Chapter 10

Raegan

The National Park we're staying at tonight in Hot Springs has a noise curfew of ten o'clock, which means everyone in our crew has finally, finally stopped stirring inside their bunks. I glance at my phone impatiently for the hundredth time and decide to wait an extra ten minutes ... just to be safe.

But as I stare into the abyss of my dark cocoon, my mind is not rehearsing my plan to hack into Adele's computer while she sleeps; instead, it's being held hostage by the statement Micah made about Tav and me earlier today.

"‘Only, my guess is Tav doesn't want it to be over, and you're still debating on what it is you want.'"

It's the reason I couldn't even look at Micah when Tav called after dinner tonight.

I squeeze my eyes closed, wishing it could be as simple as Micah made it sound.

Perhaps that's the danger in dating someone you've known all your life. Cutting them off is like cutting off a part of your own history. Our lives have been entangled since birth, with commonalities too impossible to ignore: both artists in our own rights, both youngest children of prominent families with ties to the music industry, both set on making our own way despite the influence and affluence of our last names. Only, Tav is actually living his dream as the lead singer of a band, and I'm ... I'm several unpublished manuscripts deep with nothing to show for it.

I think of the magical portal Micah and I discussed on our way to Memphis, and I wish I could change my answer now. If I could, I would go back in time and talk to that head-in-the-clouds teenage girl with the crush on her best friend. I'd tell her that, much like her writing dreams, all the pining and hoping and journal-filling about Tav's every move wouldn't amount to anything but heartache.

Much to that young girl's surprise, Tav wouldn't fall for her in high school like she'd written about. Truth is, our relationship had survived on sporadic texts and phone calls until I was home from college and he was gigging at venues in the outskirts of Tennessee, trying to build a set list Farrow Music would be willing to sign. It was during those late-night road calls when Tav asked for my help with his lyrics. By my senior year, I'd filled three notebooks with song hooks, bridges, and choruses. And his set grew from three to thirty.

Tav had stayed in town for my college graduation party, and I was certain he was about to confess what I'd been feeling since girlhood. Only, when he pulled me aside, it was to tell me he'd been signed with Farrow Music Productions, which would require him to be on the road for a full year. That was when my patience had officially run out. I told him I was in love with him—just blurted it out like a fool, hoping with everything in me that he would say it back.

But instead, Tav claimed he needed space to think, and that he was sorry I'd misunderstood his intentions. Crushed was an understatement to the devastation that followed his rejection.

Our communication dwindled to silence for eight long months until the random June day when a VIP invitation for a small show he'd secured in Denver appeared in my inbox, along with two plane tickets and a note asking me to come. He promised he'd make it worth my time if I trusted him enough to show up. When I'd arrived at the venue, Tav pulled me up on stage and sang a song we'd cowritten together years prior.

He'd kissed me on a spotlighted stage while a bar crowd roared and cheered our names. The grand gesture had gone viral overnight—as views of Tav Z + Luella Farrow's Daughter's LIVE KISS ON STAGE ticked north of three million.

In less than a week, my identity had been redefined by two things: my famous last name and my lead-singer boyfriend. I'd tried to convince myself that this was a small price to pay for the happy-ever-after I'd written about for a decade, but there were other factors at play I couldn't ignore. Like how Tav's downloads had skyrocketed across every streaming platform after our kiss went viral. Like how he'd been given the green light at venues that had previously turned him down. Like how the timing for our future plans was never quite right.

Just one more tour and then we'll settle downwas the line he'd fed me for nearly three years.

We didn't make it to a fourth.

Pulling the emergency brake on my runaway thoughts, I focus once again on the loud static of Adele's white-noise machine and Hattie's heavy, rhythmic breathing. Slowly, I pull back my privacy curtain and stare across the aisle at the closed bunk directly across from mine. I haven't heard a peep from Micah since he turned in after losing a round of Canasta, joking that all the mineral water he'd absorbed at the thermal pools earlier must have weakened his ability to strategize. We'd all laughed—even Adele.

I plant both feet on the cool floor and note the trash from dinner has been taken out. I'd volunteered for the job, but then Tav had called, asking for lyric help again.

When I told him things had been busy, he'd fallen quiet. Tav knew all about life on the road. Only, for Tav, "busyness" on the road had included developing confusing feelings for his fill-in keyboardist, and then later alerting me, his girlfriend of three years, that he needed space to "figure out" what he really wanted. Or in this case, who he really wanted.

Our breakup last fall had happened in the midst of Hattie's custody trial with Peter and Adele's fight to keep the negative morale at FMP from making headlines—all while Mama's song continued to sweep the charts at number one.

