She sang a song called “Little Brown Jug,” which was apparently about moonshine, and one called “Goober Peas,” which was about, well, goober peas, whatever the hell they were. Another song, “Black-eyed Daisy,” wasn’t too bad. Bonnie said her dad changed it up, singing Black-eyed Bonnie, because her eyes were so dark. Something about Cherokee blood back in her mother’s line, and she and Minnie got what was left of it. There was a song called “Nelly Gray” that seemed to make her sad, and she’d stopped singing it abruptly, half-way through a verse about a girl being taken away in chains. He was sorry she stopped. He’d liked the story in that one.

Bonnie said the songs were the ones she grew up singing, the songs of Appalachia that her dad had taught her and that had been passed down through the generations. She could apparently play several instruments, some of which he’d never heard of, like one she called a mouth bow, which was basically a stick, rounded like a bow, with a guitar string strung from one end to the other. Bonnie said folks hadn’t always used a guitar string. They used to use a stick and a cat gut.

“A cat gut? You mean like an intestine?”

“Yep.”

Clyde was pretty sure she was lying. Fairly sure. Not really sure at all.

“You don’t like these old-timey songs, huh, Clyde?” she had asked. Funny . . . he had told her his first name but she’d kept calling him Clyde.

“This isn’t what you sing at concerts, is it? People don’t still listen to these songs, do they?” he’d asked, incredulous.

“Sure they do. But, no. I sing new country. Cross-over country. Some of it sounds like pop music—in fact it’s so close the only difference is a few steel guitars and a fiddle. And me. I add my own whine and twang to give it that down home feel.” She had winked at him then, and Clyde found himself smiling with her like he was an idiotic fan. “I get lonesome for these old songs, though.”

Finn didn’t especially like the old songs, and he was pretty certain she enjoyed the fact that he didn’t. Bonnie Shelby was a tease. But he liked hearing her sing. And Bonnie could sing, no doubt about it. It was as effortless and sweet as cold water sliding down his throat on a hot day. And she seemed to love doing it. She was a performer, a storyteller, a commanding presence even in the front seat of his old Blazer. He could see why she’d been so successful. He could see how America had fallen in love with her.

He remembered her now. He’d seen her on TV many years ago. Nashville Forever had been one of the only shows they had been allowed to watch when they earned a little recreation time. They all complained because it was country music, not exactly the popular preference among the guys.

She’d been a wisp of a girl—all hair and eyes. She’d grown up since then. He remembered thinking, watching her sing, how young she was. But she had seemed absolutely fearless. And when she’d smiled, everyone in the audience had smiled with her. She’d even won over some of the hard asses who complained about her song selection but found themselves rooting for her anyway. Finn had only seen the show a couple of times. But he remembered her. He hadn’t realized she’d won. It seems she’d not only won, but she’d gone on to be a big star, apparently. A big star who wanted to kill herself.

Finn grabbed a quick shower and was just pulling on a clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans when the pizza arrived. He shot his head through the open adjoining doors to tell Bonnie and could still hear the shower running. It sounded like she was singing in there too. He stopped, wanting to hear her again, and realized she wasn’t singing this time. She was crying. He backed out of her room like he’d inadvertently seen her naked, and realized he would be less embarrassed if he had. Naked, he could deal with. Naked he would even enjoy. Tremendously. But tears? No.

She stayed in her room for another hour. He heard the shower cease, heard her pad through her space, riffling through bags, flipping through the channels, and then turning the television off again. Finally, she popped her head into his room and asked if she could “have a slice?”

Finn inclined his head and searched her face for signs of tears. There were none. He smiled with relief, and she returned the smile, the flash of dimpled cheeks and white teeth framed in pink lips made his heart lurch in his chest. He immediately stopped smiling. She was too pretty. Especially now that her hair didn’t look like she’d survived the apocalypse. She was too pretty, he was a lonely man, and the combination scared him, for her sake and for his.

“You look different without the shag.” She was talking to him now, perched on the edge of his bed, enjoying her pizza. Clyde pulled his attention from her pretty face and settled his eyes back on the fascinating sport of curling on the screen in front of him.

“Shag?” he asked. Wasn’t shag another term for sex? God help him.

“You know, the scruff,” Bonnie reached out and touched his clean-shaven cheek with the knuckles of her left hand, and the Olympics didn’t stand a chance. “You look younger. And I’m jealous. You have more hair than I do.” Finn saw the slight quiver of her bottom lip and then watched her take a huge bite of pizza as if to make it stop.

Finn ran his hands through his damp, shoulder-length hair and shrugged. “It’s coming off when I get to Vegas. It just felt good to let it grow.” Dangerous territory here. He stopped talking.

“You haven’t always worn it long?”

“Nah. It’s been short my whole life, up until the last couple of years, or so.” He fidgeted, pretending he was interested in a commercial for car insurance, but mostly he was hoping she would change the subject.