Songbird_A Small-Town Romantic Comedy Read online

  Songbird

  A Small-Town Romantic Comedy

  Caroline Tate

  Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Tate

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  www.CarolineTate.com

  Contents

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  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

  28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  All the Wild Ways

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Also By Caroline Tate

  About the Author

  Thank You

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  Chapter One

  Ellie

  Pulling the near-empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes from the inside pocket of my faded military jacket, I wrench the knob on the radio in time to catch a good line. “At my best when nothing feels right, your storms they always soothe me,” I belt out into the car between us.

  Brooke twists the volume knob back down, killing my vibe. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice harsh as she drowns out the rest of the chorus.

  Sighing, I look over at her with my cigarette between my teeth, lighter paused in front of the tip. "What's it look like?" Flicking down on the tab, I produce a small orange flame. The scent of sweet Native American tobacco and sharp, cloying smoke fill the inside of her 2011 Accord.

  "Seriously, Ellie?" Brooke waves a frantic hand, pushing the smoke up through the sunroof. "At least open a window."

  Rolling my eyes, I crank the passenger-side window down and let my right arm hang free in the early-evening heat. The passing North Carolina landscape is dense with parched trees and dotted with occasional bursts of pastel-painted river cottages every other mile. In the side mirror, I notice the clouds behind us look bloated, like they could bust open into a downpour at any second.

  "Sometimes you're stormed on, sometimes you're the storm," I say under my breath. Though it's cheesy and reads like one of the lines I'd write for Hop Hing to stuff inside his NYC-famous fortune cookies, I like the way it sounds rolling off of my tongue. It holds a ring of empowerment. "I think that's my new motto," I say, studying the knotted up necklace of pearls that's dangling from her rearview mirror. Brushing the wind-blown hair from my eyes, I take another drag of the cigarette. "Be the storm."

  Brooke scoffs. “You’re being a tad dramatic. You gonna submit that one to your boss?”

  "He's not my boss," I say, fiddling with the lighter before sliding it in my pocket. "At least not really."

  I've explained it to her a hundred times. Hop Hing owns a Chinese joint in Brooklyn that became an overnight sensation for its unique fortune cookies. Instead of using the same dull, manufactured fortunes as every other Chinese restaurant, he hires someone to write his own. I happened to land the gig online last year. "I write one-liners for the guy, that's all."

  "Whatever," she says with thick judgment in her voice. "When you gonna start writing stuff that actually means something? Maybe something for the festival. Not this meaningless fortune nonsense."

  I don't need to look at her to know that she's serious. And she's right. But shrugging, I ignore the sentiment and pull my phone from the door cubby to tap my new slogan into my notes. I'm planning on drinking tonight, and I don't want to live through a beer-fueled high of a night only to forget my new personal motto.

  “When did you start smoking, anyway?”

  Brooke's question pulls me from my thoughts. When I look over at her, her red hair is glowing in the low-setting sun that's laid out ahead of us as the car races up Highway 17 from Southport to Wilmington. "John will be there tonight," I say, hoping I sound casual enough to convince her that I don't care.

  Her head flickers toward me, her green eyes full of worry, and from my periphery, I notice her knuckles white against the steering wheel. “How do you know he’s going? You’re not still talking to him, are you?”

  Me? Talk to my ex-boyfriend? In what life is Brooke living that she thinks I'd ever be so cordial to communicate with that piece of garbage?

  Taking a deep breath, I shake my head. “Just a feeling. I bought all our tickets months ago. I have his with me.” I add this last part in nonchalance knowing it won’t fool her.

  Brooke’s mouth twists to one side. When you’ve been friends for fifteen years the way Brooke and I have, it’s impossible to keep secrets. Even when you’re saying nothing at all, you’re saying something. That's why Brooke is a good friend— the best even. Because she tells me what she's thinking without concern for my feelings. Always the truth. It's a blessing and a curse. But John is a sore subject these days, and her sour expression is tell that she's playing it diplomatic instead of honest tonight.

  "I wouldn't worry about it." She flips the right turn signal as we near the exit ramp. "Although, I'm sure he bought another ticket after he—"

  "—Left me?" I ask, finishing her thought. My tone is mocking, more petulant than I intend, but I can't help it tonight for how on-edge I feel. Taking a long, final drag of my cigarette, I flick the butt out the window aiming for the guardrail. Dry as it is this week, I know better, but what else am I supposed to do?

  "You realize I think he's a piece of shit, right?" Brooke furrows her brow as she searches for the Route 74 sign into Wilmington. "I know you're upset he likes the Boxley Brothers, too. But the chances of us running into him are literally slim to none. It's a huge venue."

