#bemilyweek22

This is what she gets for being from Georgia. This is what she gets for being high enough on the label hierarchy to spot talent but not high enough to reject favors from top executives. This is what she gets, most of all, for being in a slump.

That’s right. Four-time nominated, two-time Grammy winner Beca Mitchell. In a slump. But not just any slump. A slump so slumpy they’ve sent her on some bullshit scouting trip to Fuckall, Nowhere to take a look at some country artist’s bar gig as a favor to his second-uncle, who happens to be Beca’s boss’ boss’ boss.

Just great.

And okay, she’s coming off like a dick here. She’s not so egotistical that she thinks she’s above scouting trips, or country music, or favors to the higher-ups. But like. She did this already. Paid her dues, worked her way up the ladder. She has a Moon Man, goddammit.

But all that apparently means nothing when you haven’t introduced a new client in a year that’s worth more than a minimally-streamed single.

She sighs, her hands tightening on the steering wheel as some guy on the radio croons about backroads and girls in blue jeans and beer and yadda yadda. 

Is this the kind of artist she’s been sent to see? If that’s the case, she might as well just sign the DNR on her own career right now.

And with that happy thought, her phone rings. She looks at the caller ID and rolls her eyes. Her boss.

Awesome.

“Hi, Theo.”

“Beca,” he says, all British-posh and the exact antithesis of the song she'd just been listening to. “It’s Theo.”

“Yes. That’s why I said ‘hi Theo’.”

Theo tuts. “I see the trip has you in sunshiney spirits.”

“I’m golden.”

“Ah! Speaking of. Did you know that Tennessee is famous for pyrite. Fool’s Gold!”

Beca hums in disinterest. “Fascinating.”

“Their state flower is the iris.”

Beca scrunches her nose. “What are you, an Encyclopedia?”

“I like to know facts about your states. Did you know they’re known as the Volunteer State?”

Beca grunts. “Then maybe you should’ve sent someone on this trip who had willingly volunteered.”

“I’m loving this banter between us, but we both know nobody was going to do that, so let’s cut to the chase and pretend you’re a willing participant here.”

“As opposed to a slave of capitalism for a label who cares more about signing artists they can suck dry for money than they do about keeping their top producers happy?”

“Hey! Now you’re getting it.”

Beca actually laughs. “Well as long as we’re being honest.”

“You got your itinerary and lodging and everything squared away?”

“Yes, but I forgot my will to live. Mind overnighting it?”

Theo hums, unbothered. “Listen, it should be an easy sign. He’s been pre-scouted and he’s already expressed interest. You shouldn’t need to make any judgments or even convince him. It’s a sure-thing.”

“Your confidence in my ability to scout talent is really reassuring. Thanks so much.”

Theo’s quiet for a moment. Then he sighs. “Look, Bec, I just think this is a good opportunity to build some momentum again. Get you back in the game.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “And what if the guy sucks?”

“Then I’m sure you’ll make it work. Listen, I’ve a meeting, but you got this, all right? Whatever happens, you’ve got it.”

Beca’s eyes fall on a large sign on the side of the road as she passes into town limits.

WELCOME TO CARSON’S CREEK -- HOME OF THE COUGARS

ESTABLISHED: 1799

POPULATION: 3,000. 

“Yep,” she responds as he hangs up. “I totally got it.”

//

The thing is, Beca really does have it.

You know. It. The completely immeasurable x-factor behind success. 

Or, at least, she did have it. The ear for talent, and even more, the ability to see past raw skill and recognize potential. Charisma, stage presence. The driving force and passion and hard work behind every artist who goes on to change the game. That’s where Beca lives.

Well. Lived. Past tense.

It’s been a rough year for her.

Which is, of course, why she’s been sent on this scouting trip. New talent, fresh blood. A sure-thing, Theo had said. A jumping-off point for Beca to regain her momentum. To get it back.

That’s kind of the problem with that beautiful, elusive it though.

You either got it or you don’t and recently, Beca doesn’t. And despite Theo’s assurances, she’s not so sure it’s something she can just get back.

