I’m not sure what to feel about that. On one hand, that someone took the time to make six folders with my name seems important. But file folders naturally end up in file cabinets, which means there are likely hundreds of folders just like these. Folders of folks who took their shot and flew, and some who fell flat back down to Earth.

  “Sit down. Let’s talk through everything, Bobby,” Jeremy says as he moves to the head of the table. It’s round, so there shouldn’t be a ‘head’ position, but there always is. No room full of people is ever on completely even footing, this one included. And pretending that everyone’s equal puts you at a disadvantage from the starting line. Best to acknowledge and act accordingly.

  Except talking through things doesn’t sound like something I’m going to be good at.

  I don’t want to talk. I want to sing.

  But I sit down like I’m told, willing to play along for this opportunity.

  Jeremy clicks a few buttons on a remote, and the window shades roll down automatically, followed by a television on the wall turning on. Showoff, I think.

  “To remind us all what we’re starting with, here’s why I’ve invited Bobby here.” He clicks Play, and I come to life on the screen, singing my opener song at Hank’s. It’s a cover, and I see a few looks of consideration. The lady closest to me closes her eyes and tilts her head, listening. But I can’t tell whether they like it or not.

  Jeremy fast forwards. “And here’s an original. It is, right?” He’s asking me, and I nod silently.

  My own song being judged stirs up fire in my belly. It’s one thing if they like my voice. There are tons of artists who only sing songs written by other people. It’s an entirely different thing for them to like my words, the ones I work so damn hard to find in my head and heart to express what I want to say.

  “What’s the working title of that one?” a young guy in glasses asks.

  “Her. It’s about my mom,” I reply. It’s the song I wrote when she was sick, and I dare him to say one bad word about it.

  He frowns thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Good title, catchy but generic. Never tell anyone who it’s about.” He splays his hands wide through the air in front of him. “We’ll say it’s for every woman, a ballad to the fairer sex and all they do to rein us wild guys in.” He smiles at me like that made a lick of sense. It did not. Especially when I bet the wildest thing he’s done in his lifetime is put whole milk in his coffee instead of skim.

  Jeremy nods. “I like it. Very of-the-moment with the whole feminist thing being hot.”

  I blink. “Feminist thing?”

  Glasses Guy laughs. “You know. I am woman, hear me roar. Anything you can do, I can do better. Hashtag whatever. That whole thing, you know?”

  I feel like these people are talking a different language. “I guess I don’t. I know my sister can outshoot and outride me on any horse. I know I can lift twice as much as she can. The best mechanic I know is a woman, and I can grow damn near anything you want in my garden or fields. We just have different skills, that’s all.”

  Glasses Guy freezes. “Oh, my God, Jeremy. What rock did you pull him out from under again? He’s an absolute find!”

  What did I say? Was it good or bad?

  I have no idea.

  But they’re all smiling, so I’m going with the hope and prayer that I haven’t screwed up yet.

  Jeremy claps and moves to open his folder. Everyone at the table follows suit, except for me, since I didn’t get one.

  “Let’s review things. We have a few questions, if you don’t mind, Bobby?”

  I lean back in my chair, hoping it appears casual. “Open book.”

  And thus begins the interrogation of my life. Chief Gibson should take lessons from these people because those little folders of theirs contain my entire life story, from birth to damn near what I had for breakfast this morning—an egg sandwich at the airport—and how often I shit—regularly.

  I’m not even sure how they got all this information.

  “Who are your musical influences?” Glasses Guy asks, pen at the ready to jot them down on a little yellow sticky note.

  “Classics and current stuff, but I try to stay true to myself for my music. Hell, even when I sing Johnny Cash, it sounds a little more me than him.”

  Glasses Guy hums and writes down Johnny Cash like that’s some ground-breaking, revealing detail of my inner musician. Everyone they’ve ever seen in country music probably says Johnny, Hank, and Waylon right off the top.

  “Let’s do a rundown of your current situation,” a lady in a blue blouse says. It matches her eyes perfectly.

