“Stop feelin’ guilty, Alabama, and give in. It ain’t your fault no more. You made mistakes, but you owned them. Maybe Griff is trying to too.” When Alabama’s silent, Holly goes on. “You were crazy about him. You loved him.”
“It can’t be love,” Alabama says softly. “It definitely isn’t for him, and even if it were for me ... I have to know why he left Clover.” She closes her eyes, a pang of hurt in her heart. “I just want an answer.”
“I know you do. I know you want all the facts. I know you need ’em.”
Alabama nods. She does. She needs them like air. Griff left her without a goodbye. She’s carried the betrayal of that all these long years. Having her questions finally answered would put an end to the wondering, would let her process her pain. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
Holly’s serious voice takes a turn for the tempting. “No one’s sayin’ go in deep. Just dip in a toe, you know?”
Alabama laughs. “I regret tellin’ you a thing.”
“You have to live your life. Have fun. See where it goes. You’re not supposed to be a nun, Al.”
Alabama laughs. “Maybe I could get that outfit on the roster.”
“Hot damn.”
Heavy boot steps in the hall, a pounding on the door. “We got ten minutes till the stage, Alabama,” Brian bellows.
“Got it,” she calls out cheerily, giving her door the finger.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Holly shrieks. “You gonna sing your new song?”
“Gonna try.”
Holly snaps an air-kiss in her ear. “Give ’em some sass tonight, Al.”
Alabama laughs and hangs up the phone. It’s close to showtime, and she still hasn’t decided on anything to wear. As her eyes scour the room, they land on a corner chair where her boots sit, still in their bag. She hasn’t worn them since her night out with Griff. She’s still wearing her torturous heels, one of her stubborn ideas to show Griff that he means nothing.
Which is probably hurting her more than him.
That one night they spent together, Griff had her remembering who she was—wild and free. Not the bitter and competitive bitch Six String churned out. She had a taste of freedom and she wants that same feeling back again.
She wants to be that Alabama.
From the closet, she pulls a pair of torn jeans and a lacey tank top. She dresses fast, slips on her boots, combs fingers through her hair. She puts on the barest of makeup, dark cat eyeliner, and pink gloss. Her freckles stand out like constellations across a pale sky.
She catches her breath when she sees her reflection in the mirror. The old Alabama stares back at her. Not the one Nashville made. That girl from Clover. Who loved the music. Who had every bright dream and impossible hope in the goddamn world.
A smile spreads across Alabama’s face.
She can do this.
Kick-start her life.
Alabama’s ten songs in before the audience starts shouting for Griff. She considers herself lucky; usually they barely let her make it through the first five.
Glancing over her shoulder, she slices a hand across her throat, telling Coop, the bassist, to cut the pulsing bass line to “High Heels, Higher Expectations.”
The band quiets, but the audience doesn’t. Beer bottles clatter as they roll around onstage, but Alabama ignores it all. She swivels an eye across the audience. The crowd is big, the biggest one she’s seen yet.
“I know, I know,” Alabama drawls into the microphone. “Y’all hate the song.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as she leans in closer to the mic. “Well, if I’m honest about it, I hate it too. But y’all gotta let me get through a few shit singles before you start demandin’ blood.”
That gets her a few chuckles and the semi-silence of the crowd.
Unhooking the mic, she crosses the stage and swaps out her electric guitar for an acoustic.
Into the mic, she asks, “You want Griff?” A few nods, sharp whistles float her way. Then she sharpens her voice, pins her eyes to a buffalo-plaid-clad redneck in the corner booth. “Well, you ain’t gettin’ him. So shut up and listen.”