Even if she can, she’s pretty sure that’s not gonna happen in a tiny town two hours out of Nashville with a total population smaller than Beca’s high school. 

But yeah, you know. She’s totally got it.

//

Carson’s Creek, home of the Cougars, is pretty much exactly what Beca expected. One main road with a small collection of side streets. A bunch of shops that some people might refer to as cute but which Beca would refer to as in need of an upgrade into the twenty-first century. 

There’s a high school on one side of the road and a combination middle-elementary on the other. A few restaurants, a few neighborhoods. And one motel with a room available to Beca for two nights only, but she won’t be staying a second longer than that, thank you very much.

“If you come ‘round in the morning before 9, there’s muffins and some juice, complementary for ya,” the owner says as she hands Beca her room key. She’s a kind-looking blonde woman whose entire presence strikes Beca as undeniably forgettable as Carson's Creek itself. The nametag pinned to her blouse reads Jessica.

Her room is surprisingly nice; it’s a little outdated but at the very least, it’s clean. She gets herself settled and sets up camp at the desk to answer a few emails and prepare for the night. After reading up on the guy she’s supposed to be scouting, Brent Bentley (snort), she pulls up the venue information.

And laughs out loud.

She’s been to a lot of bars. Upscale New York City bars, hipster LA bars, grungy Chicago bars, and dive bars in towns she doesn’t care to remember.

She thinks there's a chance this one might be memorable, though.

With a suggestive name like The Junkyard, how could she forget it.

//

The Junkyard is unexpectedly packed when Beca arrives.

Not that she didn’t expect a bar to be packed on a Friday night, but come on, it’s called The Junkyard. She was expecting something kind of… junky. 

As far as small town bars go, though, it’s pretty typical. A few tables here and there. A pool table off to the side. Neon lights and beer logos on every inch of the walls. And, Beca notes, a small stage, already set up for a band.

The sign outside had boasted:

FRIDAY THE JUNKYARD HOUSE BAND & FEATURING BRENT BENTLEY 

SATURDAY THE JUNKYARD HOUSE BAND

It’s nearing 10 now, so she wonders if she missed the house band’s set. Whatever. She’s just here to see What’s-His-Face and then move on with her life.

She elbows her way through the crowd, squeezing between two groups of guys at the bar and into the barest hint of unfilled space. Used to this, she flexes her shoulders to make some more room for herself, and lays her hands flat on the bartop, commandeering the small spot for herself. 

There. 

She glances behind her to make sure she has a good enough view of the stage. Good enough. Or at least until a large cowboy hat blocks her vision. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the bar, hoping to flag down one of the bartenders.

There are two of them at this moment, a guy and a girl, both of them swiftly making drinks and conversation with the patrons around them. They’re in nearly identical blue flannels and jeans, but Beca isn’t quite sure if it’s the employee uniform or simply a cute accident. Although the two do seem to be near carbon-copies of each other – from their dark hair and confident but goofy grins and down to the black Converse on their feet.

Related, Beca thinks, or a very creepy coincidence.

The girl notices her first.

“Hi,” she half-yells over the noise, her lips pulling up slightly as her eyes flick over Beca. “Whatcha gettin’? You want a bottle?”

Beca quirks an eyebrow. “Bottle?”

The girl points upward and Beca notices, for the first time, a huge chalkboard dangling on a pair of chains from the low ceiling. 

FRIDAY & SATURDAY SPECIAL: $2 BOTTLES - PBR OR NATTY + 1 FREE TICKET

Beca glances back down at the bartender. She fishes in her pockets for a five and hands it over. “PBR, then. Keep the change.”

The cap comes off with a satisfying hiss, and the girl plops the bottle in front of her, along with a bright orange raffle ticket. 

“So what do you think of the music at this bar?” Beca asks the bartender, watching as she opens a few bottles and passes them to a group of rowdy friends. 

The girl twists her lips. “Pretty top notch, in my opinion. Best in town.”

Beca snorts. “Well, can’t be that hard, can it? The entire town can fit right in this bar.”