  “Like my living situation?” I shrug, not having any clue why that’d matter to them. “I live on the farm I grew up on, though we sold it to the neighbors a while back when times got tough. I’m a farmer, grow fruits and vegetables that we sell at market and that my sister uses to run her business. I can tell you about growing heirloom tomatoes, watermelons, apples, peaches, pears, green beans, carrots, potatoes . . . just about anything that grows, I’ve probably done it if it’s climate appropriate for Great Falls.”

  Blue Blouse smiles pityingly and I keep rambling to see if I can find the answer she’s looking for.

  “My brother, Brody, still lives in our family house too. His woman, Rix—she’s the mechanic I was talking about—comes over a lot. My brother, Brutal, married his high school sweetheart, Allyson, a while back. They have a boy, Cooper, who’s smart as a whip. My sister, Shayanne, married the guy next door and now she’s a Bennett. But we all kinda got adopted by Mama Louise.”

  Blue Blouse leans forward, and the words stop pouring thoughtlessly when she taps the table with a pink fingernail. “I meant, what’s your situation? Married, dating, single?”

  Oh, that I can answer easily.

  “Willow. She’s mine.” I can feel the smile stretching my face. “We met recently and I was done for.” I almost say ‘she’s everything’, but a little angel on my shoulder tells me that’s probably not the proper thing to say to a room full of folks dangling your dream over your head.

  Another guy pipes in, “It says here you have an arrest record?” He scowls in disdain. “Three times?” His brows climb so high that if he had a hairline, they’d be in it.

  I shrug. “Misspent youth. Nothing serious, some trespassing for field parties and bar fights. Chief Gibson, Judge Myson, and I worked it out all right.”

  He comes back with a harder jab, “When was the last time you punched someone?”

  I grit my teeth, not liking where this is going. “A few weeks ago. Tourist got handsy with my woman when she was working at Hank’s. Broke his nose. Chief Gibson reminded him that it’s not polite, or legal, to lay hands on a woman without consent.”

  See . . . I got your feminist thing right here, people. Only we call it being a fucking decent human being and not a douchebag shit stain.

  Blue Blouse gasps before covering her mouth with her hand.

  What the hell? That ain’t no big deal. Happens all the time at home. Well, maybe not broken noses, but a punch here and there is how we settle shit in the country.

  But I can tell the tide has turned in the room. They think I’m some out of control hillbilly, and while that might be a little too close to the truth, it’s not like I’m a total asshole. I only fight when it’s the right thing to do. Or to let off steam. Or when one of the guys needs a target.

  Jeremy clears his throat, and all attention shifts back to him. He’s been watching this whole show silently, leaning back in his chair and taking it all in. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got you a twenty-minute spot at a place we like to run new and prospective artists through. Good crowds, but they’ll let you know loud and clear if you’re any good. We’ll send a car for you at nine tonight, you’ll hit the stage at ten as an opener, and be back in your hotel room by eleven with no broken bones. Yours or anyone else’s, am I clear?”

  He’s talking to me like a fucking toddler, but I pull back on the reins of my temper and simply nod.

  “Good. If that goes well, we’ll send you to the studio tomorrow. Mission will be to record as many quality tracks as possible. Don’t let me down, son.”

  I know a dismissal when I hear it, and I just bombed the hell out of this meeting. Maybe I can salvage it tonight, though. Chattering away ain’t never been my strong suit, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s singing.

  Back at the hotel, I drink a whiskey then decide I should probably do something responsible like hot water with lemon if I’m singing for my life tonight. Room service sends that up quickly, and I swallow it like a shot.

  I want to talk to Willow, tell her I fucked up, and let her reassure me that it’s going to be fine. She’d probably say ‘no matter what happens, it’s an experience that you’ll grow from. Be in it, feel every moment of it, and use it.’

  She’s right, even when she’s not here. She’s a part of me, and I feel her even though she’s far away.

  So I don’t call and worry her yet. She has faith in me and I’ll prove her right.

