“Don’t fuck this up for him. He’s special—better and bigger than you and me and this whole podunk town.” He looks around the bar, and I can tell he doesn’t see the blood, sweat, and tears that go into keeping this place open. He doesn’t see the history inside these walls or feel the love they hold. He certainly doesn’t understand this town or how the people here are welcoming and supportive, even their gossip mostly coming from a place of love because they care about one another.

  But he sees what Bobby could be, and that’s all I need him to recognize.

  With that, he swallows the Johnnie Walker in one gulp, gives me a hard glare, and strides straight for the door.

  My eyes are drawn to the stage, to Bobby. He’s listening to someone in the audience intently. He nods, smiling, and begins one more song. An encore request.

  He sings Dig Down Deeper once more.

  It hits differently this time, seeming like a prediction.

  I’ll dig down deep, Bobby, so you can get yours.

  22

  BOBBY

  “Did Ilene make you dinner?” Something’s wrong with Willow, and food is always a good guess with any woman. I learned that from Mom and Shayanne early on.

  She hums in answer, though it’s a complete non-answer. She’s here physically, but her mind is somewhere else, her eyes unseeing and her smile nonexistent.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her body to mine, aligning us so that I can get her full attention. “What’s wrong?”

  She ducks her chin, avoiding my eyes. Oh, we’re not playing this game again, sweetheart. I chased you once, and if I have to chase you again to find out what’s going on in that pretty little brain of yours, I will.

  Tell me all your secret thoughts, I’ll protect them from harm. Let me into your private moments, I’ll share the solitude with you.

  I lift her chin with one hand, whispering, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did someone do something? Need me to crack a skull for you?” I’m joking—well, sort of. If someone did something to scare or piss off my girl, I will handle it and deal with any consequences that might come. But I was watching all night, barely able to take my eyes off her across the room, too far away for me to touch with my fingertips but hoping my words would reach her heart. But I didn’t see anything amiss, so I expect to get one of her soft smiles in return for the joke.

  One doesn’t come.

  She blinks behind her frames, only looking at me for a brief second as if the sight of me pains her.

  “Wait . . . did someone say something about me?” Considering my reputation and the lengths some people go to get a piece of me, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was banging on the grapevine a bit. “If so, it’s lies. Whatever it is. I love you, only you.”

  Her nod is of agreement but not resolution. She brushes her bangs back and sighs, “Can we go home? I’m fine, just tired.”

  Rule number one of women—when in doubt, feed them. Rule number two—‘I’m fine’ means they are most definitely, one hundred percent, not fine. But I don’t argue. If she doesn’t want to tell me what it is so I can fix it, I can at least comfort her through it so she knows I have her back.

  I pull her to my chest, holding her head against my heart, which is racing too fast with the need to punch something, someone, whoever made my girl sad. Since I can’t do that, I grip her waist a little tighter and lay soft kisses to the top of her head.

  “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. I got you.”

  The slightest jerk of her muscles is all the warning I get before she pulls away. I can see words on the tip of her tongue, dancing in those mood-ring eyes that are wilder than a thunderstorm right now. Whatever she’s thinking, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear it. Not now, not ever. Because I can see that this is not about a handsy tourist. Something’s wrong. And I like our little bubble of blissful happiness where all I need is her kiss, her touch, her heart, and everything is okay.

  “Yeah, let’s go. We can be at your place in five, in a bubble bath in ten.” I take her hand in mine, pulling her toward the door. I throw Hank a nod of goodbye. In the truck, Willow lays her head back on the headrest, looking at the starry sky through the passenger window. “Can we . . . go to your place instead?” She rolls her head my way. Though the question seems easy, the plea is in her eyes.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The ride through town is quiet, and the silence once we hit the country roads makes me want to scream. The deafening emptiness fills my gut with dread. Whatever it is, I don’t want her to say it. This dark void is better than whatever it is. I’m sure of it.

  Inside, we tiptoe upstairs so we don’t disturb Brody and Rix. I can hear my brother’s soft snores from the top of the stairs, and he’ll be up in a few hours to start the new day’s work.