  I drum my fingers on the pack of cigarettes in my lap. The venue isn't that huge, but I let the comment slide. "He shouldn't even be at the show. I'm the one who introduced him to the Boxley Brothers. They're my band. If he seriously thinks he's going to—"

  "—Give me a break," Brooke hisses, veering into the left lane. She hauls ass to pass a menacing tractor-trailer. "You can't lay claim to something intangible, Ellie. You don't get to keep the music all to yourself."

  She's right. I bite my lip and consider lighting a second cigarette but know I won'
t be able to afford another pack until payday at my 'real job,' Brooke calls it. I understand Brooke wants to keep the peace, that it's painful to watch your best friend have her heart broken during a severely vulnerable time in her life. But ignoring the issue won't resolve it. And tonight, the issue is my ex-boyfriend showing up to enjoy my favorite band.

  "It's the memories," I say blankly, staring out at the dark clouds to my right. "You know how I feel about music. The Boxley Brothers are everything to me. The memories I have associated with them are rooted deep. I don't want to relive all that with John right there next to me. Don't you get how disgustingly awkward that'll be? Having my favorite band in front of me while being subjected to sharing air with my least favorite person in the entire world?"

  I say this understanding that music is just a series of notes to Brooke. It's some overplayed song on the radio serving as background noise to the more material things in life. But not to me. Music is everything.

  “It’ll be fine. He’ll probably take the ticket and sit on the lawn,” Brooke muses, glancing down at the GPS on her phone. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  Her reaction proves she doesn't know John like I do. I don't tell Brooke this, but over my dead body is John getting the ticket. I don't want to explain why I have it if I intend to keep it from him. But I'm sure Brooke sees it as a lofty excuse for me to talk to him or some kind of a sick power trip. And maybe it is. She'd say I still have feelings for him or some twisted sort of desire to see him again. And maybe that's true, too. But no matter what Brooke thinks my intentions are tonight, there’s one thing I know for sure: John is not getting that ticket.

  "Hell yes, finally," Brooke sings, pulling her keys from the ignition.

  We're parked in a meadow with hundreds of cars lined in tight rows. Slamming the door shut, the overly sweet smell of fresh cut grass puts me on edge causing my stomach to do the loopty loop. As we approach the Hatfield Amphitheater, the air grows familiar with the scent of cigarette smoke, weed, and sweat. The usually crowded line into the venue has mostly dissipated, the show only minutes from beginning.

  “Hey, you want a beer?” Brooke asks.

  We walk toward the pavement lined with food trucks and a beer tent. The smell of sugary fried donuts, Carolina barbeque, and alcohol swarms us as I work to keep my eyes from wandering. If John’s here, I don’t want him to think I’m looking for him.

  The line at the beer tent is long and winds past the bathrooms. Studying the stage, I worry we might miss the opening act. “Looks like the show’s about to start,” I say, fiddling with a button on my jacket. I can’t keep myself still from all the anxiety pooling inside me.

  "It's fine," Brooke says, sidling up to the table with her pink wallet. "You don't even like Holland."

  I want to point out that Brooke would like no decent music if it weren't for me. But she buys both beers, so I hold my tongue.

  "Thanks," I say, taking a sip of mostly foam. The beer is cheaply bitter and feels rough going down my throat. But mixed with the earlier cigarette, it makes me feel warm and buzzed after just a few gulps of it. It's dusk as we stroll down the grassy slope, the earth soft and dewy beneath my Chuck Taylors. Weaving through the lawn seat crowd that's searching for dry patches of green with the best view, Brooke looks at me over her shoulder. "We're lucky you scored us inside seats. Looks like it's gonna rain."

  The crowds are growing thick now, and my beer is nearly gone when we reach the gate to covered seating. It's a little stuffy, the air more stagnant underneath the massive stretch of canopy. Fishing for my ticket in my pocket, I hear a familiar voice from behind that causes pure heat to rise on the back of my neck, and my heart leaps up into my throat.

  “Ellie?”

  Against everything I feel right now, I compose my expression into one of cool indifference and turn. But I'm sorely caught off-guard when I'm met not by one person, but by two.

  John is the same tall, chiseled man with his deep blue stare boring into my own hazel eyes. He’s wearing the faded T-shirt I bought him at one of our first shows together, and my stomach knots at the thought. I’m completely confident in the fact that he wouldn’t have worn the shirt if he remembered I was the one who’d bought it for him in the first place.

  He's already forgotten me.

