“Is that why you’re retiring?” I ask.
After a long moment, Jesse nods. “Partly. I want a normal life too. I love music more than anything, but not if it costs me everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. I can’t imagine giving up music for any reason, but I’ve never had to experience pressure like he has. It sucks that his parents aren’t supportive of his musical choices. It sounds like a complicated situation, and I don’t understand, because my family has always been there for me. Family should support you no matter what, but I guess sometimes that doesn’t happen.
Jesse points at some fire-red boots. “I think you need a pair of those.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t color-coordinate my boots with my corset lace.”
Jesse considers this, then points across the room. “You’re right. You’re getting those purple python boots instead.”
“Oh, hell no.”
The woman comes out of the storeroom carrying a box, which she hands to Jesse. He pulls out a spur covered with skulls and diamonds.
I crack up. “Why do you need those?”
“Why don’t I need them is the question. They match my belt buckle.” He lifts up his T-shirt, revealing the skull he wore at his concert.
“My fault,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I was unaware the belt buckle had diamonds on it. The spurs make perfect sense now.”
Jesse sits down, rolls up his jeans, and slips the spurs over his red boots. “Big-time.”
Smiling, Rosie folds her hands together, lifting them to her chin.
He adds, “Rosie—can you grab me a pair of those Laredo boots with the flames? I’d like to try them on. And a pair of those purple Dingos for my friend. Size?”
“No way,” I say.
Jesse grabs my leg and yanks off my ankle bootie in one movement.
“Hey!” I shout.
He peers inside my boot. “She wears a seven, Rosie,” Jesse says, and the saleslady scurries to the back.
I grab my bootie from his hand. “If you’re retiring in two months, why are you buying new spurs to perform in?”
He shrugs. “I like helping out local shops.”
A couple of minutes later, Rosie has me sit down on a plush bench as she opens a long brown shoe box and pulls out the purple boots.
“These are so not me,” I say.
“Stand up and model,” Jesse replies, so I put the boots on and walk back and forth in front of him like when Mom took me shoe shopping as a kid.
“I don’t like how they look, but they feel almost as awesome as the leather in that GT,” I tell Jesse, which makes him smile.
“Then you’re getting them.”
“How much?” I ask Rosie.
“Five hundred.”
“About four hundred and eighty out of my price range.”
“If you change your mind, just come back,” Rosie says. “Those boots were made for you.”
Just like that GranTurismo? I’m sorry, but these boots and that Maserati weren’t made for me. They were made for country music stars.
Jesse admires the boots with flames. “Oh boy. I’m getting these Laredos though.”
“But the spurs don’t match,” I say with a laugh.
“Guess I’ll have to order some more spurs then. Rubies, maybe?”
I shake my head with a smile, glad that his temper seems to have cooled.
But how damaged is he?
• • •
“I miss doing stuff like that,” Jesse says and nods at the playground across the street. He tucks his Nashville Spur Emporium box into the Harley’s saddlebag.
The playground is filled with toddlers and chatting moms. There’s a jungle gym, a merry-go-round, swings, and a sandbox. A little girl is throwing pennies into a marble fountain with a fish statue that’s spurting water.
Maybe the key to helping him feel better is to make him feel like a kid again. I grab his arm. “Come on.”
“Where’re we going?”
“To swing.” I grin at him, and he returns it.
“You gonna push me?”
“You’re a big boy. You can pump by yourself.”
We sit on the swings by the sandbox, where four little boys are building a castle. I swing higher and higher, my short black skirt flapping in the wind. Jesse starts laughing as he zooms higher than me. I pump harder to beat him. It’s a nice moment—just me and him and the blue sky. I hum the Charlie Brown theme song; it’s been stuck in my head since Jesse played it on the piano.