The girl chuckles, her lips untwisting and grin stretching. “So did you recently move to Carson’s Creek or you’re just visiting?”

Beca crinkles her nose. “Ah. Is it really that obvious?”

“Nobody from CC is gonna shit on CC.” The girl appraises her, eyes trailing down Beca’s body and back up in a way that turns the volume on Beca’s gaydar up to an eleven. “Plus you kinda got a way aboutcha.”

Beca’s cheeks unexpectedly flush. “Is that, like… a compliment?”

The girl hums. “Depends who you ask.”

“Well,” Beca grins. “I’m asking you.”

She bites her lips over a smile. “Well, I’d say yes, but… you’re just visitin’ aren’t ya?”

“Sure am.”

“Then you’re not my type.”

“Well, then you’re not mine either.”

The girl laughs, her body shaking with it as she picks up the soda gun and points it in a glass. “Good, guess we’re square then.”

“Guess so,” Beca volleys back. “But you never told me what this ticket was for? You guys do a raffle or something? Bid for dinner with the bartender? If so, is there a ticket limit or can I get more?”

The girl narrows her eyes at Beca, but she’s smiling and Beca smirks. “No raffle,” the girl says. “Put your ticket in a bucket, vote on a song.” She points off to the side and Beca glances over to see two buckets attached to the wall of the bar, a big sign overhead, but she can’t read it. As she’s looking, two girls drop something, presumably tickets, into one of the buckets.

“What does the winning song get?”

The girl arches a teasing eyebrow. “What does it get? It gets played.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “By who?”

The girl gives her a long look. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”

“Wow. That’s lame, dude. Totally lame.”

The girl laughs. “Want another beer?”

“Fine.”

“So whatcha visitin’ for?” 

Beca gestures to the stage. “For Brent Bentley.”

The girl doesn’t stop moving, but she does look back up at Beca as she grabs the beer. “You’re here for Brent?”

“Yep.” 

“In what way?”

“I’m a music producer.”

The girl hesitates, then pops back into motion, cracking the top off the bottle. “Are you?”

Beca digs in her pocket and pulls out one of her business cards. She lays it on the bar. “Beca Mitchell. Republic Records.”

The girl finally glides to a halt, her eyes sliding down to look at the card. She glances at Beca, then back at the card. Finally, her lips twitch. “That’s your card?”

“Uh huh,” Beca says, feeling pretty smug about it.

“Thick. That’s impressive cardstock.”

Beca smirks. “Yep.”

“Mmm. Makes for a nice coaster.” And she promptly sets Beca’s bottle of beer on the card with a grin. “Well be sure you vote on a song, Ms. Music Producer, and enjoy the rest of your night.”

Beca grins, utterly shook at that verbal knockout, and lifts her beer up to take a sip, noticing as she does a nice imprint of condensation pressed into her card, her name perfectly framed in the ringed center.

She laughs.

Beca’s seen her around. Most Saturday nights (well, technically it’s Sunday now, isn’t it?), this girl is in the laundromat at the same time as Beca. They’ve never talked, but she always smiles at Beca, a little acknowledgment like, hey, you’re also here again in the middle of the night? We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.

It’s not exactly hard to recognize her. They’re the only two in here, every time. 

Sometimes, like tonight, Beca’s here first, but sometimes the girl has already finished washing and is moving on to drying by the time Beca arrives. 

She’s a student, Beca thinks, undergrad or higher. She sits in a chair, leg crossed over the opposite knee, reading from a textbook in her lap. She’s always highlighting and taking notes in the margins, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Beca’s seen this girl probably five times and at first, it took her a minute to realize what’s different about her. Because there is something different. This girl with her glossy, dark hair, her pretty brown eyes. Her clothes, comfy and well-worn. 

Beca watched her out of the corner of her eyes, unable to put her finger on it. But then she smiled at Beca once, all bright and shiny and genuine, and Beca figured it out. The fluorescents -- they didn’t work on this girl. They didn’t sap her energy, drain the color straight from her skin.

She is, Beca’s certain, immune to their villainous power.

Lucky her.

//

38 minutes for washing. 52 minutes for drying. 

