Page 76 of Christmas Trees & Weak Knees

Everyone else seems to find it hugely entertaining.

“Because I don’t care what happened back then—”

“You don’t care?”

“You didn’t let me finish. That’s the point I’m trying to make, Paisley. Of course I care. But I care about what’s happening now.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Kash’s mouth drops open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How is pressing me to sing a duet with you in public caring?”

“I’m only asking you to take a beat and think about it. This is a huge opportunity,” he says. “For both of us.”

My eyebrows rise. “Both of us?” My fingernails dig into my palms as I try to stay calm and not let my emotions spin any further out of control. “This isn’t an opportunity for me; it’s a setup. Because there’s no way I won’t crash and burn. It was bad enough flopping on a local stage. I don’t need to do it live on national television. Not to mention, I could ruin both our careers.”

“You’re not going to ruin my career,” he says, like I’m being ridiculous. Like there’s no doubt in his mind that he could survive the fallout.

He’s probably right. If the show goes well, great. If not, even better. Nothing goes viral faster than a train wreck. And what could be more enticing for the online masses than a train wreck set to a train drumbeat? They’ll eat it right up, and he’ll get his name out there. I’m sure the label’s PR team will know exactly how to spin it to sell more of his albums. They’d probably make it look like I was drunk or something equally awful to gain some pity purchases. A sale’s a sale, after all.

A bitter taste fills my mouth.

I’m in a no-win situation thanks to him. If I show up to the New Year’s Eve Ball and fail, I’ll be the butt of every joke for ages. And if I don’t show up, I’ll probably be labeled as difficult to work with. Songwriters in Nashville are a dime a dozen, and word of mouth could quickly make me a persona non grata in the industry. “No matter what, my music career is shot,” I say.

Why can’t he see that?

“Paisley,” he says, reaching out to rest his hand on my forearm. All I hear are the echoes of the promises he made not so long ago: I’ll do my very best to support you and make sure you feel seen from here on out.

That big, black swirling storm in my gut burns with betrayal. This is him supporting me and making me feel seen?

I’m so stupid. I always knew he had big dreams and big goals, but I got caught up in his country-rock vibe, with his dark hair and dark eyes and that makes-your-knees-all-weak smile of his. When he kissed me, I thought I was special. I thought I was seen. I thought I could trust him. With my words and my music. With my fears and my failures. With my heart.

And that right there is the worst part of it. Not only has he potentially put my songwriting career at risk, but he’s also shattered my heart.

I shrug off his hand and push my chair back, standing so I’m out of his reach. His eyes are pleading and his mouth is parted and my heart aches like my chest is packed full of snow.

“I can’t do it,” I say with such icy force that the temperature in the barn drops at least twenty degrees. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself for warmth. “I won’t do it.”

“Let’s just talk about it.”

I’m done talking. Why bother, when he won’t even listen?

“If they insist on a duet, find someone else for New Year’s Eve, Kash. It’s not going to be me.”

“Paisley,” he says.

But I shake my head. “I need some time.” Burning-hot tears threaten to spill over as I storm away.

“Paisley,” he calls out after me, his voice pleading.

But it’s too late to stop this ’ship from sinking. We’ve hit the rocks and we’re going down.

Track 26

All My Mistakes

Kash