But after the rise had come the crash. Waking in one strange bed too many, his head thumping with pain, his body filled with so many chemicals he could have set up his own lab. All followed by a three-day hangover that cost the record company thousands of dollars in unused studio time, and a missed performance on Jimmy Kimmel that had made him feel like a piece of shit.
It hadn’t taken much to clean up his act. He was an idiot, not an addict. Marco had arranged for him to rent a studio in a secluded spot in Colorado, and he’d put his head down until he’d finished his second album. The record that raised him up from being a little famous to being a star.
God, he was tired. It wasn’t just the tour – though that was draining on its own. It was everything. Trying to work on songs for the next album, talking with Marco about what kind of tour he wanted to promote it, and dealing with the calls from his sister about his dad being in the hospital with pneumonia.
It felt like all the energy had been sucked out of him. He wanted to sleep for months.
“Your car is here,” Marco said, pushing the dressing room door open. “You just need to say goodbye to a few people first.” He frowned at Gray, slumped on the bench. “Hey, you okay? You haven’t showered.”
“I’ll do it back at the hotel.” Gray stood and rolled his shoulders.
Paul walked over to shake his hand. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
“And with you. Take it easy. Enjoy that family of yours.” Gray had seen all the photographs of Paul’s wife, three children, and six grandchildren.
“I intend to. I hope your father’s feeling better soon.”
“That reminds me,” Marco said, steering Gray out of the room. “I spoke to your sister earlier. Your father was discharged and is recuperating at home. She wanted your flight details so they know when to expect you.”
“She could have called me.”
Marco laughed. “Do you know when your flight gets into Dulles?”
Gray frowned. “No.”
“Which is why she called me. I also told her you’d be staying for a while, like we talked about. Give you a chance to write some songs in peace. There’s no place like home, right?”
Home. Gray swallowed hard at the thought of the imposing Victorian building with the pristine lawn that led down to the creek that gave the town it’s name. His father’s house. The one he’d left as soon as he could and had sworn he’d never return to.
And yet here he was, about to return for the first time in more than ten years. To the place where his father still lived, along with his Aunt Gina and his sister, Becca.
After a quick talk with the people from his record label, they made it to the exit. Cool air was wafting through the open doors, reminding him that although it was spring in the US, Australia was slowly slipping from fall into winter. A security guard was waiting for them at the door, and he talked into his headset as soon as he saw Gray approaching. “Mr. Hartson,” he said, turning to greet him. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll make sure you get to your car safely.”
The tour was over. It was time to begin the long journey home. From the arena to the hotel to the airport, and onward to the US. His final stop being Hartson’s Creek.
As he followed the guard through the doors, and into the dark Sydney night, he felt his stomach contract at the thought of where he was headed.
The crowd of fans gathered at the back of the arena roared as he stepped out, their voices loud as they began to chant his name. Gray lifted his hand to wave goodbye to them.
It was time to go home.
* * *
“According to the GPS, we should be there in five minutes,” his driver said as they passed into the Hartson’s Creek town limits. According to the weather-beaten sign, the town’s population was still 9,872, the exact same number it had been when he left.
Gray turned his head to look out of the window. His stomach clenched at how familiar it all looked. The painted Victorian houses, the long lawns, and the wide, weatherworn roads. Had the town stood still for the last decade? Even the shops looked the same. As they stopped at a red light, he stared into the window of Bella’s Bakery, taking in the iced cinnamon swirls and donuts he used to adore as a kid. He could almost taste that buttery, sugary goodness on his tongue. And next door, as always, was Murphy’s Diner, the scene of his first gig – the one that led to the infamous Homecoming Brawl of 2005. His lips twitched at the memory of the carnage. At the way Ashleigh Clark had rubbed ointment onto his cut eye and split lip, telling him he looked hotter than hell after he’d been in a brawl.
He hadn’t felt so hot the next morning when his dad received the bill for the damage done to the diner. Nor when he’d spent the following summer cleaning every inch of Murphy’s greasy kitchen. He shuddered at the memory.
“We’re here.” The driver pulled the car to a stop.
Gray looked out of the window again. They were about a hundred yards short of the driveway to his family home, and he was okay with that. “Can we wait here for a minute?” he asked.
The driver shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat as Gray looked toward the green hedges that bordered his father’s land. He couldn’t see the driveway but he knew it was there. Gray-and-red gravel that made a hell of a noise when you were trying to sneak home after curfew. It led to what he remembered as an imposing house. Tall red roof, white boarded walls, and a cupola in the center you could only reach via a rickety staircase.
The climb was always worth it. Because when you got to the top, the lantern windows gave you a three-sixty view over Hartson’s Creek. To the west you could see the fields that stretched out in a green carpet to the Shenandoah Mountains far beyond. To the east was the sparkling blue of the creek, leading to the wheat farms that would be colored a burnished gold come fall.
The house didn’t look so white anymore. The boards were peeling and decayed, down to the base wood in places. Even from here he could see where some shingles had slipped from the roof. But more than that, it looked small. So much smaller than he remembered. Like a miniature version of its real self.