Page 30 of The Heart That Breaks
“At least you’re honest.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Okay. I get it. He’s just trying to make me jealous.” She smiles and shakes her head, as if she now has a clear understanding of how something so ridiculous could have happened to upset the otherwise acceptably predictable apple cart of her life.
“It appears to be working,” I say.
She draws her head back, clearly offended. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Ann-Elizabeth Casteel,” I say and head for my next class.
*
Nathan
I READ THE text from Matt just as we pull up in front of Holden Ashford’s mansion in one of, if not the, most exclusive neighborhoods in Nashville.
Carlie currently drilling Ann-Elizabeth re: you
Crap.
If Ann-Elizabeth hasn’t already changed her mind about going out with me, a face-to-face with Carlie ought to do it.
“What is it?” my dad asks, obviously hearing my sigh.
“Just Carlie being Carlie.”
“Ah. Well, we’re here,” he says, cutting the engine to the Jeep.
“Whoa,” I say, taking in the enormous house before us.
“Yeah,” Dad says. “Country music does pay.”
“Apparently.”
“It’s all good,” he says. “Their fans love them. And I don’t know anyone who gives back as a band more than Barefoot Outlook.”
We get out and walk up to the front door. We’re both carrying our guitar cases, and I have to admit I feel a little like an imposter. “You sure I shouldn’t leave this in the car?” I ask.
“I think you’re gonna need it,” he says, knocking on the door.
I know my dad is comfortable with this. I know he writes with big name artists all the time, but something inside me balks at the thought of being given an opportunity I haven’t earned.
I think aboutAnn-Elizabeth’sdreams and how she’s already said she knows they’ll involve a tall ladder. And here I am, standing at the front door of one of country music’s biggest stars, simply because my dad slid me a break.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” I say, looking over at him with the sudden realization that I am right.
But the door opens then, and there stands Holden Ashford, smiling at us both and waving us inside. “Hey, Aaron,” he says, slapping my dad on the back.
“Hey, Holden,” Dad says. “This is my son, Nathan.”
“Hey, Nathan,” Holden says, sticking out his hand to shake mine. “I hear you got your dad’s skill with words.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say. “But that’s yet to be proved.”
“Holden’ll do,” he says. “I’ll consider myself lucky to have two Hanson writers today instead of one. Y’all come on in.”
A large Walker hound trots down the hallway and meets us in the foyer. He walks right up to me and nudges my leg with his nose.
