▪️Saturday, November 28th, 2017▪️

▪️Nashville, TN▪️

Despite cursing the ever-narrowing plane seats that aren't built to accommodate the limbs of tall people after I swallow my meds to dull the throbbing in my hand from carrying my bag and my backpack. And thanks to not sleeping for two nights in a row, I wake up only when the plane touches down in Nashville. The hour-and-a-half nap makes me groggy, and the challenge of getting to the hotel appears insurmountable. As we are taxiing to the gate, I text Mom and Am that I landed. I hesitate but text Mike as well. It feels right.

Me: Welcome to Nashville! The runway here looks pretty good for November.

Only Am replies.

Am: Did you get locked out of your account?

Me: What're you talking about?

Am: I haven't seen you post anything on your social media account in two days. I thought your tour news would be all over your feed by now.

Me: I'm not allowed to announce it yet. They'll have their publicist address it first, and then once the cat's out of the bag, I get to post about it. But no one said I couldn't hint at it.

My hand still hurts, but the doubts I left this city with bring even more pain. I take the mints container out of my pocket. It's been less than two hours. I have to wait till the hotel and try icing. I can wait that long. I put it away, snap a selfie with the plane's window and the dark runway behind me.

"To new beginnings." I get a chance to publish it everywhere before I must exit the plane.

It's not my first time in Nashville. Before I started earning my living as a singer, I wanted to be a songwriter. That's what my heart longed for when Am's dad showed me the source: songs live inside me. Scientists say our body is sixty percent water, but my body must be thirty percent music and thirty percent lyrics. And all I do is use the symbols we humans came up with to record them.

I loved Nashville the first time I came. Three years ago, I wanted to move to Nashville for good, but Nashville didn't reciprocate. No one loved my songs the way I thought they should. They weren't country enough; they weren't sad enough; they weren't girly enough. That's the type of feedback I got as a nobody from nowhere.

Before I came, I'd imagined every artist or producer who heard my songs would fall immediately in love with them and tell me they're amazing, and 'poof' overnight the top tier of performers would be singing my songs and touring with them around the world, while I get to record more and more of what was already inside me and have the time to capture the stream of songs that rushed, never stopping, through me, like water. Song water. I'm made out of sixty percent of song water.

Song Water would be a great title. I search the Internet for any mentions of that name, find none, add it into the notes app on my phone, and start composing a melody in my head.

I hum Song Water under my breath while I wait outside the terminal for the taxi. I couldn't mistake this place for Chicago even if I wanted to. It's warmer here in the evening than it was during the day in my hometown. I eye the lights of Nashville as they fly by the car window, feeling like I'm returning to the scene of the crime. Determination calms the butterflies in my chest. This place crushed my songwriting hopes and dreams. This time I'm much better prepared to meet my opponent head-on.

"Came to conquer the music world?" says the taxi driver.

He cursed when he couldn't fit the case with my keyboard into the trunk with my two voluminous suitcases, and the keyboard is now riding gunshot in the front passenger seat. His words suggest I'm another one of the delusional young people flocking to his city in search of fame and destined to fail.

"I'm opening for The Whats," I say. In your face, I think. I practically made it.

"Wow." His tone changes into a solicitous one. "What's your name?"

"Angela Fisher."

"I'll remember it." He taps his head with his index finger. "I drove many new artists back in the day who made it big."

"Cool." Maybe this is the lucky taxi that people who become destined for stardom take. I rub the door 'for luck', just in case.

He might've driven celebrities around, but after pulling my luggage out of his truck, he peels off, leaving me to drag it into the hotel lobby by myself—an impossible task even for someone with two fully functioning hands. One of the suitcases' wheels gets caught on the threshold and tumbles down, dragging me onto the floor with it. The keyboard case smacks me on the back of my head.

"Here," says a male voice with an English accent. "Let me grab that case off you."

The weight of the keyboard gone, I roll over from my face and onto my back. Neil Westcott, the bass player for The Whats, is extending his hand my way. I grab it, feel the calluses on his hand, let his thin but strong fingers wrap around my wrist and pull me up to my feet.

I read everything I could about The Whats: their meteoric rise to fame ten years ago from a garage band in Manchester to the singing competition that propelled them to an instant household name. Neil's the youngest one in the group, and my fingers are currently lying on top of his famous energy tattoo that goes from his heart, across his chest, shoulders, arms, and ends at the nails of both of his index fingers.

