You know I’m not going to ask how things are, but I wanted you to know where I am.
For six months, America was my home, blindly driving up and down the Atlantic coast, creeping along the Texas boarder, circling around the southern states until it felt like Nashville and I were ready for each other. I would drive and sing with the radio all day, ignoring which highway I was on and even which state I had ventured into, and at night I’d pull off into an upscale neighborhood or a Waffle House and crawl in the backseat and sleep for a few hours, clasping your big headphones over my ears, the ones with tape, and thinking about the night in the motel after we played our first show. The next day I’d try to figure out where I was, but I’d always stop caring before I stopped for gas and coffee.
I only played a few times while I was working up my courage, but when I finally felt ready to get to Tennessee, I stopped to see Millie, and she made me play everything we did before and the few things I came up with while driving. She didn’t think I should keep playing all of what we used to do together, but she said it was nice to hear again. She’s right, and I hate it, but most of them only sound right with you.
She asked about you, but I just said you took a real job. She didn’t know that our scare turned out to be an actual threat.
I guess, I just wanted you to know that I’m here now.