Page 17 of Playing With My Heart Strings

baylor

Like Johnny and June

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask, trying to ignore the camera crew following us.

“That would ruin the surprise, now wouldn’t it?” He glances over at me and, after noticing the gap between us, takes a step closer so our shoulders brush every time we take a step.

My tongue ties itself up in knots as I try to figure out what to say. I’m stuck between knowing this is all fake and wanting to get to know the real Dusty Wilder.

“You’re quiet. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m just following your lead. And wondering where we’re going,” I mutter the last part slightly, although I’m sure the microphone still picked it up.

“Relax, Baylor, we’re almost there.” He reaches his arm around me, resting it on my waist. “Besides, I think you’re going to like where we’re going.”

We turn around the corner, and a few paces later, he stops. The sign above my head reads Casanova Records .

“Come on.” He grabs my hand and, to my surprise, I let him link our fingers together. He pushes open the door, and the bells hanging on the handle jingle as we step inside.

Checkered tile spans throughout the store, and vinyls hang from the ceiling like disco balls with fairy lights weaving between them. Record jackets with album covers plaster the walls that don’t have shelves, and smaller stands create aisles leading to the back.

“Welcome in! Let me know if you need help finding anything,” the employee behind the counter greets us.

Dusty gives him a nod of acknowledgment as he thanks him.

At this point, the camera crew has moved in front of us, recording our faces as we browse the vinyls.

I’ve never loved being on camera, but I’m starting to get used to it.

I have a feeling I probably need to tone down my facial expressions, though.

I’ve been told, by my parents and Daniella, that I let all my emotions show.

A record catches my eye as we pass the country music section, and I slow my stride, causing my arm to yank slightly on Dusty’s.

He slows as I pull out the Johnny Cash album from the late sixties.

“Johnny Cash and June Carter,” Dusty murmurs as he looks at the record with me.

“My parents always used to listen to them when I was younger. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter while they sang ‘Jackson’ together.” I recall those moments like it was yesterday.

That was back when they encouraged music and would have been happy for me if I pursued a career in it. I’m not really sure what changed that.

I’m nine years old, and the twang of guitar strings fills the kitchen as the intro to “Jackson” starts playing. Mom stops what she’s doing, spinning so her back is to the stovetop, as Dad rushes into the kitchen.

I rock back and forth on my stool set up by the kitchen counter as Dad grabs Mom’s hands, and they spin in circles on the linoleum tile.

They’re laughing more than they’re singing, mostly due to the fact Dad can’t carry a tune to save his life. But Mom makes up for it with her melodic voice.

“Come here, Baylor!” Mom calls for me, and I hop down from the stool before making my way over to them, my socks sliding across the floor.

Dad picks me up and holds me in one arm as his other wraps around Mom.

The memory fades as Dusty walks away, leaving me a bit confused. I shrug it off, continuing to flip through the albums. A couple minutes later, he comes back with a vinyl in hand.

“This was my favorite album growing up.” He flips up the record to show Elvis Presley’s face.

“I never would have pegged you as an Elvis fan.” I grin, taking the opportunity to play around with him. “I didn’t think country music stars these days listened to anything older than the nineties.”

He rolls his eyes at the joke, but there’s no malice behind the gesture.

“I’m not like those other country singers, darlin’.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. “Come on, let’s see how else I can surprise you with my music taste.”

We spend a good hour or so looking at records, and I realize Dusty was right about me liking this place.

I’ve really enjoyed the time we’ve spent together so far.

Today feels like just another day, not a date being recorded on camera to be televised to the whole country.

And I can’t decide whether I’m happy about that, or if I hate it.

By the time we walk out of Casanova Records, he’s got three new vinyls in his hand and I have two.

“Where to now, Romeo?” I smirk.

“Romeo?” He gives me a quizzical look, and I shrug. “No, no, no, you’ve got to choose a better name than that. I’m not going to have my nickname be a dude whose whole love story ends with them both dying.”

“What if I come up with something entirely worse?”

“Then we’ll keep trying until something sticks.

Come on, I’ve got somewhere else to take you.

” He takes my hand, and we continue a bit further down the street until we reach a small dive bar.

The place is admittedly cute, with outdoor patio seating and lights strung up everywhere.

Music filters out through the open doors, inviting us in.

We step into the bar, and a blonde woman who looks to be around Dusty’s age is up on stage, singing with her band. When she sees Dusty, however, she pauses the song. “Everybody, give it up for my friend Dusty Wilder!”

Everyone in the bar swings their heads to look at us. I swear Dusty’s face turns three shades redder as he lifts his hand in an awkward wave, the expression on his face looking more embarrassed than egotistical.

“Dusty and I go way back, occasionally singing together in bars just like this one. But now he’s a big-time singer!” the girl on stage carries on. “Why don’t y’all come on up here? It’d be just like old times.”