There was little time to mourn a broken heart.

But then Tav called me three and a half weeks ago, asking for my forgiveness and trying his best to assure me he was finally ready to settle down. He claimed his lapse in judgment was a result of being caught up in the loneliness of fame. "You were right all along, Rae Rae. Our history is special. It's worth too much to throw away. I know we can make this work this time if you give me another chance. Will you at least think about it? We can talk when I'm home."

I push the nagging conversation aside and creep with stealthy steps toward the darkened dining table. With the shades drawn on every window inside the bus tonight, the tiny green charge light on Adele's laptop is impossible to miss. And much like this morning, adrenaline floods my gut at the thought of what I'm about to do—what I need to do in order to confirm or deny my ex-brother-in-law's involvement in the tell-all against my family. My fingers tremble as I pry open the lid on the table, but the glow of the screen is so blinding I immediately rotate the laptop away from the bunk hall. Suddenly, the dining area feels much too close to the sleeping quarters. If someone were to wake to use the restroom, I might as well be a lighthouse.

Making sure to mute the sound of her keyboard first, I type in Adele's password and then slowly stand and walk backward into the front lounge, shielding the light by lowering the screen. Once I can get to the driver's cockpit, I'll be able to close the privacy curtain and search through Adele's emails for some more information on the fired employee and their relationship with Peter—

"Raegan, stop." A hushed voice lashes out through the darkness, right before my heel collides with something solid near the base of the sofa. In a hellish montage of cause-and-effect, I trip, stumble, and clutch the laptop to my chest, determined to sacrifice every bone in my body if it means avoiding Adele's wrath. But instead of hitting the floor as I expect, two large hands reach into the darkness and pull me upright.

"Don't scream," a familiar tenor says in my ear, arms still secured around my middle. "Not unless you want to wake this entire bus." He waits a beat and then another. "You good?"

I nod but realize he probably can't see the movement in the darkness. Then again, how was it he'd seen me at all? "Other than wondering how it is you're always nearby to catch me at my worst? Sure." I exhale a shaky breath. "It's really too bad for you those Red Cross punch cards aren't a real thing. No doubt yours would be filled by the end of this trip."

I feel the rumble of his chest against my back when he chuckles. "Perhaps I better settle on a prize, then." He releases me, and I turn around to face him in the dark right as he flicks on the headlamp strapped to his forehead. I bite back a cry from the instant attack on my retinas and shield my eyes with my forearm.

"Sorry about that, I thought it was still on the night mode. There. It's safe to come out now."

I peel my arm away and note the dim glow of the space around us.

"What are you doing out here with that thing? Mining for silver?"

Again he laughs, then plants himself on the sofa. "No, I was reading. I turned off my light as soon as I heard the creak of a bunk, figured someone was coming out to use the restroom. Didn't want to startle anyone. Guess you saw how well that worked."

I realize only then that I'm still clutching stolen evidence to my chest. I quickly twist away from Micah and slide Adele's computer under the cushion of the sofa opposite him.

"That's not suspicious at all," he deadpans.

I rotate back to address the crime at hand, but stop short when I note what he's wearing on his face for the first time. "You wear glasses?"

"Just for reading."

Of course he does, because why wouldn't a guy who doesn't need any extra points on the attraction scale also wear reading glasses? "Right."

Micah tugs his headlamp off and proceeds to sweep the light down the length of my body. "What on earth is printed on your pajamas?"

I glance down at the brown, textured spheres haphazardly placed on my matching top and boxers. "Goo Goo Clusters."

"A what cluster?"

I jerk back a step because this is a personal affront if ever there was one. "How do you not know what a Goo Goo Cluster is? That's ... that's practically sacrilege where I come from."

He sets the headlamp on the arm of the sofa, casting the entire lounge in a soft aura of white. "Well, where I come from, students text each other a brown emoji that looks suspiciously similar to that whenever they—"

"I'll have you know that Goo Goo Clusters are a Nashville novelty—chocolate, caramel, marshmallow, nougat, and peanuts. No taste buds can resist them. Not even snooty ones from up north."

His smile comes slowly. "Then I sincerely hope I'll get the chance to put that to the test. But in the meantime, perhaps we should get back to your ninja activities in question..."

I glance at the sofa where I've stuffed Adele's laptop. "It's not what it looks like. I just needed to do some important research."

"On Adele's work computer?"

My eyes flick to the floor for a fraction of a second to gather my thoughts, but that's all it takes to see the workspace he's created on the floor and side table.

There, at Micah's feet, is a stack of journals and what looks to be a handwritten timeline with a stretch of dates, locations, scribbled notes, and a handful of names I recognize. Two of which belong to my parents.

