Chapter 40 - Chase Me, Cowboy

It’s cold as all get-out already in Wyoming. I could go out and occupy myself if it was summer, but other than chores, I’m stuck inside. And Coen’s added a few more wranglers, so I don’t even have the same responsibilities. That’s on me not being around consistently anymore. But it does increase the loneliness that dogs me every time I’m on the ranch. It helps that Sabrina is already in the thick of wedding planning. They think they’ll aim for late next year, maybe August when it starts to cool a little before the fall. I’m glad because that’ll give whatever is going on with Jamie and me some time to rest.

I spend a lot of time in my room. Headphones on, fingers wandering idly over the keyboard. One of my favorite pop-folk artists just released a new album. I learn it quickly and play through it almost daily. It’s sad, lonesome. Unfortunately, very fitting.

My head never lets up. All night, I toss and turn, thinking about our time in the cabin.

It was different. Not because either of us made a choice, but because something else made the choice for us.

I’ve never felt like this before. Hopelessly smitten. Unable to find my way out.

So I write about it. A few weeks after coming home, I stay up late and pour everything into my notebook, crossing out and adding in, then bringing it to the keyboard. I’m aware, in the back of my brain, that this is different. This song comes from a much deeper place than I’ve ever tapped into before. It’s pure longing, frustration, and rawness. Right on the page, all beneath the title scrawled in bold.

“Chase Me, Cowboy.”

I go to bed, eyes stinging.

The next day, everyone is gone, so I put up my camera and record it. I try to hit post on it, but it takes several tries before I can do it. Then, a little sick to my stomach, I curl up on my side and go to sleep, even though it’s the middle of the day. For the first time since leaving him, I get some rest. Far more rest than I mean to.

I wake to a soft knock on my door. Splitting my eyelids, I’m met with a sharp glare of light from the window.

Is it…morning?

I push myself up and swing my legs off the bed. My phone sits unplugged from the charger on the nightstand. Frowning, I grab it and hit the button. Dead. I plug it back in and go to the door, pulling it ajar.

Sabrina leans in, brow furrowed. “You okay? You slept ages, it’s almost ten.”

“Yeah,” I say, scrubbing my eye with my knuckle. “Sorry, I just slept bad the night before. Needed to catch up.”

She studies me, like she’s going to say something, then shrugs.

“Okay, come down whenever you feel like breakfast.”

“Yeah, one second. I should shower.”

She nods, and I shut the door. The heaviness in my chest from yesterday has lessened. That’s a good sign, hopefully. Today, I plan to turn my brain off and find something to occupy myself with. Maybe I’ll start working on an album, just writing it, and see if I can figure out what to do from there. Even if it comes to nothing, it’s better than making no progress at all.

I shower, scrubbing down and washing my hair. Then I pull on one of my sweatsuits from Maine and go to check my phone.

It takes a second to turn it on. When it opens, I check my texts. Nothing. Then, I open my social media.

My entire body tingles and locks.

What the fuck?

There are thousands of notifications, far more than I’ve ever gotten. Pulse racing, I click to my profile, and my eyes fall on the video I posted last night.

Thirty-two million views.

What the fuck? No, no, no, I need to delete it.

I’m going to be sick. Pacing, my thumb hovers over the video. Do I even want to check the comments? I have to know what people are saying, because if the song is shit and I’m going viral for the wrong reasons, I need to take it down. Bracing myself, I click it and hit the comments.

You need this on Spotify ASAP.

Obsessed with this, get it on Spotify.

Please get this on Spotify right now.

Do you have more originals?

Album when?

My heart is in my throat, pounding away. My ears roar. There are negative ones, of course, comments just put there because somebody felt like an asshole. And the inevitable people critiquing my technique. But overall, they’re glowing, they’re demanding more.

I close my screen because I can’t breathe. Focusing, I think about what I can see, hear, smell, feel. This is fine, people go viral every day, and they move on, and the world forgets. Just because I have one viral song doesn’t mean my life will change.

My heart slows.

“This is fine,” I say out loud. “I’m going to go get coffee and breakfast now.”

My phone pings. I swipe the screen, and it goes to my email. For the second time, my entire body tingles. At the top is an email from MET Records, which I’m not familiar with, but looks official. I open the email and skim it twice before I can absorb it.

Hello,

I’m reaching out because MET is interested in speaking with representation for Serena Maxwell. We think her original work could be a great fit for us. We’d love to discuss details further and set up a meeting if she is open to it.

Regards,

Jenna Holland.

Is this real? I copy and paste the email address, and it brings up a LinkedIn account. It’s the right email address, but I don’t believe it.

I close my phone and go downstairs. Coen is washing dishes, humming. Sabrina is crouched in one of the kitchen chairs painting her toenails. Leftover breakfast food sits in a covered dish.

“What’s everyone’s plan for the day?” I ask calmly, taking down a plate.

“Not much,” Coen says. “Think I’ll get some writing done and ride out to the west pasture with some of the guys.”

“The snow’s not too deep?”

He shakes his head, drying his hands on a towel as he turns around. His gaze falls on me, and he frowns.

“You good?” he asks.

Sabrina looks up, and her brows furrows. “You look kind of pale.”

“I’m still tired,” I say firmly, stacking sausages and pancakes that I’m too nervous to eat. “But I’m fine.”

They exchange a glance. Coen crosses his arms and leans back.

“You gonna stay here for the winter?” he asks.

I shrug, plopping down at the table. “Why? You trying to get rid of me?”

My phone goes off. I ignore it.

“No, you just seem happier when you’re headed to New York,” he says.

“You did,” Sabrina agrees.

“Now I really do think you’re trying to get rid of me.”

Coen lifts his hands. “You know you can come and go as you please. I know Sabrina likes having you here, but you should go where you’re happy.”

They won’t stop looking at me, and it’s stifling.

“Alright, I’ll go back,” I say. “I just wanted to visit before Christmas. I assume you are both coming to New York for that. What’s Dad doing?”

“We’ll be in New York for part of it, then back here when Dad and Aunt Eugenia come in from Portland,” Sabrina says.

In my chest, there’s a little twinge. Dad and I get along fine, but I’ve been so busy lately, I’ve barely texted him. Last summer, when he flipped his shit over Sabrina and Coen, it definitely changed our relationship. That might have something to do with it too. Seeing him so upset and not willing to listen to reason made me pretty upset. We’re fine now, just not as close as we were.

I’m glad he’s coming for Christmas. I want to see him, despite everything.

“Alright,” Coen says. “Gonna head out.”

He kisses Sabrina goodbye, and we sit in silence until his footsteps die away.

“I’m gonna head upstairs,” I say nonchalantly.

Sabrina bites the inside of her cheek. “Okay, that’s fine.”

Sometimes, she reminds me so much of Mom, looking at me with badly concealed anxiety. I wonder if she knows that. Warmth gathers in my chest. I didn’t grow up with Mom around, but I did have Sabrina. She never shamed me, never attacked me for any mistakes. Both she and Mom are good people, and I know if whatever happens gets out of control, I can go to them. I just want to try handling this without Sabrina or Coen.

Upstairs, I close my door and take my phone out.

Time to call the one person who knows exactly what to do.