  I pull off my shirt, dropping it to the bedroom floor. I unbutton my pants, but before I toe my boots off, I realize that Willow is frozen. She hasn’t moved from the doorway, and if she could make herself smaller, I think she would.

  I sink to the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair, gripping the strands hard in punishment. For what? I have no idea. With a breath for strength, I rest my elbows on my knees and look up at her.

  “Tell me, Willow.”

  She flinches at my harsh tone, but I’m too on edge to be gentle with her right now. I feel like she’s walking on eggshells for me, but I’m not capable of that the way she is. I’m more of a boot-stomping, destroy shit type.

  “You can’t do this.” It’s a cried plea, but I still don’t know what she’s talking about.

  I narrow my eyes, worried. “Do what, exactly?”

  She twists her hands, and I want to hold them in mine, stop her nervous fidgeting. Stop her mouth from whatever poison it’s filled with because even the smallest dose already burns with destructive force, ruining me.

  “You were amazing tonight. When I see you on that stage, you light up with this . . . joy. I can feel, the whole audience can feel, you letting us into your soul through the lyrics you write, the notes you sing, the chords you play. It’s beautiful. And after, it’s like your mind is peaceful, resting from the release. Almost like . . . sex.”

  “Thank you?”

  As difficult as words are for me, I can understand exactly what she’s saying. I feel that transformation with every performance—the progress from my skin feeling too tight to feeling at home inside myself. Like the show is a purging of all my emotions and a cleansing that allows the sunshine to wash through me.

  But as sweet as the words are, they don’t sound like the lead-up to anything good.

  “You need to go back to Nashville. Talk to Jeremy Marshall, talk to other agents, and play bars there. Whatever it takes. You need to chase that dream and not let anything hold you back. Not your family, not your responsibilities, not . . . me.”

  My jaw falls open. “What are you talking about?”

  “You can do it. Bobby, you deserve that deal. If anyone deserves their dream coming true, it’s you.”

  I have a moment of panic. She knows. How could she know? The only person I told is Mama Louise, and I know she wouldn’t have spilled. That woman’s mouth is a steel trap.

  “I didn’t get the contract. I told you that,” I growl, mad that she’s making me lie to her again. The lie is bitter, stinging my tongue, singeing my soul. I wish I’d never told it, but I couldn’t figure out another way to explain it to my family and Willow.

  Pain flashes in her eyes and tears instantly flow down her cheeks.

  Anger, hot and bright, washes through me. I’m mad at myself, furious at Jeremy for his stupid conditions, and hurt that Willow is digging into the wound I’m trying to let scab over.

  My voice is too loud, but I can’t hold it down. “Are you disappointed in me? Ashamed that I didn’t get the contract and am just a farmer who sings a little?” I’m used to arguing with my brothers, with Shayanne, who will rear right back up at me. Willow does not.

  Even smaller, she shakes her head. “No.” Her voice is weak and shaky. “Of course not. You’re⁠—”

  Reason fights its way through my blood roaring in my head when I see her reaction. She doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves and is tougher than she thinks she is, but not now. Not like this.

  Be easy with her, Bobby. For fuck’s sake, be a little gentle.

  I stand up, stepping toward her to take her arms in my hands. She needs to hear this and hear it loud and clear. Bending down so that I’m eye to eye with her, I spit out, “I love you. I want you. I want to be here, with you.”

  I hope it’s enough. It’s all I have, all I can offer—my heart.

  “I’m leaving,” she whispers.

  “What?” I shout.

  She licks her lips, eyes tortured. “I’m going home, back to the city.”

  “You can’t! What the fuck, Willow? Why?” Louder and louder, barked demands for answers pour forth. “Did Hank do something? Did he tell you to leave?”

  I push back from her, needing to see her, read her mind. Something, anything that will tell me what the fuck is going on.

