Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
The queen-sized bed had no headboard, but it was covered with puffy white bedding and plenty of pillows. The window above it looked out into the woods. Kneeling on the mattress, I cranked it open, smiling when I felt the fresh, cool air come through the screen and caress my face.
It wasn’t the Ritz Carlton, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t need an ocean view or overpriced minibar or room service to relax. Happy with my cozy little hideaway, I hummed a tune as I headed outside to bring in my bags. (It took me a couple tries to get that damn suitcase out of the van, but I managed.)
After unpacking groceries, clothing, and toiletries, I stuck one vibrator under the bed and the other one in the shower, and traded my denim cutoffs, white T-shirt, and boots for running shorts, a sports bra, and Nikes. In the bathroom, I tightened my ponytail and smeared a little sunscreen on my face and arms. I was just about to stick my earbuds in and head out for a run when I realized I hadn’t let anyone know I’d arrived safely.
I picked up my phone and noticed I’d gotten several text messages while I was on the road. One from Jess, one from Wags, and three from my mother, all wanting to know how the drive was. There was one from my stylist, Kayla, asking me to put a few fittings on the calendar. And I had two voicemails—one from Duke (which I deleted without listening to), and one from my dad. I wanted so badly to be able to delete that one too, but I couldn’t. It was like no matter how old I got or how many times he disappointed me, there was a little girl inside me who held out hope every single time that he’d somehow magically become the daddy I wanted.
I took a breath and played it.
“Hi, peanut. I know you don’t want to be bothered on your trip, so I won’t keep you, but I didn’t get a chance when we were on the phone earlier to remind you about that loan. I’ve got this new thing going that’s gonna be huge, and I’m getting in on the ground floor. I won’t bore you with all the details, but if you could just send me a check for, oh, twenty thousand—maybe make it twenty-five—that should be good. Thanks, peanut. You’re my best girl.”
I kept listening for a few seconds, almost like I expected something more, but of course, there was nothing else. He just wanted money, same as always.
I deleted the message. Took a deep breath. Counted to ten.
After I replied to my stylist, saying I’d add the fittings to my schedule and reminding her I was on vacation for two weeks, I sent a note to Jess.
I made it! Got in about half an hour ago, and all is well.
Yay! Place okay? I know it’s definitely not the five-star hotels you’re used to but you said you wanted something rustic where no one would find you!
You did a great job! It’s perfect. Small, hidden away, definitely rustic, but clean and cozy. I love it.
Good. Enjoy your time off!
You too!
Next, I texted Wags and my mom together.
I’m here. I’m fine. I’m happy. No sign of bears or even humans nearby.
I’m keeping my phone on Do Not Disturb so I can commune with nature, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry about me.
Immediately, Wags liked my initial message and typed one back.
I’ll worry anyway, but thanks for letting me know, and keep in touch.
My mother replied with this:
What about wolves? Google says Michigan has wolves. And something called a gray rat snake.
I shuddered. Gray rat snake?
I did not like the sound of that one little bit. Should I Google it just so I’d know what I was up against? I nearly typed the words into my phone, then I decided against it—better not to know.
I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the front porch, gingerly looking this way and that for any sign of slithering, and shrieking when a small brown bird landed in front of me. The bird flew away, and I laughed at myself. Taking a moment to snap a bunch of selfies, I chose the one I liked best and posted it for my nearly four million followers. Grateful for the sun on my face, I wrote.
Hopping off the porch, I spied a trail leading through the trees and followed it at an easy pace. In my ears was my favorite playlist, a mix of current and vintage country music stars, all women, all iconic, all badasses. As I worked up a sweat, I tried to channel some of their confidence and positive energy.
The truth was, the criticism of me and my music bothered me more than I let on. I hated being called a reality show hack, a sellout, pop-country window dressing. I hated that I’d let people tell me my real name was boring. I hated that in order to get ahead in this industry, you had to be a brand, not just a musician. I hated that I was starting to feel entirely manufactured.