  Instead, I pull out Betty and play a few chords. Writing a new song for a show in a few hours is a risky fucking move, but I’ve never been one to play it safe. And since I met Willow, inspiration fills me easily and words come to me more readily, demanding release.

  Chasing down my dream so I can give you yours.

  The proof of a man is in his woman’s eyes.

  Storm for me, shine for me, show your soul for me.

  And I’ll dig down deep to get mine so you can have yours.

  After a while, I have that feeling. This is good. I know it is. I did what Willow would’ve told me to do—lived in this moment, mixing the opportunity, the fear, and the hope into these words. The melody is driving and urgent, giving it a sense of hunger.

  I play it five more times through, tweaking and changing little things to perfect it. It’s my ode to Willow and our future. Whether I make it tonight or not.

  The car stops outside a small, dark grey brick building that looks like it’s seen better days. The sign above it is painted on and simply says Bar. Is that its official name? Not even The Bar? Just . . . Bar.

  Inside, I find Jeremy, Glasses Guy, Blue Blouse, and a couple of other people I didn’t meet today crowded around a small table. Actually, everyone in here is crowded around small tables meant for maybe two but which currently host upward of six to eight glasses. The chairs are mismatched and scattered in no pattern I can discern, everyone finding a tiny space to fit their ass in.

  Jeremy shakes my hand. “Bobby! Good to see you. You ready for this? Tonight’s the night your life changes.”

  He makes it sound like he’s got a golden ticket with my name on it and all I have to do is reach out and grab it. But if it were that easy, anyone could do it.

  I nod.

  A guy dressed in black gestures for me to follow him, and he leads me to a holding area. There are four green folding chairs and a case of water on the floor. Nothing fancy like the hotel, but I wouldn’t expect a bar to be fancy, anyway. I sit as directed and wait my turn.

  Too soon, or maybe not soon enough, I’m given the stage.

  “Hi, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”

  There’s usually a cheer from the crowd at Hank’s, but tonight, it’s quieter than a January morning covered by snow. I don’t let it faze me and go into my set.

  I start with Bridge Over my Broken Heart, then do Her because Mom’s song seems like a good luck charm, as though she’s here with me for this. I play the song I wrote today, which I’m calling Dig Down Deep, and that’s when the crowd really falls under my sway. One more original and my time’s up.

  It was quicker than a blink and an eternity all at once.

  I have done everything I possibly can, cut open my soul, used my blood to write these words, and laid everything I am bare on this stage for these people. If they liked it, fine. If they didn’t, fuck them.

  I touch the brim of my ballcap as I dip my head. “Thanks for listening.”

  When I stand, the audience does too, clapping madly.

  I freeze, standing stock still as it sinks in. They liked it, and a warm buzz starts in my belly, growing bigger and brighter.

  Like my future.

  Lucky son of a bitch found gold in the twisted tunnels of a working man’s mind.

  Backstage, Jeremy comes in smiling and pats me on the shoulder. “Good show, son. Really good show.”

  “Thank you.” The ‘son’ thing drives me crazy, and normally, I’d have already corrected it, but I’m giving allowances for Jeremy because of who he is. I hate that, but it’s the truth.

  “The car will be here in a few to take you back to the hotel. We’ll get insights from the audience later and the tracks from tomorrow. Car will pick you up at noon for that, so get some sleep tonight. We’ll meet with you again on Monday to let you know. Take Sunday to enjoy the city. But no misbehaving. I don’t think you’d be able to sweet talk your way out of a scuffle here like you do at home.” His lips lift as he says it, but the smile is forced and doesn’t reach his eyes. Not a real joke but a warning couched as one.

  I grunt, refusing to honor that with actual words.

  In moments, Jeremy is gone back to the table, listening to the next act. I’m dismissed again.

  I’ve never been in a recording studio, so I have nothing to judge this one by, but I think it’s top-notch. The sound board is almost the size of a sheet of plywood and has more knobs and levers than a space shuttle. The room where I’m sitting on a stool in front of a microphone is bigger than my bedroom at home.