And just like that, I wish I could be plunged back into total darkness. I want to unsee all of this so badly that I'd rather turn myself in to Adele than process the truth in front of me.

Like a movie I can't stop, my mind replays every red flag I chose to ignore since Micah arrived on scene. Every strange circumstance I na?vely labeled as coincidence. Every conversation I blindly participated in. Every pilfered sample chapter I read that included information only a select few from my mama's past would know about.

Somehow, I foolishly managed to convince myself that Micah was interested in me for more than my family name when really he used me as an accomplice to further a plot against us all.

The running narrative in my head continues to shift in real time.

Micah isn't here to fill in the gaps of his mother's timeline; he's here to finish out an entirely different timeline—one Lynn must have started and sold to the highest bidder before she died. A tell-all to end all tell-alls, authored by the scorned ex-best friend of one Luella Farrow.

And we all fell for it. Most of all—my sweet, generous mother.

"How could you?" My voice breaks on the question. "How could you keep this from us?"

His lighthearted expression changes in an instant. "Raegan, what are you—?"

Disbelief and hurt pulse up my throat in tandem. "You're him."

"I'm who?"

I shake my head and soon my entire body follows. "All that talk today about open communication and valuing truth above timing, and yet you showed up here thinking you could keep a secret this huge?"

Even in the dim light, I see how my words strike him. Yet he doesn't defend himself or even try to explain my accusation away. He simply remains silent.

Hysteria rises inside me like flood waters.

"You're not even going to deny it?" I hiss.

"No."

His admission hurts far more than it should.

Much too aware of our proximity to my sleeping family, I demand my rickety legs to move and take the exit stairs in bare feet. I push out the bus door and into the thick night air, knowing Micah will catch the door before it has the chance to slam. At least I'm right about something when it comes to him.

At first, I have no plan as I march past the picnic table and toward the tree line, I just know I'm not ready to face him yet. Not like this. The deeper I venture down the dusty trail, the less cloudy my thoughts become and the less wounded my pride feels. It's then I do what I do best: plug the facts I have into the blank novel outline stored in my brain, the one currently crafting a backstory and matching scenes in real time until a surprising revelation nearly causes me to stumble.

What if Lynn put Micah up to this on her deathbed? What if Micah is as unwilling a participant in this twisted game of revenge as I am? I remember how sorrowful his face looked today at the pools when Mama spoke about his mother. He's grieving, I'm quick to remind myself. And grief does strange things to people. Even therapists, I'd reckon.

Finally, I stop and rotate to face the spy we've been harboring on our bus for days. "I'm not going to ask you why or even how this all came about—God gave me a good enough imagination to fill in those blanks myself. But I do very much care about what happens from this point on. I know you're grieving, Micah. But you must know there's a better way to find closure than this."

"Raegan." Everything about him appears unnervingly steady. "Please believe me when I say I never intended to hurt you or anyone else in your family. I only ever wanted to find the truth—"

"The truth?" I shake my head, completely bewildered by how deceived he must be to believe a stunt like this could lead him to truth. "Micah, this isn't the way. Please, I'm begging you, no matter how deep your mother's issues went with my mama, please break this contract with Willow House and whatever other commitment you made to her ghostwriter regarding this trip." The pinpricks of hives have begun on my forearms, but I don't care. I don't care about anything but the here and now. "I'll help you however I can, I promise. We can do it together." Fat tears climb my throat as I press a hand to my chest. "I know my family is a total mess, but not even the messiest of us deserves to be exposed like this. Let our mother's offenses stay in the past."

For what feels like a year, Micah stares at me, unblinking, and for the first time, I doubt my negotiation skills. Was he expecting me to yell? Fight? Carry on like a lunatic until I alerted the entire campground of his transgressions and betrayal against my family? Maybe he expected me to pull Adele out of bed.

I guarantee she wouldn't have offered him the same deal.

But then he raises his palms as his voice cuts through the silence. "I want to help you, Raegan, but I'm no longer certain of what you're accusing me of. I can say with confidence that other than the nondisclosure agreements I signed for Adele prior to the trip, I've signed nothing else. I've never heard of Willow House, and I'm not even sure what a ghostwriter is, much less why I'd be working with one. I do value honesty, but I also value discernment, which is why I didn't disclose my primary motive for being on this trip with your family because the secret I'm carrying affects more than just me."

The moon is bright overhead, lightly illuminating Micah's features in a silvery blue halo. He appears sincere, earnest. Yet I feel completely ungrounded. If he's lying, then he's an even better liar than Peter San Marco. But if he's not, how can he possibly explain the timeline and sketches and names—

"Raegan, I need you to keep breathing, alright? Nice and slow." He catches my eye and demonstrates the movement of breath with his hand. I wonder if this is how a therapist works their magic on patients, by casting spells that trick them into believing they're calm when really they're a boiling pot of injustice.

