Page 14 of Love Is a War Song

“Can you cook or clean?” Lottie asked me.

“I mean…I’d consider myself an expert in trough cleaning.” I looked down at my blistered hand from where I held the scrub brush and vigorously cleaned all fourteen scummy tubs all day. I’d never seen my hands so wrinkled and pruned in my life.

“Congratulations, your first day of honest labor. Doesn’t it feel good to work with your hands?”

You know, I was getting sick and tired of hearing her throw shade at me and my work ethic.

“Being awkwardly stooped over a rubber tub scrubbing for hours is nothing compared to doing the same sixteen measures of choreography in five-inch heels for nine hours, hungry and tired. That always seemed pretty honest to me.” I lifted my eyebrow, letting my sass show.

She shook her head and sighed. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were an interesting choice for lunch.”

“What was wrong with it? You didn’t exactly give me a menu.”

“It’s fine for lunch every now and then, but the men do backbreaking labor and need hearty meals. Can you cook anything else?”

“If you tell me what to do, I could figure it out. Do you have a laptop or something I could borrow, because if you have a dish in mind, I can watch a YouTube video to see how to make it.” I wanted to seem more competent than her basic leading question hinted at.

Lottie walked over to the pantry, opened the door, and disappeared. After a moment she came out with an old, thick book with—shocker—red plaid on the cover. She handed it to me.

“What’s this?”

“A cookbook.”

“ Better Homes and Gardens: New Cook Book, Tenth Edition . Wow, how old is this?”

“Older than you.”

“So, what, I just pick something from here?”

“Basically. For tonight we’ll do something easy. You and I can come up with a meal plan to prep and make things easier for the rest of the week while you get the flow of the place.”

“I love that idea, thank you, Lottie. I really do want to do well while I’m here.”

Lottie’s eyes shuttered. Like my genuine gratitude made her uncomfortable.

She opened the dishwasher. “Start unloading these and I’ll show you where everything goes.

After your embarrassing display with the horses and working your hands to the bone scrubbing the troughs—next time ask for some gloves—your primary responsibility will be this kitchen. ”

I immediately started unloading the plates, stacking them neatly on the counter. Truthfully, I was relieved I didn’t have to go back to the horses tomorrow.

She continued, “You’ll be cooking three square meals a day for everyone and then cleaning up this kitchen. Since you look like you like shopping, I’ll have you go through the attic and the cellar to start cleaning things up to sell.”

“Oh, like cataloging and putting things online?” I asked. Lottie nodded her head and pursed her lips in the direction of the upper cabinet behind me. I was starting to understand her unspoken language and put the plates away in their designated place.

“I can do that, easy.”

“Before you go thinking it’s easier than taking care of the horses—five generations of Foxes have lived on this property. The attic is full of crap.”

I nodded, putting the last of the silverware into the proper drawer. After a few moments my stomach rumbled. I guess PB the antique oak was clearly taken care of as I could still smell a hint of the lemon wood polish used to clean it.

It was an upright that rested against the wall next to the only window in the living room.

The matching wood bench had no cushion, but was inviting nonetheless.

I pulled it out and sat down, already feeling more like myself than I had in days.

I let my weary hands rest on the keys. I warmed up with a simple scale, letting my fingers trail up and down the notes to get the feel of the piano.

I may have been a stranger on this ranch surrounded by people who barely tolerated me, but with my hands on the keys I was home.

I was Avery Fox, a damn good musician. The notes transported me far, far away and instinct took over.

The melody started dancing around me and I sang the first notes of a song I had been desperately trying to get Niles to let me record and put on my album—he refused.

He said no one wanted a ballad from me, that my brand was sexy dance music and that was it.

Not that it mattered now, since the record was canned.

This wasn’t a fun club song people could jump up and down to, but it was the kind that I had hoped couples would gently sway to or little kids would sing to themselves in front of the mirror, pretending the song was for them—because it was.

It was for the lovesick, the lonely, the misunderstood.

It was a ballad for everyone, letting them know that I saw them and had felt all those things too.

My voice carried as I hit the crescendo and I was really feeling it now. It led into the bridge as I sang for me . When finally there were no more lyrics and the notes trailed off, I was back in Lottie’s living room.

“Woo!” I turned around to Davey’s cheer. Red was smiling and clapping lightly while Lucas stared straight through me as he leaned against the wall. I couldn’t tell what he thought from his expressionless face. He looked away first.

“That was a mighty pretty song, Miss Avery.” I blushed at Red’s compliment.

“It could use some work,” Lucas said as he cleared his throat. He pushed himself off the wall, gave the guys a curt nod, and left the room.

