“A baby!” She gasps in faux horror. “I can’t wait to corrupt you. At twenty-two, as your elder, I have lifetime of sage wisdom to impart.”
“Such as…?”
“Most of the bars on Broadway have unadvertised side entrances, so you can skip the lines if you’re a local or know the guys at the door. There are three stages at Tootsie’s but the top floor is always the most fun after midnight. The bathroom attendants will treat you like a goddess if you tip them regularly.Alwayscarry spare cash in your bra in case you lose track of your wallet.Neverstand too close to the side of the buildings in the late-night district, or you run the risk of getting puked on by someone projectile vomiting off a rooftop bar.” She grimaces, remembering what I assume is first-hand experience. “If, however, you do get puked on, baking soda will get the smell out in one wash.”
I blink at her. “Wow.”
“Consider me your spirit guide.” She grabs the curling iron. “Now, are we doing this, or not?”
A grin spreads over my face. “Oh, we’re doing this.”
* * *
Carly takesher role as my sprit guide very seriously.
After dolling me up to her satisfaction — a process which includes more eye makeup than I’ve ever worn in my life and so much hairspray I doubt my curls will ever come out — she shoves me into a red dress far more fitted than the flowing sundresses that make up the majority of my wardrobe and a pair of strappy sandals I’m not entirely confident in my ability to walk in. I don’t utter a single objection, though I anticipate I’ll have several blisters by the end of the night.
A small price to pay for friendship.
We head out in search of sustenance, wandering around for a while before settling on a cute place on the main strip with outdoor seating. We soak in the last few hours of sunshine and people-watch, laughing at the tourists stumbling around wearing BRIDE-TO-BE sashes and ill-fitted cowboy hats with the tags still on. She sips a cucumber mojito as I suck down a refreshing club soda, chatting about our coworkers at the Nightingale, the bands she deals with every night, her business classes at Belmont, and her childhood growing up outside Denver. She came here for college at eighteen and never went home again.
“So, what’s your story?” she asks as we devour a large veggie pizza piece by piece.
“My story hasn’t happened yet,” I murmur around a big bite. “That’s why I came here. I’m ready for it to finally start.”
Her eyes are curious. “Well, what’s the dream?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone who comes to Nashville has a dream. They either want to be a star, marry a star, or work for a star. Which category do you fall into?”
“None, so far.” I shrug. “I just know I want to write songs, maybe even sell a few someday if they’re good enough.”
“You’re a songwriter, then! That actually makes total sense.” She tilts her head, chewing the straw between her teeth as she examines me. “You’ve got the tortured soul of a writer.”
I snort. “I don’t know about that.”
“Laugh all you want, but it’s true! I knew it the first time I met you.” Her eyes twinkle. “You’ve got stories to tell. I can see them behind your eyes.”
A blush heats my cheeks.
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed! It’s a good thing, babe.” She winks. “Heartache always makes for the best songs.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“It totally is!” Her smile is bright in the growing darkness. “I can tell you’re going to do big things one day, Felicity Wilkes.”
I flinch a little at the fake last name, but I don’t think she notices. “Thanks, Carly.”
“No aspirations to sing, huh?”
For reasons unknown, Ryder’s face flashes though my mind. I shake my head to clear it. I wish I could stop thinking about him, but he’s wedged himself under my skin so deep, I worry I’ll never get him out.
“No, I’m not a singer.”
“Too bad,” Carly murmurs, lifting her fingers into the air to frame my face like a camera lens. “With your songs and your looks, you’d have the total package if you ever decided to perform. They’d put your face on every billboard in this town.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.