"May I continue?" he asks.

Somehow, I nod.

He inhales what appears to be a cleansing breath of his own. "After Luella sent my mom the award for Song of the Year, my mom reached out to her and told her about her prognosis. As you know, she invited Luella to come while she was in hospice—she was weak but coherent. None of us were in the room with them, but whatever happened in there gave my mom peace, which in turn, gave my family peace. She declined rapidly after that night and died just five days later." He clears his throat. "Unfortunately, the peace we found during her passing didn't last for me. I found something else instead."

Even though it's nearly midnight and the summer air is warm and thick and full of cicadas trying to match the whir of the bus's AC unit, nothing would have kept me from hearing Micah's next words. My gaze is fixed on his mouth, my ears tuned to his voice.

"Frank Davenport is not my father." Other than the clench of his fists, his body is rigid as he speaks. "My brother read me the official paternity test results the day I answered your mom's voicemail about a box of travel journals she found during the bus renovation. It felt like ... like an answer to a prayer I didn't even know how to pray. And believe me, that's a commodity I don't have much of at the moment." He takes another breath. "I came on this trip with the intention of searching for leads that might ultimately help me discover the identity of my biological father."

The pulse beat in my ears that had been so strong only moments ago seems to sputter out entirely.

"Oh, Micah." It's all I can utter in light of the compounding grief he's faced in such a short period of time. First the loss of his mom, followed by a loss I can't even begin to fathom. "I can't ... I don't even know what to say." I step toward him. "Did you tell Frank you know?"

"No." Micah shakes his head solemnly. "My brother and I are positive he doesn't know about this. He wouldn't have kept this kind of a secret from me. We're too close. It would have broken his heart."

"So you agreed to drive for us because you think my mama might be able to help in your search? Is that why you've been asking about their last tour in '94?" Pieces are clicking into place. "That's why you were drawing a timeline tonight."

He's slower to answer this one, and there's an expression on his face I don't dare try to interpret. "When I determined that I would have been conceived during the end of that summer tour"—he closes his eyes and the moonlight dances over his head, causing his hair to appear nearly copper—"the man who made the most sense at the time, given what I knew, was ... Russell."

My jaw drops open. "You thought my dad had an affair with your mom?"

"It was only a hypothesis, one that was quickly proven wrong by his detention in Germany."

My eyes nearly bulge out of my head when I realize the other ramifications to such a hypothesis. I squeeze my eyes closed for all of two breaths, surprisingly grateful for Germany.

"I'd hoped my mom's journals might be a help, too, although that was before I started reading them. My mom was definitely not a traditionalist when it came to keeping a journal."

His sudden tone shift makes me curious. "What does that mean?"

"They're half doodle, half words, half scraps of random paper—"

"That's too many halves."

"I never claimed to be a math wizard."

"No, you're just a bus-driving therapist in search of his biological father."

Micah clears his throat again. "Actually, for the sake of full disclosure, I'm an unemployed bus-driving therapist in search of his biological father." He raises that calming palm again. "But that's a story for another time. Right now, I'm hoping you'll explain what it was you were accusing me of originally."

I swallow and nod, feeling weary to my bones. As horrible as it would have been for Micah to be the secret author behind the tell-all, I'm left once again with a key suspect who will be impossible to negotiate with. "Someone with access to my mama's history and personal information has signed a book contract and is currently using a ghostwriter to write a tell-all about my mama and family ... and I'm the only person who knows."

Micah starts to speak twice before he's able to utter a word. "I swear to you, Raegan, I know nothing about that."

"I believe you." And I realize, in that moment, I do. I trust him.

"I appreciate that," he says. "I'm not a fan of keeping secrets, but since my father is still out on a boat in the middle of the Pacific, I need to be careful what I say and to whom when it comes to my search."

"I can respect that."

He nods. "Thank you. If there's any way I can help you, Raegan, I will."

"At the moment, I'm not even sure how to help myself." The confession is as defeating as it is true.

Micah stuffs his hands in his shorts pockets and tips his head to the bus. "For now, we should probably get some rest. Tomorrow's another long day."

Exhausted after tonight's emotional showdown, I peer up at him and nod. We walk down the path in contemplative silence together.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get on Adele's laptop for a few minutes. I'm trying to verify something."

"Want me to play lookout? I can read a few more entries in the journals while you search."

"That'd be helpful, thanks."

When we reach the bus, Micah allows me to climb the steps first. "Can I ask what you're researching?"

