“Where is the bar?”

“It’s in Cherry Tree Harbor, just outside town.”

“Can I see it?”

He leaned back in his chair and closed his computer. “I suppose I could take you to see it. But is that really what you want to be doing on your vacation?”

“Obviously, the kind of vacation I planned is not panning out.”

“And what was it you’d planned, exactly?”

I twirled my hand gracefully through the air. “A sort of creative retreat where I’d get in touch with my inner child, which would inspire me to write soulful, introspective songs that would be lauded for their emotional weight and poetic lyricism.”

He smiled, lifting his mug to his lips. “Instead, you wrote a song about me.”

“That’s right,” I said with a laugh.

“So let me hear it.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Go get your guitar. Sing for me.”

“I haven’t even finished one cup of coffee yet,” I protested. “And I do not sound good first thing in the morning.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he scolded. “You think Dolly Parton worries about how she sounds first thing in the morning or how many cups of coffee she’s had? I bet she wakes up and gets right to work lifting those emotional weights.”

“Fine,” I said, setting my cup on the ground and getting to my feet. “I’ll sing you a song, but only if you promise to take me somewhere fun today.”

“I might have an idea,” he said, stroking his beard. “Depends on how much I like the song.”

Laughing, I went into the house to retrieve my guitar from the bedroom. But first I ducked into the bathroom and peeked at myself in the mirror, pinching a little color into my cheeks. My hair was still in the braids I’d put in yesterday, but they were sort of ragged and frizzy from being slept on. For a moment, I debated taking them out but decided against it. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to tempt him.

After rejoining him on the porch, I sat down and tuned my guitar. Xander’s laptop was out of sight, and I noticed he’d refilled both our coffee cups. I took a sip of mine before playing a few warm-up exercises.

“Is that the song?”

“Hush,” I told him, starting to strum a twelve-bar blues in E with a slow, shuffling rhythm. “Don’t interrupt creativity in progress.”

“A thousand apologies.”

I closed my eyes, losing myself in the lazy groove. I played all the way through it once, the same simple form I’d taught myself as a twelve-year-old, back in my bedroom with a cheap guitar my dad had bought secondhand. Then I circled back around and added lyrics, doing my best impression of a broken-down, worn-out, fed-up woman who’s had enough.

“Planned a vacation,” I sang, my voice rusty with sleep. “Just to get some space.” I finished out the first four bars and switched from the E to the A. “Planned a vacation,” I sang a second time, “just to get some space. But what I got instead was just a bearded goon in my face.”

Next to me, Xander burst out laughing. “Nice,” he said, starting to applaud.

“I’m not done,” I told him, bringing it around again.

“I’ve got the Xander Buckley blues, they haunt me day and night,” I warbled plaintively, getting a little fancier on the guitar. “I got those Xander Buckley blues, they haunt me day and night. That’s why I sat on his lap, but he left me unsatisfied.” I finished with a walk down and resolved with two jazzy chords, humming a little riff on top.

Opening my eyes, I saw him sitting with his arms folded, a wry smile on his face. As the sound faded, I slapped a hand over the strings. “How was that?”

He gave me a few slow claps. “Very entertaining.”

“Thank you.” I set my guitar aside and picked up my coffee cup.

“Unsatisfied, huh?”

“Yes. Weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do about it?” I asked playfully.

One eyebrow quirked up. “What did you do about it?”

Lifting my shoulders, I let his imagination run a little wild before taking a sip of my coffee. “So did I earn my field trip?”

“I guess we can go to the bar,” he said. “It’s not like anyone will be there.”

“And I want to see where you grew up,” I added.

“Fine.”

“Can I meet your family?”

He gave me a warning look, like I was pushing my luck. “I suppose. Austin is having a barbecue—just his family—and Veronica invited us to come by.”

“Yay!” My heels hit the porch with a thump. “But we should bring something. I don’t want to show up to a barbecue empty-handed. Take me to the store so I can get some more groceries! I want to make a salad.”

He frowned. “We don’t need to—”

“I just need a few minutes to get dressed,” I said, picking up my guitar. “I’ll be ready in five.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I hurried back to my room. Going to a small-town, backyard barbecue wasn’t something I got to do in Nashville, and I was coming off a tour where I’d spent most of my downtime alone on the bus or decompressing in a hotel room.

Glancing at my phone, I saw that my father had called me again last night. He’d left me another voicemail, probably asking again about the “loan,” as if he’d ever pay me back.

In the last five years, I’d bought my father a car, paid off his credit cards, settled his gambling debts, and financed two failed trips to rehab. My brother could not understand why I kept giving him money, but Kevin wasn’t here—he didn’t understand what it was like when our mom came to me crying, swearing up and down he seemed different this time, he was so sorry for what he’d put us through, he was back to stay.

Then there was the man himself. Handsome and charismatic, he’d been a musician too, with a deep, resonant voice that hypnotized his audience. A charmer through and through. Good with words, great with an apology, unrivaled at guilt trips. He could twist your feelings until you were wrung dry. In no time, you were convinced it was you who’d let him down.

You have so much, peanut. So much. And I know I haven’t done enough to deserve your forgiveness, but didn’t I take you on my knee and teach you to play the guitar? Didn’t I bring you up on stage with me to sing duets when you were only knee high? Didn’t I plant the seed, telling you you’d be famous one day? Have you forgotten your old man?

And couldn’t I please help him out this one last time? Get him out of a jam? Set him on the straight and narrow so he could be the loving husband and father he knew he could be?

But no matter how much money I gave him or how many times my mother let him back in her bed or how hard we tried to help him slay his demons, it never worked.

I deleted his voicemail and texted my mother.

I also had another voicemail from Duke, which I deleted without listening to, and one from Wags, which I decided to ignore. In fact, I decided I was going to ignore my phone for the next twenty-four hours. No texts, no voice messages, no emails, no social media. I powered it off and buried it in my suitcase.

After throwing on some jeans and a T-shirt, I pinned up my braids and—just for fun—put on one of the wigs I’d brought in case I needed a disguise. It was black with bangs and a blunt bob cut. Think Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.

When I came out of the room, Xander stopped and stared. “What the hell?”

“You like it?” I fluffed one side of the dark wig.

“I think I prefer the red.”

“But the red might give me away. What if someone recognized me in the produce aisle? Or the frozen foods section? You might be tempted to kiss me again to protect my identity, and we can’t have that.” As I walked by him, I took the opportunity to smack him on the chest again.

He caught me by the wrist, his fingers like a padlock. “You’re going to have to stop touching me.”

“Jeez. ‘No kissing, put on pants, stop touching me.’” I shook my head. “Are you this much fun in bed?”

He stared me down hard. “What I’m like in bed is none of your business.”

“Okay, okay.” Yanking my arm from his grasp, I headed for the door, but just as I reached for the handle, he spoke again.

“But for the record, I am a fucking riot in bed.”