  I barely have time to take him in before I notice the girl on his arm. She's outrageously gorgeous in all the conventional ways that John loves— blonde, tan, a perfect rack. And though I can't see it, an ass that probably dissolves grown men to tears. She is, without a doubt, every single thing I've never been. She chews a piece of gum and tilts her head to one side, studying me up and down with pale green eyes. I know exactly what she's looking for, and I work to quell my rage.

  “What?” I ask, jerking my jacket tight around myself. Pulling my eyes from the heart-shaped face of John’s new pet, I force myself to look him square in the eye. Brooke is behind me now, and her tension is palpable in the darkening night.

  “My ticket?” John says as if it should be obvious.

  “You’re not sitting next to me.”

  When the blonde girl on John’s arm laughs, I restrain myself from throwing the remainder of my beer in her pretty little face.

  “No shit,” John says. “I got a guy who wants to buy it from me. Angela and I have lawn seats.”

  Angela? What a hideously appropriate name for her.

  A crowd of people trying to get to the seated section starts accumulating around us. Brooke tugs at my jacket sleeve. “Just give it to him, we don’t want to—”

  Be the storm, Ellie.

  "Oh yeah. Actually, you know what?" I say loudly with just a touch of sarcasm. I genuinely smirk hoping he can't read anything in me but pure pleasure. “I have your ticket right here." Unwavering, I reach into the back pocket of my jean shorts, and when I withdraw my hand and hold it out to him, only my middle finger is raised as I present him with no ticket. The crowd we’d been holding up erupts into a chorus of catcalls and laughter.

  John’s expression morphs from arrogance to straight madness. “That’s real mature, Ellie,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. “Good to see you’ve changed.”

  Angela snaps her gum in my direction. "You're so angry, sweetie," she says, her high-pitched voice making her sound cartoonish.

  Turning my gaze toward her, I'm pleased when her grin shifts to panic. "Oh, yeah? You would be too, if your piece of crap boyfriend of two years bails after he gets you pregnant."

  I hear Brooke let out the long, hard breath she’s been holding behind me.

  “Fuck you, Ellie,” John hisses. We linger on the concrete staring each other down until he finally shakes his head in disgust. Muttering something to Angela, he takes her hand and walks away.

  Still standing there, I try catching my breath and will away the tears that sting my eyes. I'm not sure why I want to cry. It's the first time I've seen John since he left me the morning I told him I might be pregnant. But if that animal, for one second, believes I'm too polite to air his dirty laundry in front of his new toy, he is sorely mistaken. I dab at the corner of my eye with the sleeve of my jacket and turn toward Brooke.

  She puts her hand on my elbow. “Come on, El,” she whispers, but I jerk my arm away. “It’ll be okay.”

  Still on the verge of choking up, I shake my head, refusing to make eye contact with her. "I need another beer. I'll meet you down there."

  Her voice grows rapid with concern. “I’ll come with—”

  "No," I say, turning from her. "I'll be right back. You'll save our seats?"

  If Brooke wants another beer or is concerned that I’ve nearly finished my first, she says nothing. Over the first wave of sadness of John being here, my heart now suddenly rages. With an anger building in my cheeks, I make my way back up the hill in the opposite direction of John and Angela. Draining the rest of my first drink, I toss the plastic cup into a nearby trash can.

  In line at the beer tent, the hum of the food tru
cks and the murmuring crowd drowns out the opening number from Holland. Brooke is right— her music isn't my favorite. She lacks an urgent fire that I find myself craving, especially on nights like tonight. But surely I'd be more apt to like her if John hadn't shown up with his new girlfriend. Did he have to bring that girl? Was it out of spite? I push the thought from my mind as I order another beer. Having not eaten anything earlier, I'm already feeling the full effects of the first one, and sauntering back toward the gated seating, I feel light as air.

  Out of nowhere, someone grabs my arm, jolting me sideways. Half of my alcohol sloshes down the front of my jacket and onto my shorts.

  “Give me the fucking ticket, Ellie,” John says through gritted teeth. Angela is no longer with him.

  "Let go of me," I say, fighting him off, my breath staggered by the strength of him. I try to wrestle my arm away without spilling the rest of my beer, but his clutch on me is firm.

  Tightening his grip, he ducks his head, his gnarly voice ripping into my space. “I paid good money for that ticket and if—”

  "Let her go," an authoritative voice booms from behind us. My arm throbs when John releases me and backs away with his hands in the air. Part of the crowd is staring, and I turn to find a towering security guard eyeing both of us. I give him a small nod before darting in the direction of the lower gate.