Make Me Bad: Private Lessons (32 page)

“Right, sugar?” Savannah asks.

I blink at her.

“You think that a band is so much better than a DJ.” She
tells me.

Another long pause as I try to recall any part of her
conversation.

“For the wedding,” she says darkly, busting me for not listening.

“Definitely." I affirm. "DJs are no good, we need
a band.”

“See?” Savannah says happily, turning to her father, “We’ll
just have to book a band. Blake knows these things,” she points out.

Mercifully, our food comes, entrees that are always too
small and leave me craving a Big Mac afterwards. We busy ourselves with eating,
and the conversation turns back towards my music again.

“Blake is supposed to get a tour this summer,” Savannah says
proudly. Savannah has always been proud of my music, and I still remember what
she was like in our early days of dating, the way she came out to every gig and
danced like crazy in the front row, making eye contact with me to make sure I
knew she was dancing for me and nobody else.

She was a sucker for a country boy singing.

“I hope that won’t interfere with the wedding,” Scarlet
can’t help saying, picking at her greens salad.

Scarlet is every bit Savannah’s momma, just an older,
tighter-skinned, slightly more demure version. Scarlet has the same lovely
heart-shaped face with matching big brown eyes. Her hair is much more frosted
than Savannah’s, and her skin is pulled tightly around her eyes and cheeks;
though she swears she’s never had any work done.

She’s toned and thin for being a woman in her late fifties,
though she doesn’t dress quite as provocatively as Savannah. To be completely
honest, if I weren't engaged to her daughter and she was just a stranger I met
at a bar, I'd probably give it to her.

Dinner comes to an end and I shake Jeffrey’s hand, kiss
Scarlet on the cheek and wrap my arm around Savannah’s waist as we leave.

“Thanks for coming,” she says.

“I guess you’re no longer mad that I didn’t notice your
hair?”

“Oh no, I’m still pissed. I just didn’t feel like being
angry anymore.”

“Alright, good to know.”

The valet brings our car around and I drive us back home. I
make a mental note to try Kenny again in the morning.

~~~

“Hey Blake.”

I'm glad to finally hear Kenny Lawson’s voice over the phone
the following morning. Kenny’s voice is rich and rugged with weariness about
it; the voice of a man who has seen a whole lot of shit in life, but still
manages to convey confidence.

“Kenny! Damn! I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend.” I
say excitedly.

“I see that now. Sorry," he sounds sincere, "I had
some personal matters I had to take care of this weekend.”

Personal matters. I can’t help thinking about Paige.

“Okay, well, I hope everything is alright.” I don’t want to
come out and ask directly, but I’m curious.

There’s a long pause and I hear Kenny clear his throat.

“Everything’s fine,” he says gruffly, “what can I help you
with?”

The subject change doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Well, I needed to ask you about the gig we have Tuesday
night. You originally told us that we needed a four-song set list, but I talked
to the owner of the club and he told me he wants seven. I know that changes our
pay.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Kenny says sounding unusually
distracted. “Hang on.”

I hear some shuffling and then a door close.

“Alright, I’m in my home office, but I’m not sure if I have
those papers here. I can get Becky to call the club later when I get a chance
and sort it out.”

Becky is Kenny’s assistant, and a damn hard worker.

“Alright." I say. "We just have to know how much
to prepare.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll handle it later.”

There’s some more shuffling on the other end.

“Look, Blake, I’ve kinda got my hands full here right now.
Can I get in touch with you later? I know we need to talk about the tour, too.”

“Yeah, Kenny, that’s fine. I’ll be around later man.”

“Great. I think the tour is a definite go, and I’m making
some headway on finding you an opening act, too.”

“Sweet!”

I hear a door open and close on the other end and there’s
more shuffling. Then, clear as day I hear a female voice call out “Dad.”

My heart stops.

The voice is older, silkier, but I swear it’s the same
voice.

Kenny quickly talks over the sound, raising his voice more
than necessary.

“Alright, it was great talking to you! I’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead.

Someone called Kenny dad.

Kenny only has one child, one daughter.

I sink down on the couch, burying my head in my hands. It’s
almost too much for me to take in. Is it possible that Paige is back in Nashville?
How could that even happen? After Paige moved back to Bristol, I tried so many
times to contact her, tried so hard to get answers.

She had only responded to me once, just before we both
graduated from high school. I’ll never forget the email:

I’m sorry Blake. Everything hurts too much. I can’t ever
come back to Nashville. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

-Paige

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

She was sorry.

She had gone through horrors I couldn’t even imagine, and
there she was, apologizing to me.

I need to get a fucking grip. It was thirteen years ago. We
were both adults now, and here I am about to get married. For all I know, Paige
was married. Maybe she even had kids.

And before I can even push the thought away, I feel the pain
cut through me like a knife.

I need to get over these crazy thoughts. Whether or not
Paige was back, shouldn’t concern me. We were nothing but high school
sweethearts. Barely even, she left before junior year.

I have Savannah now and that's all that matters. And even if
Paige is in Nashville, I can’t imagine she'll be staying here long. Maybe she
and Kenny have finally reconciled and she was just down for a short visit.

I force myself up from the couch and busy myself with trying
to fix one of our kitchen cabinets. I’m can't stop thinking of Paige, so I
curse out loud and head back to my studio to work on some music.

I sing a song that I wrote about Savannah, strumming at my
guitar as the lyrics roll off my tongue from memory. I sing about her long legs
and rich brown hair and the way she makes me feel in the hot summer.

But it’s Paige’s legs, and her blonde hair that I’m
picturing, and the way I felt when I was fifteen, crazy in love.  The way I
felt in the hot summer when Paige and I were just kids.

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