It’s excruciating, that kind of waiting when it’s 2AM on a Saturday and you’ve had the longest week ever. Bands full of assholes, employees being lazy shits.

It’s too much time, that’s for sure, to spend in a laundromat when it’s the only thing standing between a full night of sleep followed by her day off. 

She listens to her music and tries not to jitter her legs too much and watches the girl.

It’s not creepy. Truly. There’s just literally nothing to look at in this fucking hellhole of a place except for clothes spinning round and round in their machines, the flickering, buzzing fluorescents, and her. The only other person around.

So Beca watches. The girl doesn’t notice anyway. She flips the pages of her book, mouths the words as she reads. Twirls a strand of her pretty hair around her finger.

Beca’s bored. She sighs, eyes moving over the girl’s box of Tide detergent, purchased from the coin machine in the corner and now resting on top of the folding table. She takes in the girl’s backpack, the pepper spray keychain on the zipper, the Hufflepuff patch on the front, the little rainbow pride pin on the strap.

She’s in black pants and a black button-up, collared shirt, a zip-up hoodie falling slightly off her shoulders. It’s her typical outfit, every Saturday for the past three months. 

Beca takes these things in, almost without interest, even. There’s just little else to think about. So Beca stares and she thinks and she listens to her music. And the time passes ever so slowly, slower than the slowest blinking of this girl’s pretty eyelashes.

The washer buzzes and Beca jumps, turning her gaze elsewhere, as the girl sets her textbook aside. She glances in Beca’s direction once as she stands up, arms above her head as she stretches. She moves to the washer, offering Beca a small smile behind a yawn.

Beca smiles back.

//

The girl’s already there when Beca steps through the door, but she must’ve just arrived because she’s still setting her backpack down and digging in her wallet for coins when Beca drops her laundry basket near her usual washer.

Beca twirls one of her shitty earbuds around her finger as she stuffs her own coins in the detergent machine. The girl drifts behind her, waiting her turn.

Automatically, accidentally, Beca’s fingers drift to Tide, even though she uses Gain. She spins the knob and the bottle drops out of the slot. 

Beca grabs it and turns around, offering it to the girl. “Tide, right?”

The girl’s eyes go wide, presumably because Beca broke their vow of mutual silence. She grabs the bottle with tentative fingers, looking at Beca curiously as she takes it, the obvious question on her face.

“I’ve seen you here,” Beca’s quick to explain. “I mean. I just… noticed.”

The girl grins and reaches around Beca, nearly trapping Beca between her body and the coin machine. She hears the clink of coins and the clicking of the knob. Then the girl leans back, putting space between them again, and holds out a bottle of Gain.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’ve seen you, too.”

Beca chuckles, grabbing the detergent. “Not hard to miss. We’re the only ones here at this time usually.”

The girl hums, taking the few backward steps toward her laundry. “We are. Not many people want to do laundry on a Saturday night like this, huh?”

“Better things to do, I guess,” Beca agrees. “Clubbing or drinks or sleeping or, uh, literally anything else.”

The girl laughs, throwing a look at Beca over her shoulder. “Weird we’ve been doing this so long and haven’t talked. I’m Emily.”

“Beca.” She starts putting her clothes in the wash. “I uh. I’m not much for small talk and you seemed busy. Studying and stuff.”

“That’s sweet,” Emily says, voice muffled as she throws her own clothes in the machine. She stands up, her arm resting on top of the door. “I figured you didn’t wanna talk. Headphones and everything. And to be honest, once I get going…” She gives Beca a self-deprecating smile. “It’s hard to shut me up.”

Beca lifts an eyebrow. “Feels like there’s a story there.”

“No story,” Emily chuckles. “Just several very uncomfortable dates.”

“Isn’t that sort of… the point of a date? To talk and get to know each other.”

“Yeah,” Emily scrunches her nose. “I guess it is.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “‘Kay, well. Fuck that then.”

Emily looks at her for a second, arms draped over the door of the washing machine. Finally, she shoots Beca a grin. “Nice to finally meet you, Beca.”