My fingers grip the cool metal handle as I say, "A suspect who has never shown an ounce of mercy when it mattered most."

August 16, 1975

Eugene, Oregon

Dear Chickee,

I'm writing this from inside the hotel bathroom in Eugene, Oregon, while Luella sleeps. Our bus ride here was long, but we met up with Luella's friend at the university and bought the VW bus. It's lime green and smells of stale potato chips, but it runs! Plus, it will save us on lodging costs now that we can sleep inside it for the remainder of our trip. With our combined savings and the money you gave me, we should be all set once we reach Nashville. Thank you again.

I know I put on a brave face when we left your house yesterday morning, but I couldn't talk for nearly two hours for fear of blubbering. I wonder if this is how everyone feels when they leave home for the first time? I hope it gets easier. I also hope Luella is right about Tennessee being a fresh start for big dreams.

I'm not sure what my big dream is yet, but Luella assures me hers are big enough to share. I suppose, when I think about it, my most important dreams have already come true.

I love you,

Lynn

August 20, 1975

Redwood National Forest

California

Dear Chickee,

I sent you a postcard today from the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I tried to draw it, but I never could get the scale right. The trees here are enormous, even taller than our tallest buildings downtown. I know you'll love the picture on the postcard. Luella took a few with her polaroid, too. I'll show you everything when I can come back and visit.

You're probably wondering about the sketch of the bridge on the next page. Luella and I sat right there for nearly eight hours, listening to nature and writing songs. There's one I wrote that I can't wait to play for you. If you look closely, you'll find the lyrics hidden in this sketch.

I told Luella about him tonight before bed, the Monster I lived with before you rescued me. She cried, and because she cried, I did, too. She asked if he's the reason I never want to get married or have kids of my own. I told her the Monster doesn't get to be the reason for anything I do or don't do anymore. I'm not sure she believed me, but she did suggest we make a pact. So right there atop our sleeping mats, we vowed to never let any man come between us. We promised to protect each other always, not only as best friends, but as sisters.

Tomorrow we're going to see the Pacific Ocean because Luella said no sister of hers can go all the way to Nashville without knowing what it feels like to stick her toes in the surf for the first time. I can't even imagine what it will feel like. I don't think I'll sleep a wink tonight.

I love you,

Lynn

August 26, 1975

San Francisco, California

Dear Chickee,

So much has happened since I last wrote. Shortly after we left the Redwoods, we met a van full of new friends from the same area where that big oil spill was last year. They invited us to come with them to San Francisco. Turns out, they all live together in a commune and call themselves Jesus People. In a way, the place reminded me of Camp Selkirk. They took us to the ocean, and it was even better than anything I could have imagined! I went shoeless the entire day. We've stayed with them for the last three nights, and a part of me doesn't want to leave. We've been working on more songs, and there's something that feels especially inspiring about singing outside.

Tonight they asked us to lead the song service. I don't know how many of us there were in total, and that part doesn't really matter anyway, but when we sang tonight, something happened inside me—like the spark of a fire. People were singing and clapping and even dancing to our songs, and I didn't want it to stop. I think I feel it now, the passion Luella speaks about so often.

Maybe she doesn't need to share her dream with me anymore, because I think her dream just became mine.

I love you,

Lynn

August 31, 1975

Amarillo, Tulsa, Hot Springs, Memphis

Dear Chickee,

Well, you made me promise to say yes to all the adventures you would say yes to if you could, and boy oh boy have I kept my promise. You wouldn't even believe all the things we've done! I can't write out everything, as it would take a week, but as you can see, I've sketched out some of my best memories (except for the rattlesnake under our tire in Amarillo. That was truly horrifying, and I don't want to give you nightmares).

One of the highlights was a bathhouse in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Luella and I were long past ready to wash our hair and smell of something other than stale road food. I never knew clean could feel so good.

You'll also find a sketch of a historic ballroom in Tulsa. That's where a radio dance-off contest was held to win two tickets to see Elvis at his concert in Memphis ... Chickee, I won!!! I don't have the faintest clue what I was doing with my feet, I just told myself to keep on doing it until I fell on the floor in exhaustion. Luella cheered so loud for me that she nearly lost her voice. After I won, we deemed this place our lucky ballroom and promised we'd be back one day, hopefully, to perform songs of our own.

We see Elvis tomorrow night. Can you even believe it? Elvis!

Thank you for pushing me to do this.

We'll be in Nashville in two days.

I love you,

Lynn

P.S. I'm working on a map of our epic adventures this summer! I think it will make for a nice keepsake down the road. I'll send you a copy when I send you this journal.