Page 4 of Just Business

I ease the phone from my ear and see it’s half past noon.

“Something like that,” I groan. “Had a hard time getting settled last night. And before you ask, no I didn’t get drunk.” It’s not a lie. I didn’t get drunk.

Rising from my bed, I slip on a pair of sweatpants and head downstairs to fix a cup of coffee.

“Where am I staying?” I ask, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can use both hands to get my coffee ready. There’s a fancy ass espresso maker with dozens of buttons on my countertop, but a simple French press is more my style.

“It’s a tiny town. All they’ve got is a roadside motel. I sent you a link. It’s nothing fancy, but it looks clean.”

While the grounds steep, I move to my island, lowering onto the closest stool. I put my phone on speaker and scroll to my email to check the links Ty has sent. It looks like everything’s in order.

“Yeah, that’ll do.” Honestly, I couldn’t care less where I stay on this trip. “What's my story? What’s Kate come up with?” Those are just a few of the hundred questions nagging at me. Since I slept in, I’m completely clueless on what people are saying about the show last night.

“Kate’s preparing to release a statement this evening. She wants to keep it simple and stick as close to the truth as possible. If you’re on board, she’ll say you have vocal distress and it’s affecting your mental health. You felt it was in everyone's best interest to postpone the last two concerts until a later date. She’ll call you in a bit to discuss your socials.”

“All right, yeah. Sounds good. Tell Kate I sign off on that, or I can tell her when she calls.” We sit in a loaded silence, the weight of so many unspoken thoughts hanging between us.

“I assume you talked to Aunt Ashley and Uncle Brad since they’ve been quiet today. I’m sure they know I’m here.” My uncle is a quiet man, but not my aunt. She’s not a busybody or anything like that, but it’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m in town. She always shows up trying to feed me.

“Yeah. Everyone’s letting you decide when you’re ready to talk.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I sit chewing over my next words. “Hey, Ty? Remember how it used to be?”

“What exactly are you referring to?” he asks.

“When I first started out the venues were small. None of that pyrotechnic bullshit. None of that confetti they love to drop from the ceilings nowadays. It was just me and my guitar sitting on a stool singing some songs I’d written.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He pauses, chuckling. “Life was damn sure easier back then, wasn’t it?"

“Sure was, man…” My words trail off to silence, and I hear my aunt's chickens squawking near the main house. “I wouldn’t mind going back to that,” I finally admit.

The line goes silent, and I glance at my phone to make sure he’s still there. After a beat, he speaks again. “Take some time to think about that. While you’re in Alabama, think about whether that’s truly what you want. If you still feel this way at the end of August, we can bring it up at the meeting with Doug and the team at the label.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “You know what they’ll say. But yeah, I’ll think on it.”

I’m fully aware what an ungrateful prick I sound like. Who wouldn’t want my life, right? If you’d told fourteen-year-old me, singing on that stage in my tiny high school auditorium, that this would become the bane of my existence rather than the love of my life, I’d have said you were out of your goddamn mind.

“Listen, I’m gonna get off here. You’ll keep me posted on any details I need, right?”

“Right. You saw my emails. I’ll let you know if something changes. Talk soon.”

As soon as the call ends, my phone lights up again. In typical Kate Green fashion, she gets straight to the point: I’m not allowed to post anything on social media. My fans are like amateur detectives, looking for any hints about my whereabouts, often creating entire scenarios based on something they’ve misconstrued in my caption. She doesn’t want me dropping any accidental breadcrumbs about where I am—and that’s fine by me. Social media is nothing but a racket that I’d rather not deal with, anyway.

Now that that’s over I head outside to clean up the mess I made last night. My aunt and uncle’s dog, Gracie, tends to run over here sometimes, and I don’t want her cutting her paws up due to my stupidity. After gathering as much of the glass I can find, I toss it in the trash and head inside to shower. I don’t bother shaving, but I do stand under the hot stream for so long my skin turns red.

Once I’ve dried off I throw on a clean t-shirt and athletic shorts and start checking off my mental to-do list, one by one. Since I’m back home and not on day one million of the tour, I don’t have an assistant to pick up my laundry, which means I have a suitcase full. I’d normally dread washing all these clothes myself but today the simple act of washing and drying is therapeutic. Almost like a respite from the life I’ve been living on the road. I pop in my ear buds and hit play on my classic country playlist, singing along with Marty Robbins and Johnny Cash while I fold shirts and match socks.

My freezer is mostly empty other than a few frozen pizzas, so I heat one up and spend the rest of the evening googling everything I can about the town and studio I’ll be spending a month in. My jaw is on the floor, and I’m not sure how I haven’t heard of this place before. The town might have a population of less than five thousand people, but Tyler wasn’t kidding when he said great things have come out of this one. I can’t even fathom what it’ll feel like to stand where Bob Dylan stood. Hell, even Chris Stapleton recorded there. How the hell has this place slipped past me?

I scroll to the "About The Studio" tab and see that a man named Charlie Miller owns and runs it, but when I Google him, an obituary from a few years ago pops up. Hmm…that’s unsettling. I guess I’ll have to trust that Ty confirmed this is still a legit, working studio. Because this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Singing River, ready for whatever happens next.

“Honey, which top should I wear tonight?” I hold out two tops side by side, for her to see.

Meow.

“Yep, you’re right,” I reply. “It goes best with my hair.” After a few scratches under her chin, I hang the black top back in my closet and lay out my favorite emerald green one. It really complements my auburn hair, and the swoop of the fabric down the back shows off my tattoo. It’s the only tattoo I’ve ever worked up the nerve to get, but it was totally worth the pain and I love any chance to show it off. It’s a bold sunflower design, but instead of a stem, a treble clef curls down my spine. It felt like a perfect mix of my favorite flower with my family's deep musical roots.

With my hair dryer humming loudly in my ears, I don’t realize Josie’s been trying to call until I look down to three missed calls and one text message.

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