Page 15 of We Redeemed the Rain

I huffed, annoyed, as he walked away.

Three and half years ago, Jesse and I found each other in a desperate moment. I got drunk out of my mind and spilled my guts to a random stranger at a bar. But it happened to be the right stranger—someone as lost as I was. Someone who knew darkness. Someone who drank for pain management. We’d been fast friends—mostly sober friends—ever since.

And I owed him for everything. Even taking the tobacco.

I took a few deep breaths of fresh air, hoping it would be enough to get me through the day. But knowing oxygen alone would never be enough to chase the dream out of my head or chase my brother’s leaving out of my memory. Oxygen alone wouldn’t cause a driver to materialize out of nowhere—that would require a miracle. And I wouldn’t be holding my breath for one of those. The world stopped doing me favors a long time ago.

I finally pulled myself toward the truck. Had to go now if I wanted to beat traffic and beat the rain. There was a storm coming in—first one in weeks.

The sun had barely kissed the horizon, and the dark clouds already gathered.

FOUR

Bea

Iwaved the plastic card over the lock for the sixth time, murmuring, “Come on, work, you piece of junk.”

The lock flashed red.

So many things weighed down my body—Glory Dos over my shoulder, my purse, a rolling suitcase, and a matching carry on. A file with contract details was nestled right into my armpit. I gave everything a final heave and sideways shift, trying the lock one more time.

Seventh time’s a charm, apparently.

The door gave way to my tangle of bags, and I almost wept at the sight of the big, white hotel bed with four puffy pillows. The chill of the air conditioning made me shiver, but I relished in the way it cooled the back of my neck as I flopped all my belongings onto the bed and freed myself from Glory’s strap. My guitar didn't seem heavy until I had to drag her out of an airport, into an Uber, up three floors, and down the world’s longest hallway. My shoulders ached.

I sank onto the edge of the mattress, acknowledging the bone-deep exhaustion in my body. Or maybe my spirit. It had been alongeight weeks.

My phone rang. I fished it outof my purse.

Dad on FaceTime. How did he know I needed him?

I answered. “Hey, Daddy.”

“Beatles.” The camera hit his face at an odd angle, providing a zoomed in shot of his sideways smile and stubbled chin. His tone was always guarded, a little protective. “You in your hotel for the night?”

“Yeah, I just walked in.”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“It was—” I drew a deep breath looking for words. “It was—” Emotions gripped my throat.

“Oh no. Was it bad?”

“No, it wasn’t bad.” I lifted a shoulder. “I just…feel cornered.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

“And I’m really tired, so I know I’m being dramatic.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, honey. Anyone would be exhausted and a little dramatic in your position. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, the agent, Jerry Trace, offered me a contract.” I held up the file so he could see. Dad’s eyes widened—impressed. “On the spot, he said the label wanted to give me a record deal, which is exciting and validating on the one hand.” I sighed. “But Jerry said the contract covers some changes regarding my brand. He said I’m a—and I quote—little girl’s artist.”

Dad scoffed, his phone wobbling. “What?!”

“Yeah, I disagree, too, but part of me signing on would be allowing the label to change my persona and how I represent music to my fans. And I wouldn’t be singing my own music.” I shrugged. “That’s been a perk for me in getting a deal—to finally have someone write musicforme—but I think I would be a very different artist, and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

He grunted in disgust.

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