“Don’t mind anything Lucas says,” Red said, getting up off the couch. “I gotta turn in, but I hope you play again soon.”

Davey got up too and lightly punched my shoulder with his fist. “I thought it was pretty good. Hey, if you’re still around later this summer, maybe you could sing it for my wedding.”

“You’d want me to sing at your wedding in front of your friends and family?” I was completely taken aback. Who the hell would want the drama and media circus that has been following me around? I would be a black stain on a day meant to be perfect.

“Shit, no one I know has ever met a celebrity, let alone had one sing at their wedding.”

“That might be for the best. The day is meant to celebrate you and your love.” Davey’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. I quickly added, “But if it’s what your fiancée wants too, then maybe we can make it happen.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’ll be coming to tend to the horses next week, unless you want to head into town with us this weekend?”

“Oh, thank you for the invitation. Can I take a rain check? I’m pretty tired from just one day working here.”

“For sure. Well, I’m gonna turn in. Thanks for playing your song.”

“Anytime, Davey.”

I watched him head out, but he stopped and turned around. “What’s it called?”

“?‘Heartbeats.’?”

“It’s good.” He waved and was off.

With nothing else to do I sat and looked down at my hands. The high feeling I got from playing my music was gone. I flexed my hand and noticed the blister bubble on my palm had popped. Gross. It was as good a time as any to finally take a shower and hopefully fix my hair.

···

I used the embroidered-rooster hand towel to wipe away the steam from my extra-hot shower. The hay was gone, but had been encrusted and caked onto my strands by the horse’s saliva. Totally disgusting. I had to shampoo three times before I was sure I had gotten it all out.

After a little digging around in the bathroom I found an old and forgotten pair of cutting shears in the back of one of the vanity drawers.

I cut the raggedy ends of my hair in as straight a line as I could manage, then gathered the ends in my fist and started snipping into the bottom as I’d seen so many hair stylists do.

I hoped it looked like intentional texture and not what it really was—a poor attempt to mask a butchered mess.

After I was done, I shook my hair out, bringing it around my face and shoulders. It was passable. It was so humid that my usually straight hair in LA was getting a little wave pattern as it air-dried. I liked it. A yawn escaped me and my eyes were red and tired.

Trudging out of the bathroom, I checked the time on the bedside table. It was only eight thirty. I couldn’t remember a time that I went to bed earlier than ten, and lately with all the studio time and shoots I was used to getting to sleep by two or three in the morning.

With no phone, laptop, or television, I flopped onto the bed and turned off the light. I laid there for hours. Eternity probably.

It could use some work. Lucas’s low voice rumbled through my head.

Well, his manners and personality could use some work.

What did some cowboy in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, know of songwriting anyway?

I should just ignore him like all the other haters who leave rude comments on my feed.

But unlike those strangers hiding behind fake profiles, Lucas was here. Impossible to ignore.

Could use some work. I never said it was a finished product. I said it was something I was working on. The gall!

My fingers lifted in the air and I started playing my imaginary piano in the dark, the notes ringing in my head.

My melody was perfect. Every note fit exactly where it needed to go.

My lyrics could use some work. Some of the couplets didn’t have the emotional punch I’d prefer and the rhymes were sloppy, but it was a work in progress.

It seemed Lucas demanded perfection and I was being judged and measured by some old-fashioned standard he set about what the paragon of a woman should be.

Well, it should come as no surprise to him that I was not a paragon of a woman.

Shit, according to Google I was about as bad as they got.

And truthfully, I couldn’t say I disagreed.

I could barely take care of myself. I went along with everything my label and team suggested, completely enamored by the attention and the money.

I disgusted myself.

My brain started missing the imaginary notes and I threw my arms down. When sleep still did not come, I had one last resort.

One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep.

Fuck this. It was too quiet. There were no sounds of cars or sirens or loud people screaming. It was silent and my mind was too loud. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I ripped the blankets off my legs and went to the window, throwing it open.

The night was still warm, but more alive than my quiet room suggested.

It sounded like a symphony of crickets and cicadas.

The stars blanketed the sky, the clearest I had ever seen them.

I had never taken the time to stargaze back home.

The smog in Los Angeles was pretty bad so I never even thought to try.

But this was how the sky was supposed to be. Open. Clean. Bright.

I looked down at the lawn by the giant old oak tree and smiled at what looked like dancing stars. Fireflies.

Never in my life had I seen a real firefly.

Sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I shoved my feet into the still-wet Golden Goose sneakers.

I winced at the feeling. They got a good hose-down after the horse poo incident, though the right shoelace was beyond salvageable, so I tossed it.

My feet squeaked in the soaking shoes as I snuck out of the house and went outside to dance with the stars.