Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach Read Online Free PDF Page A

hour.”
    “Okay then if I come watch?” she asks in a cautious voice.
    “Sure, it is,” Thomas says.
    CeCe looks at me, expecting me to disagree, I would guess. But I don’t. “I don’t want your guitar. To keep, I mean. I’ll borrow it just for tonight.”
    “You can keep it,” she says. “I owe you.”
    “I don’t want your guitar.”
    “Okay.”

    WE DRIVE THE REST of the way into Nashville without saying too much of anything. Thomas has gone quiet in the way he always does before a show, playing through lyrics in his head, gathering up whatever emotional steam he needs to get up in front of an audience and sing.
    We’ve been together long enough that we respect each other’s process, and when it comes time to leave each other alone, we do.
    I air guitar some chord patterns, walk through a new tune we’re doing at the end of the set tonight, wonder if I could improve the chorus lyric.
    CeCe’s head drops against my shoulder, and it’s only then I realize she’s asleep. Hank Junior has been snoring the past ten miles. I look down at CeCe and will myself not to move. I don’t know if it’s because she’s clearly dead tired or because her hair is so soft on my arm. I can smell the shampoo she must have used that morning. It smells clean and fresh, like springtime and honeysuckle.
    I feel Thomas look at me, but I refuse to look at him. I know what he’s thinking. That’s when I move closer to the door, and CeCe comes awake with a start.
    “Oh,” she says, groggy, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I dozed off.”
    “It’s okay,” I say, wondering if I could be more of an ass.
    CeCe sits upright as a poker the rest of the way into the city. Hank Junior goes on snoring, and she rubs his ears, first one, then the other.
    Thomas drives straight to the Bluebird. We’ve been coming down every few weeks for the past year or so, working odd jobs back home, saving money, gathering proof each time we come that we need to give this a real shot. This time, we’re staying.
    The strip mall that includes the Bluebird Café among its tenants isn’t much to look at from the outside.
    The lot is full so we squeeze into a grassy area not too far from the main entrance. The place is small, the sign out front nothing that will knock your socks off.
    “It’s not exactly what I imagined.” CeCe studies the front door. “I thought it would be bigger.”
    “We thought the same thing first time here,” Thomas agrees.
    The truth is we’d felt downright disappointed. Both of us had heard about the place for years, how many dreams had come to fruition behind those doors. The physical appearance had been something of a letdown. It’s not until you’re inside and witness what goes on there that you get the fact that the appearance doesn’t much matter.
    “Hank Junior can wait here,” Thomas says. “That okay?”
    “Yeah,” CeCe says. “Let me take him potty first.”
    Hank Junior follows her out of the truck as if that’s exactly what he had on his to do list. They head for a grassy spot several yards away where Hank Junior makes use of a light pole.
    Thomas reaches for CeCe’s guitar case. “Maybe you oughta tune her up.”
    “Yeah,” I say, taking the case and setting it at my feet. I feel weird about it even though I know CeCe wants me to use it. I pull out the guitar, pleasantly surprised by the heft of it. It’s a Martin, like mine, and this too, catches me off guard. I guess I should have known if it belonged to Dobie Crawford, it was gonna be more than decent.
    I sit on the curb, strum a few chords, and find there’s not much to improve on. CeCe knows how to tune a guitar.
    She’s back then, Hank Junior panting like he’s thirsty. “Either of you have a bottle of water you could share with Hank?”
    I stand up, reach under the truck seat and pull out one I’d opened earlier.
    “Thanks,” she says, without looking me in the eye. She takes the cap off, squats in front of the dog and cups her