"Thanks so much." I try to take my hand out of his, but he doesn't let me, instead bringing it to his lips and kissing it lightly.

"No problem."

His eyes linger on me, and I should find it flattering because Neil is hot by both bad boy and musician standards. He's wearing unassuming jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt, but I've seen one too many photos of him playing naked from the waist up not to have a small slideshow of the lean muscles covered in dozens of tattoos run through my head. His shoulder-length blond hair is pulled into a ponytail, and his green eyes smirk with what the fans can't ever get enough of when he's doing interviews.

I yank my hand out and reach for my keyboard case, but instead of giving it to me, he grabs it plus one of my suitcases and heads over to the reception.

"You look like you're going to need some help with that lot, and since there's no knight in shining armor, will I do?" He keeps perusing me with the same squint that must've worked on many girls and women and old ladies but leaves me unaffected. I stare at one of the most desired men on the planet and think about Mike, the man I desire the most.

I get to the counter a second after him, and the hotel employee is already melting under the same squint I was treated to a minute ago. It's working on her, and her face falls when she sees me sidling up next to Neil.

"You should have a reservation under Angela Fisher." I pull out my phone to find the email my agent sent me with the tour information. Today is one of the nights I get to sleep at a hotel. I'm not looking forward to nights in a bunk bed on a moving bus, with others snoring or having sex or doing who-knows-what-else in the bunks near me. I've done it one too many times when I was opening for other artists, and I hated it. Still hate it.

"Yes, your room is ready. Let me get you a key. Will you need assistance with your luggage?" She eyes my suitcases and Neil.

"Nah, not tonight she won't," says Neil before I get a chance and snatches the key cards the receptionist is stretching in my direction.

I grab for it in an attempt to take it away, but even though he's no more than a couple of inches taller than my five-ten, I can't quite get it from his raised hand on the first or second try. My hands hurts. My head hurts. My patience hurts, and I'm in absolutely no mood to continue this childish game.

"Give me my keys, Neil."

"These keys? Looks like someone knows my name." He smiles wide, taking it as a compliment even though I didn't intend it as one.

"Give. Me. My. Keys." My death stare has never failed me. I extend my hand, and unless he's dumb or suicidal, he should be placing the key cards into my palm.

Neil turns away. "I'm only trying to help, like you're helping us." Neil says over the shoulder and heads to the elevators, my key cards up in the air over his head in his hand.

The asshole has never met Angie Fisher before. I let go of the suitcase by my side, pick up speed, and reach to grab the card. Instead of letting go as I grab the key cards, he pulls them forward, and I lose my balance, topple, and crash both of us, the keyboard, and my suitcase onto the lobby floor, right in front of the elevator. I roll off Neil, jump to my feet, and return to the other suitcase I left by the reception. Mission accomplished. The girl behind the counter tightens her mouths to prevent herself from smiling. I turn away from her, and a tired smile creeps onto my lips, as I hear laugh.

When I reach the elevator, Neil is up, but a thin trail of blood is seeping from the cut on his forehead. My smile vanishes. Shit, I didn't mean to hurt him. I search for a sign he's mad, hopefully mad enough to leave me alone, but his grin hasn't moved from where I last saw it. The I'm-the-star-come-bask-in-my-light look he was trying on me is gone, though. He extends his hand my way. "Let's try this again. I'm Neil."

His attempt at reconciliation seems genuine, but the charred spot where my patience resided before I met him is still smoking with the words that could burst into flames. I don't take his hand, but I can't be a bitch to him if he's truly trying. I take hold of the second suitcase, nod to my keyboard case, and offer my terms.

"You can take the keyboard, follow me to the door and then leave. And we can try the handshake again tomorrow after I've had a good night's sleep."

Neil's smile gets wider, although I have no idea how's that even possible.

"Deal." He grabs the case and follows me into the elevator.

I slide the key card into the slot in the door and—miracle of miracles—it opens on the first try. I roll my luggage in, turn back to Neil, take the keyboard case from him, and slide it through the door I hope the ice-machine is not far away, my hand needs some relief before I get into the shower.

"See you tomorrow morning then, number 8," says Neil.

"It's Angela, or did you bump your head too hard?"

"Angela to all, number 8 to me. I won't ever forget that smother tackle. You need to try your hand at rugby."

"If you'd let go of the cards, neither of us would have extra bruises now." I make sure to ooze sarcasm.

He turns around, but instead of walking back to the elevator, he steps over to the room next to mine and slides his own key card in. The lock beeps and the three little dots on top turn green.