Second Life: Dumping the Scum novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Split Sheet
Kensley dies on a rainy bridge, wakes at 22 in the showcase green room with the pen in her hand, tears up the split sheet and dumps Breckin; Hudson tells her his grandmother came to hear her and she's on in four minutes.
The last thing I heard in my first life was my own song on the car radio, with another woman's name on it.
"Paper Lanterns, written by Breckin Varnell and Adalyn Rayburn, your Song of the Year."
The rain was coming down so hard the wipers couldn't keep up.
I was halfway across the bridge over the Cumberland when the tires let go.
I was twenty-nine.
I'd written every song my husband ever sang.
Then the rail broke, and the river came up black.
"Babe. Kenz. Sign it, we're on in ten."
I opened my eyes.
I was sitting on a sticky green-room couch with a pen in my hand.
A sheet of paper sat on my knee.
SPLIT SHEET. "Paper Lanterns." Breckin Varnell 50%. Adalyn Rayburn 50%. Kensley Cowan, witness.
I knew that paper.
I'd signed it once already.
Breckin was crouched in front of me in his dark red jacket, blond hair pushed back, smiling the smile that sold out arenas.
He was twenty-three again.
There was no gray at his temples, no gold record behind him, no wedding ring on his hand.
"It's just paperwork," he said. "For the band. You'll be my wife someday. What's mine is yours."
He'd said those exact words seven years ago.
I'd believed him for seven years.
Across the room, Adalyn sat on an amp in a cream lace dress, tuning a guitar she couldn't play past four chords.
Breckin's denim jacket was around her shoulders.
The poster on the door said SPRING SHOWCASE, and the date was April 12.
I was twenty-two.
I was a senior.
I was alive.
"Kenz?" Breckin tapped the paper. "Right there, on the line."
I looked at the line.
Then I tore the sheet in half.
Then in half again.
The drummer stopped twirling her sticks. The bass player said, "Whoa."
Breckin laughed, the way he laughed when a waiter got his order wrong.
"Okay. Funny. We've got another copy."
"Then you can tear that one too," I said.
His smile stayed on, but his eyes went flat.
"You don't even like being on stage. You'd choke out there. I'm doing you a favor."
"You're doing Adalyn a favor," I said. "She's wearing your jacket."
Adalyn's hand went to the collar.
"It's cold in here," she said.
"It's April in Tennessee," I said. "It's seventy-eight degrees."
Emmylou, the drummer, made a noise.
Breckin stood up.
He was tall, and he knew how to use it.
"You're embarrassing yourself."
"No," I said. "I did that last time."
I walked past him to his guitar case.
My green songbook was tucked in the lid, the one with the coffee ring on the cover.
He'd been keeping it there since sophomore year.
For safekeeping, he said.
I pulled it out.
"Put that back," he said.
"It's mine."
"Half of what's in there is ours."
"Name one line."
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
"We're done, Breckin," I said. "Keep the jacket on her. It looks better on her than it ever did on you."
Emmylou snorted so hard she dropped a stick.
I walked out with my book against my chest and my heart going.
The hall was packed.
I stood against the back wall in the dark, behind three hundred students and a row of Music Row people in good shoes.
Varnell came on to screaming.
Breckin found the light like he always did.
"This next one's brand new," he said. "Adalyn and I wrote it together."
Adalyn smiled down at her shoes, sweet as pie.
Then he sang my grandmother's porch to a room full of strangers.
The paper lanterns. The screen door that never latched. The jar of pennies for the ice cream truck.
He sang it a little sharp, the way he always did.
People swayed.
A girl in the third row cried.
My nails cut into the cover of my book.
"You wrote that."
The voice came from my left.
The sound booth was a little island of light at the back, and a man sat behind the board with headphones around his neck.
Dark hair falling in his eyes. Pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled.
I knew his face.
The last time I'd seen it, two security guards were walking him out of an awards party.
He'd taken the mic and said my name, and nobody else ever had.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"February eleventh. Two in the morning. Studio B." He didn't look up from the faders. "You did nine takes and cussed at the capo on six."
"You were there?"
"I'm the night engineer. I'm always there." He finally looked at me. "Hudson."
"Kensley."
"I know."
On stage, Breckin hit the chorus and put his arm around Adalyn.
"Want me to kill his vocal?" Hudson asked.
I almost said yes.
"No," I said. "Let him finish. Let everybody remember he sang it."
Hudson's mouth twitched.
"Good answer." He nodded at the seats. "Row J, on the aisle. The old lady in the oatmeal cardigan."
I saw her.
Silver hair, reading glasses on a chain, arms folded like the song owed her money.
"That's Wynona Hartsell," Hudson said. "She's my grandmother. She runs Hartsell Music."
My mouth went dry.
In my first life, Hartsell Music was the one publisher Breckin could never get a meeting with.
"Why is she here?"
"Because I played her your February tape," he said. "She didn't come for him."
The song ended. The room roared.
Hudson slid a clipboard across the board to me.
OPEN SLOT, it said at the bottom.
My name was written there in neat block letters.
"You're on in four minutes," he said.
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