Page 105 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Good for you, kid.” Shonda smiles, but it’s a genuine smile; it fades fast when another member of her team walks by.
“I don’t—”
“Your mom would be proud of you.”
Peyton’s whole body goes weak. She gets goose bumps on her arms. Did she just refer to her mom? Shonda lets go of her arm and holds the door open. Peyton is frozen in place.
“You knew my mom?” she whispers. Is that possible?
Shonda nods. “We can talk tomorrow. I have some things I’d like to show you.”
Cleo calls out from the lift. Jesse is using his frame to block the sensor for the doors, but they try to close on him for thethird time.
“Okay.” Peyton walks to the elevator like she’s seen a ghost.
Isthis a test?
Did Shonda know who she was from the start? Is that the reason she’s getting a recording contract?
16
Cleo is lying face down on the carpet beside Peyton’s bed. All Peyton can see are her holey sock covered feet as her legs swing from side to side. The sound leaks from her headphones. The occasional hum of one melody or another escapes Cleo’s lips. Peyton guesses the song every time, from the smallest clue.
First it was “Butterflies” by Kacey Musgraves. Then came “Can’t Help Falling in Love”, but she can’t work out if it was UB40’s version or Elvis Presley—both are hits. “Austin” by Blake Shelton was the easiest to decipher. Peyton loves that song, and sodid her mom.
Peyton is trying to take her mind off the conversation with Shonda. They arrived back at her apartment several hours ago. All she’s done is scribble lyrics in her ninth notebook of the year and not even good ones. She holds herself to a higher standard these days. She is about to sign a record deal; it’s what she’s wanted all along. She can’t afford to waste vital pieces of paper on scribbles that amountto nothing.
She hopes Blue is okay. She considers FaceTiming her dad so she can see her cat, but then the clock reminds her it’s gone 10 p.m. He’s probably in bed fast asleep with the blurry lights of CNN on in the background. Blue was her comfort cat back home. She didn’t do a great deal or meow much; she slept, kept watch, and she’d occasionally purr so hard in Peyton’s face that she’d forget all her problems and just laugh. Over the years Blue had served as a tissue when Peyton wept, a hot water bottle when she was cold, and the ultimate spider catcher. Shemisses her.
There’s an old photo album of her mom’s on her bookshelf. After she passed, Peyton created a timeline of her life. It gave her something to do and served as a way to reminisce and be close to her in the months after she was gone. Melanie Harris loved a photo opportunity, from model poses to family gatherings; she had boxes full of photos. Peyton’s days turned into weeks as she sorted through the boxes and pulled out photos of significance. Her mom’s life in pictures now lives inside a one-hundred-page photo album. It sounds like a lot; at least Peyton thought it was when she’d printed it at the local Walmart. She’d opted for one hundred pages instead of one hundred and fifty or two hundred. It should’ve been enough—it wasn’t.
Peyton has over eight thousand photos in her camera role on her mobile. She tries to detox by deleting them when she’s on a flight or attending one of their neighbour’s requisite summer barbeques. Her dad insists they attend these functions because Alison across the street made them pie and lasagne when her mom died.
The most she’s ever found in her deleted folder is 178, mostly screenshots, memes, and an obscene number of photos of her face from the two times she developed a rash. Yes, it happened twice; both times she had one hundred photos of evidence, but it turns out it was just a reaction to a viral infection—it’s quite common, so she was told.
The point being, Peyton has tried to dwindle down her eight thousand photos to seven thousand, and it is impossible. She’s only twenty-four years old. A quarter of her life lived, if she’s lucky, and she already has eight thousand photos. In twenty-five years’ time she will have twenty thousand photos, maybe more. If she has children that quadruples the number of photos. Everyone knows parents take photos of their children at everyopportunity.
What if she gets pets too? The kind with four legs and a cute bark or a soft meow; ones that don’t have eight legs and eat meal worms for breakfast. They would easily add another few thousand. By the time she gets to her mom’s age she could have fifty thousand photos, and she’s supposed to get them down to just one hundred—it’simpossible.
There’s a song in there somewhere. She can feel it. She flicks through the photo album. She’s half looking for inspiration and half looking to find Shonda in the photos. She wants to know how she knew her mom. If she can solve the mystery it might help her sleep.
All one hundred pages back to front, twice over, reveal absolutely nothing.
Peyton puts her notebook to the side and rolls freely to the edge of the bed. She drops down like Spider-Man on to Cleo’s unsuspecting behind—Peter Parker, eat your heart out.
“Ahh.”Cleo jolts.
“Whatcha doin?” Peyton drags the words out in the cutest voice she can muster. She slides the headphones from Cleo’s neck and ruffles her hair. “I miss you.”
“Oh, you do?” Cleo grins. She leans back and pouts her lips. Peyton plants one kiss followed by another and another until her neck won’t stretch forwards pain free anymore. “What are you working on?” she asks.
Cleo closes the notebook with a snap. “It’s a secret.”
“Aww, come on; let me see.” Peyton drapes her arms around Cleo’s shoulders, but Cleo hasthe length.
“Nope.”
“Is it a love letter to your othergirlfriend?”
