Page 32 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Good. You were great by the way. I don’t know if I mentioned that.”
“You did, maybe three times.” Cleo laughs. “Butthank you.”
“How did you get into singing at the Bluebird? I thought this was the most prestigious event in town?”
“It is.” Cleo grins. “When I first arrived in Nashville, I found out how competitive it is. I had to call every Monday morning for three months before I got to be on the open-mic night schedule.”
Peyton’s eyebrows curve. “Three months?”
“Yep, I was determined.” Cleo takes a sip of her drink. “I did that two or three times. After that I auditioned to be a regularperformer.”
The bar staff manoeuvre the chairs around them. Peyton feels like she’s in the way, but Cleo doesn’t flinch. Does she always have girls stay behind at the Bluebird? Maybe this is her signature date. Peyton hopes not.
“Is that what you are now?”
“I wish.” Cleo laughs. “They hold auditions four times a year. Only about ten percent make it through. I’ve tried a couple of times, but it hasn’tworked out.”
“Oh, sounds tough.”
“It is. I eventually met Gabby, and she booked me ontoher night.”
“Her night?”Peyton asks.
“She qualified to put together her own ‘in the round’ night earlier this year. She gets to choose which musicians she wants to play alongside her, and she chose me.”Cleo stands.
“Of course she did.” Peyton smirks. She glances away. A lone curl is the perfect distraction as she tries to remain collected. Half of the lights in the bar dim. Cleo walks towards the stage; she takes a seat to the right of the microphone and pats the chairto her left.
“Come, join me?” Cleo asks.
Peyton shakes her head.
“Please?”
“I don’t know.” Peyton lowers her eyes; the inside of her lip pulsates from the nervous nibbling. A part of her is desperate to sing, but every instinct to the contrary is telling her no.
“How often do you have the Bluebird all to yourself?” Cleo gestures around her. “You can almost hear the history. I bet these walls have some stories to tell.”
“I bet!” Peyton smiles.
Her mom would have some to tell too. She’d promised her throughout her childhood that when Peyton turned eighteen, they would take a trip to Nashville. They watched hundreds of hours of Bluebird footage. Everyone who was anyone passed through the Bluebird at some point in their career. Her mom would always say,“That’ll be you one day. You’ll be performing an acoustic version of your hit song, and I’ll be in the crowd screaming that’s mybaby girl.”
Except she wouldn’t;not anymore.
“Here.” Cleo pulls the stool closer and adjusts the microphone stand. “It’s perfect for you.”
Cleo strums a simple melody, back and forth between G, C, and D majors. Peyton makes her way to the stage.
“I can’t believe I’mdoing this.”
Cleo stops to hand Peyton the matte black acoustic guitar. The instrument feels foreign in her hands. She’s only ever played with her mom’s guitar. She runs her fingers tactfully alongthe strings.
“Which playlist would you like? ‘Sad Songs 101’, ‘Grief Sucks’, or my personal favourite, ‘California Heartbreak’.” Peyton smirks.
She has no such playlists, but if she trolled the different music platforms for long enough, she’s confident she’d find at leastone of them.
“Hmm, how about California Heartbreak,”Cleo jests.
After Peyton’s breakup with Chloe, her pen scribbled perpetually, night after night. The lyrics weren’t always appropriate. Some songs ended up with more profanity than others, but that phase only lasted the length of time it took Chloe to announce her new relationship on social media.
