Page 7 of One More Made Up Love Song
I know a lot of people would kill to make music for a living. To tour like I’m touring. To fill stadiums with fans. I love that I get to do it. But when I crashed at Adam’s farm for a weekend and watched him living his life, something in me shifted, and I haven’t been the same since.
Adam isn’t in the music business anymore, though he’s been writing again, which is amazing. One of the only songs I’m actually excited about recording is his.
But most of his time is dedicated to his dog rescue. He spends his days covered in dog hair, scrubbing out kennels, and somehow, I’m jealous of the guy.
I zoom in on the pictures of the puppies. The one on the left has one of its ears turned inside out, its tongue lolling to the side in a way that makes me grin. That’s a dog with personality.
I quickly read through the other guys’ responses to Adam’s picture before adding my own reply.
Jace
Sure. A puppy is exactly what I need to make my life easier.
I chuckle. Poor Jace. His son was born four months ago, and since his marriage ended two months before that, he’s parenting on his own. His ex-wife hung around long enough to have their second baby, then she flew home to Australia to “recover,” leaving Jace to do the single dad thing.
If her Instagram feed is any indication, recovering looksa lot like hanging out on the beach with her pro-surfer brother and all his friends.
Jace is better off without her, but I can’t imagine what he’s up against raising two kids on his own.
Leo’s reply is next.
Leo
Golden retriever? I had one of those as a kid.
Adam
Not sure about the dad, but the mom is purebred golden.
He follows this message with a second photo of a fully grown golden retriever with white-blond fur.
There’s something so grounding about this conversation. Because it doesn’t really matter. We aren’t talking about anything important. But we’retalking.Staying connected.
A little piece of the loneliness that’s been chasing me all night slips away as I add my reply to the text thread.
Freddie
You know I’d take one if I could. The one on the left looks ready for a good time.
The rest of my text messages I pointedly ignore. One from my new agent, asking about an update on the album and if I feel ready to record. I’m booked in Leo’s studio in Nashville for nearly all of my two-month vacation, and the album is supposed to be fully recorded before we start the next leg of the tour. I’m happy it’s Leo who will be working with me—he’s an incredible producer—but working with him also feels like pressure. I don’t want to waste his time.And if I can’t figure myself out, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
And finally, a message from Mira Stapleton, hoping we can sync up when I’m in LA for the last show on this leg of the tour.
Mira is an actress I’ve gone out with a few times. She’s beautiful and smart too, though you wouldn’t know it by the way she plays it in interviews. But she’s alsoveryfamous. Dealing with my own fame is difficult enough. I’m not sure we have sparks enough to justify dealing with her fame on top of mine.
It can’t be a good sign that thinking about seeing her again mostly just makes me tired. But the more I think about thereal lifeI’m not living, the more certain I am that Mira is not the woman I’m looking for.
Once I’ve read all my new messages, I scroll down to find the text thread with my mom. We don’t communicate all that often, but I’ve got a show in Seattle next week. It’s one of the last ones before the second leg of the tour takes me back to the east coast, so if my family would like to come to a show, now is the time.
I type out a message to my mom and schedule it to send first thing tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t get the message in the middle of the night, even if I sent it, because Ridgefields are not the kind of people who sleep with their phones by their beds. But she wouldn’t appreciate seeing a timestamp that reads 2:33 a.m. regardless.
Freddie
Any thoughts on the Seattle show? You won’t have to deal with the crowds. VIP treatment, a private box. Let me know.
I toss my phone onto the nightstand and sit up before unzipping my hoodie and shrugging it off, then I tug my shirt over my head.
I’m not even sure why I’m sending my mom a message.
