Page 1 of The Roads We Follow

1

Raegan

I breathe in the fresh dopamine hit of a dark roast brewing somewhere behind the coffee shop’s counter and remind myself that turning off my GPS location from the family tracking app is not one of the seven deadly sins. Nor is my decision to keep today’s meeting with the acquisitions editor from Fog Harbor Books off the shared family calendar. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of my love for the written word. It’s just that I’ve learned the hard way why some dreams are worth keeping to yourself, especially when those dreams involve seeking a professional’s opinion on the unpublished manuscript you’ve been revising all year. And especially when the world you live in is far more likely to accept an up-and-coming country music artist over a wannabe author who writes in secret under the cover of night.

The thought triggers the same herd of nerves I’ve worked to corral since I first spotted the email in my inbox last Friday. There’s noneed to close my eyes to retrieve the message. It’s still right where I left it, burning a hole in my prefrontal cortex.

Raegan,

I’ll be in Nashville for a publishing conference next week. Any chance you might be available to discuss your manuscript while I’m in town? My afternoons are open.

Chip Stanton

Acquisitions Editor

Fog Harbor Books—San Francisco, CA

After a quick adjustment of the claw clip restraining my curls at the back of my head, I rise up on tiptoes to search the few patrons seated inside the memorabilia-heavy Cup O’Country Coffee House. I’ve only met Chip in person once, but his flaxen hair is easy to spot at a corner table near the back. As if sensing my perusal, he shifts his attention from his laptop and offers me a friendly wave. I immediately respond in kind.

Before our first meeting last December, my only reference for acquisitions editors came in the form of a Hollywood stereotype: a grumpy, overbearing stress case who wields their red pen like a dagger and has never cracked a joke in their life. Thankfully, Chip’s demeanor couldn’t be more opposite. He has the kind of smile that instantly sets a person at ease, and even though he looks to be about my age, somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, his knowledge of books and the publishing industry leaves no guessing as to his life’s passion; he’s living it. It’s an observation I can’t help but be the tiniest bit envious of. And yet, for what feels like the first time in my adult life, the outcome of today’s meeting holds the potential to change that.

I push down my rising hope as I zigzag through the entryway and around country-music display cases scattered through the coffee shop. An editor doesn’t ask for an in-person meeting if he hates themanuscript he read, right? Seems like a brief email would suffice. I’m pondering this line of thought for what is likely the hundredth time when my hip makes contact with a tall object, causing it to teeter. Just as I throw out my arm to steady it, I realize the item in question is a life-size cardboard cutout of a beloved country music legend. Luella Farrow.

My mama.

From her place in the center of the room, she smiles back at me in all her crushed-velvet-jumpsuit-wearing glory. In her right hand she holds up the shiny CMA Award she won for Song of the Year only a few months back, an iconic night for more reasons than one. From her mouth is a speech bubble with text I’ve read a hundred times in a hundred different locations on the internet. But this time I read her words through an entirely different lens.“Don’t confuse your talent with your worth;only one of those is subjective.”Much to my surprise, the timely quote from her award speech serves to boost my confidence in the way only a pep talk from my mama can. Ignoring the niggle of guilt I feel over the secrets I’ve been keeping from my family, I thank her under my breath and set her right.

By the time I’ve reached Chip’s table, he’s standing with his hand outstretched. “Raegan, hello! It’s so good to see you again.”

“You too.” We shake hands. “Thanks for taking time out of your busy conference week to meet with me. I was surprised to learn it was here.”

“We rotate locations,” he says easily. “And it was my good luck that this year’s location was near your hometown.”

Fresh hope buoys to the surface as his words anchor in a tender, uncharted place in the center of my chest. Could that mean he ... he liked what he read?

He glances around the quiet coffee house. “I think this is the first place I’ve been to in Nashville that doesn’t have a line waiting outside the door or music turned up so loud I can hear the bass line in my sleep. Good recommendation.”

“The summer heat keeps this coffee house pretty low-key during the afternoons.”

He nods and gestures to an empty beverage on the table. “Said heat is why I ordered the iced coffee special. May I order you one, as well?” He leans in and lowers his voice. “In full disclosure, I will be ordering myself a second round. I have absolutely no shame when it comes to caffeine intake.”

I laugh. “An iced coffee sounds perfect, thank you.”

It’s remarkable how in only a matter of seconds Chip confirms he’s exactly how I remember him being last winter—easygoing, personable, real. When my niece Cheyenne had been hired to sing for an office Christmas party in San Francisco last December, she’d begged me to fly down and spend a long weekend with her and her lively roommate, Allie. I’d agreed without hesitation. Partly because any escape from home is a welcome one, but also because over the course of the year, those girls have played a significant role in my life as a closet writer. Apart from the man ordering me an iced coffee, they remain the only two souls on earth to have readThe Sisters of Birch Grove, my only completed full-length novel to date.

At just seven years my junior, my musically gifted niece grew up reading my short stories as a girl, so when I agreed to start a weekly accountability call with her and Allie to aid in our collective creative motivation, I hadn’t expected it to help me as much as it did. Each Wednesday night on video chat I’d read them one chapter ofThe Sisters of Birch Grove, and in exchange, Cheyenne would sing the lyrics to a song she’d been working on, and Allie would share whatever scene she was revising from her already contracted fantasy trilogy.

Little had I known, however, that this so-calledoffice Christmas partyI’d been invited to was at none other than Fog Harbor Books, Allie’s publisher. She introduced me to Chip, and within the hour, she must have told him no less than fifteen times, in fifteen different ways, just how much he’d regret letting me leave the party without asking to review my manuscript. I was both mortified at her forwardnessand flattered at her adoration of the fictional world I’d grown to love more than any place I’d visited in real life.

By the end of that night, Chip had asked to review my manuscript. The moment had coaxed all kinds of fairy-tale-like feelings, though it didn’t take long for the fear to set in. I’d spent the next four months tweaking and polishing before I had the courage to send him the novel that took me the better part of two years to write and revise.

Chip now strides back to our table, having made our coffee orders, and his smile takes on a new quality. And unlike I predict, he doesn’t sit down across from me. “So I have somewhat of an unconventional request to make of you before we get started.”

“Oh? What is it?”

He ticks his head left, and for the second time in five minutes, I lock eyes with my cardboard mother.

“My girlfriend is a huge fan of your mother’s. Would you mind taking my picture so I can send it off to her before my brain switches fully over to book mode?”

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