  “Son of a bitch!” I scream. The pain of losing her is already rushing through my blood, superheating it to a boil. The fear of life without her is dark and heavy, its thick tentacles pulling me under. I instinctively resort to what I know, how I’ve always handled emotions that feel too big for my body to handle. I spin, throwing a punch at the wall. The sheetrock shatters beneath my fist.

  “Ahh!” Willow screams.

  I’m on the verge of an apology. I didn’t mean to scare her. I’m just frustrated and terrified and confused.

  But the door blasts open, hitting the wall behind the frame.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” Brody bellows, Rix right behind him in the hallway.

  “We’re fine,” I tell Brody. “Get out. This is between me and Willow.”

  “The hell it is. Not when she looks terrified and there’s a hole in the wall the size of your fist. What’s going on?”

  He’s stepping between Willow and me like he’s protecting her from me.

  From me!

  I would never hurt her. She’s the one ripping my heart out of my body with her bare hands.

  I move toward her, eyes glaring at Brody then softening when they meet Willow’s. I can’t help it. Even when she’s killing me, I love her.

  “Why? Why are you doing this? Willow, I love you.” I have no shame, will beg on my knees for her if that’s what it takes.

  If I can hold her in my arms, kiss her soft lips once more, she’ll understand and stay. I don’t know what else to say, but I can convince her if I can just touch her. She’ll feel how right we are. She’ll feel that bone-deep connection we had from the instant I laid eyes on her.

  “Willow.” I reach for her, and Brody lays a hand on my chest, stopping me.

  “Bobby,” he growls in warning.

  “Get off me,” I yell at him. Like so many times before, one second, we’re standing there as brothers, and the next, we’re fighting.

  Brody pushes me off him, but I come back madder. This hurts, everything hurts, and I need to make someone else feel this to get it out of my veins. It’s the only way.

  I punch Brody in the gut, and he grunts. His arm goes around my neck, not choking me but trying to control me. I spin in his grip, getting free. He’s ready, though, having taught me that move himself. Before I can even stand upright, his fist lands in my gut in a return shot.

  Willow screams in horror. “No! Don’t fight! I’m . . . I’m leaving.”

  I whirl on her, forgetting Brody in an instant. “No! Stay. Please.”

  Her tears break me, the shake of her head guts me, but the single step back she takes when I move closer is my undoing. “Bobby,” she whispers.

  “Willow?”

  Over her shoulder, she asks Rix, “Can you take me home?”

  “No, I’ll do it. We can talk this out. Please.”

  Rix shoots me a glare, but it melts. If she were capable of tears, I think she’d be crying now too. Fuck knows, I am. “I’ll take you, Willow. I’ve got her, Bobby.”

  Willow follows Rix down the stairs woodenly. It’s not until I hear the roar of Rix’s car that it hits me. Willow’s leaving. She’s actually doing it.

  I run for the stairs, busting through the front door to stop her. I don’t know how, but I’ll come up with something. There has to be some way to make her stay.

  But all I see are the red glow of taillights as Rix turns onto the street.

  “No!” I shout into the night.

  Brody is right at my side, just in time to catch me before I sink to the dirt in the front yard. “What the fuck just happened? Bobby?”

  I mutter, “What am I going to do?” The truth hits me so hard, I feel the world spin.

  I gave up everything for her! Everything.

  “Fuck it, I’m out of here.”

  “What?” Brody says, but I’m already gone. Running for my truck, I hop inside and grab the spare key from the visor.

  The trucks growls to life, and I spin out, leaving Brody in a cloud of dust behind me. I think I hear him call my name, but I don’t stop, don’t explain.

  I’ll fill him in later.

  Willow thinks I should go to Nashville and try to get a contract? Fuck that. I already have one. One I gave up for her. But if she doesn’t want me, I’m going to take it. Guess Jeremy’s getting his way, after all.

  Fuck.

  23

  WILLOW

  “Eff-why-I, do not, under any circumstances, go wandering by table twelve. They’re here solely to gawk and stare,” Olivia snaps loudly, fully intending for table twelve to hear her. Her ponytail swishes through the air as she throws a ‘dare you to say something’ look their way.

