Page 73 of The Roads We Follow

“We’ll get it figured out.” He plops onto my bed, then positions himself so that his back rests against my headboard. With a yawn, he scans my entire room. “Hey, why don’t you have any demon creatures hanging from your ceiling?”

“Because not all of us can be as lucky as you.” I study the tired lines of his face. He looks more than tired, really. He looks exhausted. Thinking back over the last twenty-four hours, I honestly don’t know how he’s still upright.

“You should get some sleep, Micah. You’ve been going nonstop since the hotel this morning.”

“I will. I just need a minute to work up the courage to return to my room first. I know what would help, though.”

“What’s that?”

“If you read me what you have so far.”

“What? No.” I laugh nervously. “It’s not even edited yet, and I barely know what I’m doing—”

“I don’t care, I just want to hear you read.” His shoes drop to my floor in a tandem thud, and he closes his eyes. “Consider it my bedtime story.”

My cheeks heat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So you’ve mentioned a time or two.”

Realizing he’s serious about not exiting my room until he gets his way, I twist back to my screen and scroll up to the first of the six pages I managed to write after dinner. The quiet of this house has been a timely gift, and I’m planning to take full advantage of the private quarters for as long as we’re here. Not having to worry as much about my sisters accidentally barging in on a writing session has lowered my anxiety by half.

I clear my throat and start to read the first chapter. I’m only three pages in when I hear the deep throaty exhale that defines the unconscious. I turn to find Micah slumped on a stack of pillows and fast asleep on top of my bed.

I debate waking him and forcing his return to the Flying Monkey room, but then I recall all the selfless things he’s done for my family today and decide to let him rest peacefully a while longer. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to need my bed tonight. My afternoon nap gave me a second wind, and at the rate this manuscript is coming along, I might not sleep again until deadline day. An unexplainable exhilaration zips through me at the thought:I’m going to be a published author.

I stand and pull the quilt off the end of the bed, unfold it, and tuck it around Micah using the traditional burrito-style technique my mama always used on me. The blanket’s edge barely extends over his long legs. But even with a few accidental knee bumps to the mattress and the fumbling of my under-practiced tucking skills, Micah doesn’t stir.

Yet something inside my chest most definitely does.

April 10, 1982

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

I wish there weren’t so many miles between us. I know you tell me not to worry about you, but I can’t help it. I suppose it’s similar tohow you must worry about me even though I try my best to convince you I couldn’t possibly be better. On many fronts, this is true. We have sold-out shows booked through the end of the year and a southern state tour we’re getting ready to start next month, but I’m lonely. I haven’t actually said that out loud to anyone for fear of sounding ungrateful, which is the same reason I keep so many thoughts to myself these days.

A few weeks ago, I felt brave enough to address the increasing number of tabloids featuring either my perceived jealousy of Luella, my lack of suitors, or my undesirable figure to our label, hoping they might step in or at least offer a solution. Instead, Dorian did his best to convince me that any publicity is good no matter the topic. But who exactly is it good for? I can’t imagine how unflattering pictures of my backside increase sales.

Luella is often featured in the rags, only the articles written about her are either about her impeccable style or which celebrity she’s rumored to have flirted with. How is it our fans find Luella’s singleness mysterious while they find mine matronly?

I miss you,

Lynn

November 17, 1982

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

I moved into my own home two weeks ago. I took pictures of it today so I can bring an album with me before I fly out to see you next month. The house has everything I asked for, even a guest room I named after you. I had it painted your favorite shade of blue, and it has tall bookshelves, a television, and a large window overlooking a grove of red and black maples. There’s even a Bible on the nightstand. It makes me feel closer to you. I miss hearing you pray. And I miss the prayer rocks you used to write on and have me scatter in the garden out back. How many rocks do you think you’ve written on by now? Thousands,probably. Maybe someday I’ll start a prayer garden just like yours. Of course, that would mean I’d need to start praying regularly again. It’s been a while.

Do you ever get tired of the quiet, Chickee? I thought this transition would be easier than living in a house where I often felt more like an accessory rather than a best friend. But that was before I knew how this much silence would remind me of the Monster.

Saturday is Luella and Russell’s “official wedding,” and just like Troy predicted, the world has gone absolutely mad for it. For a man obsessed with Luella’s public perception, Troy was the mastermind behind Russell’s onstage proposal last summer at our Dallas concert. Do you know what the press calls them? Nashville’s Fairy-Tale Couple.

It makes me wonder if all fairy tales start off as a lie.

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