Dusty shakes his head as he gives a no type gesture.

“Aw, come on, Dusty. What do y’all think? Do you want to hear Dusty Wilder?”

The bar patrons cheer, encouraging him to move toward the stage. I follow, taking a seat at one of the tables as he hops up on stage.

“You haven’t changed one bit, Brooke.” He chuckles as she hands him a microphone.

I recognize her then, when he says her name.

Brooklyn James was at one point an up-and-coming artist just like Dusty, but she fell out of the spotlight a couple years ago.

No one really knew if it was on her own terms or not, but she clearly never gave up music since she’s still playing small venues.

I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t try to come on the show when they start performing together.

They have a connection, that’s for sure, but part of me thinks it’s purely platonic when she invites me up on the stage after their song is over.

“Why don’t you play a song with your lady now, Dusty?” She elbows him in the ribs.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I protest. The last time I performed in a bar it went viral.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Mischief shines in Dusty’s eyes as he extends a hand to pull me up on stage. “Come on, Baylor, darlin’. Y’all, she’s America’s Sweetheart, and you’re about to find out why.”

I roll my eyes as I take his hand, climbing up next to him.

“This one’s a classic.” He turns around and whispers something to the band. The guitarist nods, and the familiar intro starts, just like it did all those years ago.

Dusty starts singing the first verse of “Jackson,” and a few whistles ring through the crowd that’s now gathered.

The cameras are still rolling, and it takes everything in me not to shrink back.

This is what I’m here for. I have to perform.

Play the part and pretend I want this as much as the other girls.

And I play the part well.

When June Carter’s verse of the song begins, I sing like I did back in that small kitchen with my parents.

Dusty doesn’t take his eyes off me the entire time, and a rush flows through my veins.

It’s natural, like I was meant to be on this stage singing this song.

Our harmonies blend seamlessly, and before I know it, the dance floor is hopping with people.

When the song ends, he leans over and whispers in my ear, “Just like Johnny and June, eh?”

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I find myself thinking that if this is how performing with Dusty could always be, I’ll gladly get burned.

“So, how long have you and Dusty known each other?” I ask Brooke. After her performance ended, we stuck around so we could hang out longer with her and get some drinks.

“Oh, gosh, how long has it been?” She looks at Dusty, and he shakes his head, a twinge of amusement in his expression. Brooke taps her fingers against her lips a couple times as she thinks. “It’s been at least ten years, hasn’t it?”

“Sounds about right.” His voice is gruff, similar to how it was when I first met him.

“It has to be. I met you when you were just starting as one of Craig’s artists. I was eighteen at the time, I’m pretty sure.” She says it so matter-of-factly, and even if she’s wrong, Dusty doesn’t correct her.

“I feel like ‘met’ is an overstatement.” He chuckles. “I would call it more ‘Brooke followed me around like a lost puppy until I finally acknowledged her.’”

Brooke elbows him in the ribs, a small, “Ouch!” escaping from Dusty’s lips at the contact. She rolls her eyes before she retorts, “I was not a lost puppy.”

The question clawing in my chest finally pries its way out, something that takes me by surprise. “Why didn’t you audition for Heart Strings ?”

She looks at me for a second, then at Dusty, then back to me, before letting out a snort of laughter.

“What?” I’m not in on the joke.

“No offense, but I wouldn’t date Dusty Wilder if he was the last person on Earth.”

Dusty grumbles, “Ouch.”

“It’d be like dating my brother,” Brooke clarifies before teasingly looking at Dusty in mock shock. “You wouldn’t date your sister if you had one, would you?”

Dusty mutters something under his breath, but whatever it was is inaudible to me. He surveys our drinks and slides his stool back from the table. “I’ll get us some more drinks?” He says it like a question before giving a slight nod and heading over to the bar.

Brooke sets her elbows on the table and leans forward. “So…what do you think of him?”

I pause, not wanting to say anything without thinking about it first, especially with the cameras still around.

She must sense my hesitation, because she interjects before I can say a word. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie and say he’s amazing. He was a jackass when I first met him.” She laughs. “I’ve seen the best and worst of Dusty Wilder. Nothing you could say would shock me.”

I huff out a half-breath, half-laugh as my shoulders relax. “Honestly, I thought he was an asshole when I first met him. I don’t know, I think I had this preconceived notion about him.”

She nods, but doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “The only impression I had about Dusty was what the media portrayed him as—this womanizing country singer who got everything he wanted easily.”

“Dusty is a lot of things.” She briefly looks down, but then her eyes snap back up to mine.

“But one thing’s for certain, and it’s that he didn’t have everything handed to him.

He’s a hard worker, and the more you get to know him, the more I think you can break down his walls and see the true Dusty. ”

I nod, my gaze trained on the wood grain running across the table. If today’s date—especially the time we spent at the record store—has proven anything, it’s that I don’t know Dusty as well as I thought I did.