At first, the CDs sold like crazy. Everywhere we went—including the check-out line at the local Alco and once while I was peeing in the women’s bathroom at a gas station—people would ask me if I was part of “that band” and could they please have a CD? And, maybe, could we please autograph it? I had to call Carl and order a new case and our hands were always black from Sharpies. But as things slowed down, they became birthday gifts and Christmas gifts for friends and family—at least for those we hadn’t conned into buying a copy. But still, according to Carl, at least, we were doing fabulously.

     “I’ve never had anyone order so many so quickly,” he told us.  “You guys really have something.”

     Which made me feel lovely inside and like nothing could bother me for about a day. Until, of course, it happened. The most terrible thing imaginable.

     What happened was the new biweekly country magazine. What happened was that someone, sometime in Nashville, had gotten pictures of Lane and me. Under the title LANE’S NEW LOVE? were three photos: one of us walking into the airport with him in his big old sunglasses and my bag over his shoulder, one of him taking his hat and glasses off, and one of him with his arms all the way around me, kissing me. And it hadn’t been a friendly little kiss, either. You could totally see tongue. Shit.

      I was the first one to see it, I think. I was at Wal-Mart, and I always browsed the magazines while I was buying Frosted Mini-Wheats and Diet Coke. The magazine had just come out that day, and Lane was a small picture at the top of the cover, so I had flipped through it carelessly to see if there was anything of interest. When I saw the pictures, my knees got sort of weak and my fingers felt shaky, and pretty soon the magazine was on the ground and the guy behind me was asking if I was okay.

     “I’m fine,” I said, picking the magazine up and putting it in my cart. “Just got a little light-headed.”

     “It’s that flu,” he said. “It’s been going around. My daughter had it and she was sick for a week.”

     “Must be it,” I said. I paid for my things and walked out into the parking lot. I could feel sweat at the back of my neck and on my forehead. It was so freaking hot out. After taking out the magazine, I threw the bags in my hatchback and got into my car. I opened it again and searched out the pages.

      There we were again—together in each of them. Who would have taken those pictures? And why, why would they put them in a magazine? It was going to be hell all over again. I’d be Lane’s girlfriend even though I wasn’t and no one would leave me alone. WHY? I started my car and slammed down on the accelerator without thinking about it. I could hear myself peel out, but I didn’t slow down. Why, why had I ever gone to Nashville?

*****

     Later, I tried to talk myself into feeling better.

“Madison,” I said, out loud, “Maybe no one reads that. Maybe no one except farmers and cowboys and old people. People that won’t see you and make the connection. Maybe no one on campus is stupid enough to read that garbage.”

     Except that I had been stupid enough to pick it up in the first place.

     What was I supposed to do? Buy every country magazine in town and hope no one had picked one up before I had? That was stupid, stupid, stupid. People would wonder why I was buying them up and they’d get curious and look at them. Maybe if I just pretended it hadn’t happened, no one would know. Or maybe no one would realize it was me in the pictures….

     I flipped open the magazine again. The pictures were pretty big. The three took up the entire page. You couldn’t see my face too well in the kissing picture, but it was totally visible in the other two. Shit, shit, shit.

     I crossed my fingers. I prayed. I swore that I’d never drink or swear again if only no one would make the connection with me. But it didn’t work. The next day, Lisa was pounding at my door frantically.

     “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked breathlessly when I opened it. “Why didn’t you tell me you two were together?”

     “We aren’t together,” I said.

     “Then what do you call this?” she asked, pointing to the kissing picture.

     “I went to visit him and he was telling me goodbye.”

     “With his tongue?” she asked skeptically. “You know these country magazines have more truth in them than, like, Enquirer.” She shoved the picture in my face.

      “Since when?” I asked. “Are you saying you’ve never made out with a guy who you weren’t dating?”

     “Are you saying you normally take thirteen hours trips to screw guys who aren’t your boyfriends?”

     “I didn’t sleep with him,” I said through gritted teeth.

     “Sure,” she said. She yawned, to let me know she was totally bored with all my denials.

     “Lisa,” I said, “Let’s make a deal. I give you all the juicy details, and you promise you won’t tell a soul. And if someone else finds out, say you have it on high authority from Lane himself that the photos were doctored. Promise?” I asked.

     “Promise,” she said. I sighed. I knew a promise from her wasn’t worth too much, especially where Lane Briar was concerned, but I had to try something.