[title subtitle=”WORDS Liesel Schmidt
IMAGE Piotr Piatrouski/Shutterstock”][/title]
“Am I a passionate person?”
Carly realized the minute the words were out of her mouth that they were a mistake. Especially now, in this moment. She closed her eyes and braced for an answer that she knew she didn’t want to hear.
“Passionate?” There was a pause, and she could almost hear the corners of Pete’s mouth turn up in amusement. “No, Carly. I’ve known you ten years, and I haven’t seen passion in you. You just don’t have fire. Not over anything.”
She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes, tears that threatened to escape through her tightly clamped eyelids and trace the lines of her cheeks. They burned her skin, and she felt the heat of shame sear through her. When she finally opened her eyes, she could see him staring at her, his eyes measuring her, analyzing her.
“You’re like a wind-up toy, Carly. We wind you up, send you out there, and you do what you do. But passion is something we can’t teach you. And someday soon, all those people out there are going to figure it out,” he said, taking off the Fedora he’d worn as long as she’d known him. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it in an almost frustrated gesture before setting the hat back in its rightful place. He shook his head and smiled wanly at her. Pete was beginning to show his age, all the time on the road. All the stresses of this life. You could see it in his eyes, in the lines of his face, in the sag of broad shoulders that used to sit so squarely and so confidently.
She could see it in her own reflection, too. She was showing her wear. Or maybe it was just the strain of doing something she felt so disconnected from. It wasn’t her anymore—hadn’t been in a long time. And no one had even noticed. That was the problem with life in the spotlight. As much as it shined on you, it made you so bright people couldn’t see you anymore. Not the real you.
The sounds of the crowd were growing more agitated, more impatient, waiting for their star to come. Carly offered a weak smile and cocked her head. “Don’t worry, Pete,” she said. “I got this. I’ll be a good wind-up toy, and nobody will know the difference.”
She took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and started walking out onto the stage. The second she was in view, the audience exploded to life, as though someone had lit a spark on a fuse. The energy was electrifying, but Carly still felt as though none of it was for her. They weren’t her words anymore; they weren’t her stories. And he was never here.
**********************
Carly’s rise to stardom had come unexpectedly, a fame that had come from one song she’d written as a heartbroken twenty something and sung one ill-advised night at an open mic on a dare. She’d sung out her pain to a room full of half-sober people who had nothing better to do, and one face in the crowd took notice. The man had been a Nashville exec, in the wrong place at the right time—serendipity, some would call it. He’d had a busted carburetor and come in to call a tow truck. From the payphone in the corner, he’d heard Carly’s song. And the rest was history.
Or was it? Sometimes she wondered if life wouldn’t have been better if he’d never been there. Or if she’d never been in that bar, never taken that dare, never sang that song. If. It was a weighty word, and there were so many of them for her. If and never. At thirty-eight, her life seemed full of regrets, of heartbreak that seemed to follow her around like a shadow. And so many words of songs that needed to pour out, but she couldn’t seem to grasp them before they slipped through her fingers. Writer’s block, Pete called it, but it wasn’t that. It was something more, something that she didn’t quite understand herself. Maybe she never would. Maybe she would never be more than the puppet out there on the stage, the wind-up toy, singing songs that were written for her—not by her. That had stopped years ago, after her first album had hit platinum and then the second just couldn’t seem to climb the charts the way her producers wanted.
“Write from life.” That’s what her mama had always encouraged. And she had. It was what had gotten her noticed in the first place, what had sold her first album. But people only wanted so much of the truth. After that, they wanted the illusion and whatever rose-colored expectation they had of you. They wanted you to make them feel good—not feel your pain. So, Carly’s pain became her Achille’s heel, and now she was just along for the ride.
*************
Carly dropped her luggage in the front hallway with a sigh, glad to be back in her own space, with no one there to ask her to sign something, sing something, smile for the camera. It was almost painfully quiet, but she was glad for the silence. She kicked off her shoes and padded barefoot to the kitchen. She needed a glass of wine. That, and a year-long nap with no disruptions.
A stack of mail seemed ready to topple off the kitchen counter, about three months’ worth of mail that her neighbor had brought in for her while she’d been on tour. She paid all her own bills, handled all those things so many people in her position pawned off onto other people. She just couldn’t. She liked having control of her life—as much as she could, anyway. There were a lot of other things she had no say in, but the bills…they were all hers, as absurd as it may have been.
She flipped through the envelopes and stopped cold when she came to a thick, square envelope with fancy calligraphy. She immediately recognized the return address. It was his.
She ran a finger under the flap and freed the thick cardstock from its envelope.
Paul Christian Jameson and Alison Rose White Invite You to Celebrate Their Marriage
She read the words over and over, feeling as though someone had knocked the wind out of her. He was getting married. He was getting married to someone who wasn’t her.
*************
The new song had been out for weeks now, something that had come from her soul and—for reasons she couldn’t quite understand—it had been a song that her producers wanted tracks laid for as soon as possible. It had happened so fast, but Carly was just happy that it was her material again. It was really and truly hers.
“All those years of bad road are paved with heartbreak and tears.
But I still love you like I always did, even after all these years.”
Carly looked at the clock on the microwave as she washed her dishes from breakfast. He was getting married in two hours. She could feel the sting of tears forming, and she blinked. No. She wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t hers anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time, and this only made it more real. She rinsed the glass in her hand and placed it carefully in the dishrack to dry.
Two hours.
The doorbell buzzed, letting her know someone wanted to come up. Carly dried her hands and crossed the room to press the button on the intercom.
“I didn’t order anything,” she said. She could hear the irritation in her own voice.
“Carly,” a voice crackled from the other end. “Let me up.”
“Who is this?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. This was a quiet building, in a little nothing town outside of the bright lights of the big cities. It was homey and safe, and no one really bothered her.
“It’s Paul.”
Her heart felt as though it had stopped.
“Paul?” It was all she could manage.
“Carly, please. Let me come up.” Even over the bad line, she could hear the urgency in his voice.
“You’re getting married today. Why are you here?” Carly asked, almost feeling angry. Why was he doing this?
“No, Carly, I’m not. Please let me come up.”
“Why?” It covered so many things.
“Because I love you. I still do. And she’s not you.”
Carly could hardly see through the tears to press the button on the buzzer. It seemed like only seconds before he knocked, and she opened the door to see him. He stood there, in his tux, with the untied bowtie slung haphazardly around his neck. His hair disheveled, as though he had run his hands through it a thousand times.
“Carly,” he said simply.