  “Okay, let’s try that first one from the top again. On the third chorus, the repeat one, I want you to add a bit more growl to it. Like it’s getting ripped out of your chest and you’re furious about it. Okay?” Miller says into my headset.

  Miller seems pretty cool. He’d introduced himself as the producer this morning, promised me that we were going to make some prime music today, and had gotten right to it. His critiques and insights have been spot-on so far, and I think my songs are already better after only a couple of hours with him.

  I sing my way through Dig Down Deep, my voice vibrating in my chest as I add the growl he asked for. It hurts, physically hurts, but when he plays it back, I can hear the improvement. The actual pain reads as emotional angst, giving the song that touch of wow that it needed.

  “Hell yes!” Miller yells in my ear, and I laugh. He’s been cool as a cucumber all day, but he’s damn happy with that take. “That’s what I’m talking about, man. That’s a number-one hit right there. No doubt.”

  “Your mouth to fate’s plans,” I reply, hoping he’s right.

  Today has gone better than I could’ve dreamed. A real studio, a real producer, my music recorded and primed for radio.

  My dream feels even closer.

  Grab it with both hands, hold on, giving everything I have. Mom, look what I’ve done. Are you proud of me now?

  “Good morning, Mr. Tannen. I’ve been instructed to take you back for a photo check first thing. Mr. Marshall wants the images to discuss during your meeting.” The receptionist clicks down the hall, but my longer strides put me even with her.

  “Photos? I didn’t know anything about pictures,” I tell her.

  She smiles kindly, and I realize I’m simply a checkmark on her to-do list.

  I’m not ready for pictures today, though I’m not exactly the fresh-shaven, styled-hair type. I just need to mentally prepare myself to pose and be paraded around. The ability to let someone else take control isn’t really my best feature.

  “Wow,” Rory, the photographer says with a smile when we come in.

  The receptionist smiles and talks to Rory out of the side of her mouth as though I’m not here. “I know.”

  I ignore their shit, not wanting or needing their attention that way. Only Willow’s.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, Bobby.”

  Rory pulls a stool from somewhere and sits me down by the large window. “Lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. Give me a flirty smile.”

  Click.

  That sound is so familiar. Aching and longing rise up in my throat. I want to check Willow’s blog and see what she posted today so I can live her day with her. Since I’m not there, it doesn’t seem as creepy. And at this point, I don’t give a fuck if it is.

  “Yes,” Rory coaches. “Madder. Show me angry.” Click. “Okay, now like you want to hate fuck, not kill me.” Click.

  “Are you comfortable doing a few with your shirt off?” Rory asks. “Your call, but I think we could get some good shots if I’m right about what’s underneath that T-shirt.”

  I’m not shy about my body. It serves me well, doing the work I need it to. “That’s fine. As long as they’re not . . .” I search for the word I want, but Rory jumps in and reassures me without it.

  “Tasteful, of course. Nothing pornographic or too vulgar. Fresh out of bear-skin rugs, I’m afraid.” He laughs, teasing, and though it takes me a second to follow suit, I do because I’ve relaxed with him enough now.

  I pull my T-shirt over my head and lay it on the table. I stand where he directs me and he takes several more shots. Click, click, click.

  He looks at his camera, an even bigger one than Willow’s, and smiles. “We’ve got it. Several options, in fact. I’ll send them on to Jeremy right now.”

  I shake Rory’s hand, all professional. “Thanks, man.”

  “Pleasure was all mine. Good luck, Bobby.”

  I pull my T-shirt back on right before the receptionist comes back to get me. “This way, please. They’re ready for you now.”

  In the conference room, there’s no mistaking the vibe. They’re eager, smiling, hungry, and excited. That’s got to be a good sign.

  “Bobby! Come on in and have a seat. So much to go over.” Jeremy is more enthusiastic than he was at Hank’s, bordering on Loretta territory. But he wants my music, not my dick. Presumably.