  “At what?” I ask, getting her drinks—three diet colas with a cherry juice splash, one club soda with lime.

  I’ve kept my head down all day so that no one will see how red and puffy my eyes are. They’re the most obvious consequence for spending last night bawling in my bathtub. I’d planned on soaking, letting the heat take away some of the pain of heartache, but I didn’t make it that far. I’d climbed right on in, still dressed in my work clothes, and curled up to cry for hours. At least the toilet paper had been close by so I could blow my nose. It’s red and irritated now too.

  But with my head down, my heart heavy, and my mind elsewhere, I have no idea what’s happening around me. I’m going through the motions robotically—read order, get glass, pour drink, set it out for Olivia.

  I do look up at Olivia’s words, though. Her eyes are popped wide open, her jaw dropped to catch flies. I glance at table twelve. I see four women dressed in their Sunday best, probably fresh from church and here for a late lunch. My lips stretch in a smile automatically, even though I don’t feel like smiling at all. The women flash back small smiles of pity before their heads nearly knock together as they whisper.

  About me.

  “You, obviously,” she confirms.

  “How do they even know?” I whisper, not bothering to pretend there’s nothing to know. There’s no use.

  Olivia leans in close. “Willow, you could’ve won at Hank’s poker game last night with how straight your face was after Bobby’s show. That was already fuel on the fire of ‘is Willow okay?’ and ‘what did that Tannen boy do now?’” She waves her hand in front of her face, staring vacantly. “And if that wasn’t enough to raise some concerns, Bobby’s truck was seen flying through town around three in the morning, not headed toward your house or his, and he was alone.”

  My stomach rolls. Did he already leave? So easily? And who was out at three in the morning to see him go?

  Tears threaten again, hotly stinging my lids, and I sniffle.

  “Oh, shit. Shit!” Olivia hisses. “Go to the back. Check the spreadsheets or whatever. Go, go, girl. Never let ’em see ya sweat or cry.”

  She’s so nice, giving me an excuse the way she does Unc when he needs a rest. Any reason to hide out for a little bit and pull myself together.

  “Thanks,” I manage to whisper. I wish I were strong enough to walk with my head held high, not caring about the nosy Nellies here to wallow in my misery. But I’m not. I virtually run for the office.

  I shut the door before the waterworks come, pooling in my glasses. I yank them off angrily, dropping them to the desk as my face floods with fresh tears.

  He’s gone.

  All it took was me giving him a nudge, and he left. That affirms how much he wants that life.

  I did the right thing.

  I know I did.

  It hurts right now, but in the long run, Bobby will have his deal and his dreams of filling stadiums, fans singing his music, and living like a country superstar, and it will be well worth this pain. That happiness—his happiness—will make this pain seem insignificant. I hope.

  I’ve got today’s shift to get through. After that, I can spend the entirety of Monday breaking down and no one will be the wiser. I promise myself a full twenty-four hours of tears, ice cream scooped straight out of the pint with bark-thin chocolate as a makeshift spoon, and an actual hot bath. For now, I swallow down my loss, wipe my face, and steel my nerves.

  Hours later, I’m doing okay, mostly passable as a ghost thanks to Olivia’s help.

  She’s running interference for me, shooting daggers at customers if they aim for the bar and shooing them to tables so they can’t pester me with questions. She does let Richard sit down in his usual spot, but thank goodness, he doesn’t say a single word about my red eyes or hanging head. In fact, I think he might be planted there as a buffer for anyone who gets past Olivia.

  “Keep ’em coming, Willow. Draft and water back, please.”

  I nod, getting his usual.

  Still, I can feel the town’s eyes, hear their whispered questions, taste their hunger for gossip. I want to hide, be invisible again.

  Maybe going back to the city is a good idea?

  I’d said that last night as a push to get Bobby to go to Nashville, not actually intending on doing it. But there, I get lost amid the sheer volume of people. Nobody knows me, my name, or my business. I can be outside everything, photographing it as an observer without getting involved. Without getting hurt.