Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
WYATT
My whole sordid story, and that’s all he’s got to say?
“From you ?” I ask.
“Yeah. Are we beating him up? Yelling at her? Do you need backup? Or just a getaway driver?”
I have to force my gaze back to the road, because otherwise I will just stare open-mouthed at this beautiful man. I poured my mess all over him, and he didn’t even blink. Didn’t push me for details or explanations. Didn’t look at me like I was something he’d stepped in. Just asked me how he could help.
He’s such a good guy.
And I never should have dragged him into my disaster.
But he’s here, and the truth is I’m really fucking glad to have him on my side.
“To be honest, I’m not totally sure,” I confess, partly to him and partly to myself. Because since I texted Romy and told her I’d be at the show, I’ve refused to think about what that meant. What would happen when I got there. I just…said yes. Because I knew I’d have Owen by my side.
But now, staring at this seemingly endless stretch of rural highway, cornfields whipping by on either side as the sun glows orange and pink in the clouds, I actually consider it.
“I think I’m ready to listen to her,” I say, working out my thoughts as they come. “Not him. He can get fucked. But…I miss her. And I think I might have made a mistake back then, cutting her off.”
“Linger” by the Cranberries begins. The tape’s a little scratchy and tinny, but it works for the guitar, for Dolores O’Riordan’s haunting voice.
But Owen’s voice, deep and strong, cuts right over the vocals.
“I’ll follow your lead,” he says.
Just like Romy said in her text, when I pull up to security and give my name to the very beefy guard at the gate, we’re waved into a small parking area and escorted into the bowels of Lucas Oil Stadium, where a tall, broad-shouldered woman with platinum-blond hair, several dainty face tattoos, and a pink Nudie suit is waiting for us.
“The mysterious and elusive Wyatt Hart,” the woman says in a Southern-accented voice that is somehow both fizzy and syrupy. She holds out a tattooed hand. “I’m Sienna Walker, Romy’s manager.”
I like her firm handshake and the arrow tattooed just above her lethally arched right brow.
I don’t particularly like the way she eyes Owen like she wants a taste.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m not sure I’m particularly mysterious or elusive.”
Owen stifles a snort beside me, and I elbow him in the ribs hard enough that he gasps.
Sienna watches us, appraising, then lets out a deep, throaty laugh.
“I knew I was gonna like you,” she says, turning and gesturing for us to follow. “Romy’s in her dressing room. She goes on in fifteen, and she’ll play a thirty-minute set before that walking Mountain Dew bottle full of snuff spit goes on.”
Suddenly Sienna is my favorite person in the world.
The backstage area is cavernous and bustling like a train station, full of crew members wearing black clothes and earpieces like Secret Service agents and rushing around in a hurry. But that makes it easy to follow Sienna’s 1940s bouffant and sparkling pink figure through the crowd until we arrive at a closed door.
And just when I feel my heart start to pick up the pace like a marching band is making its way from my chest cavity into my throat, Owen slips his hand into mine. The warmth, the weight, the feeling of him puts me immediately at ease.
What do you need from me?
He just knows.
As soon as Sienna opens the door, my eyes go to Romy. How could they not? My ex–best friend lights up the tiny room.
Her fiery-red hair is somehow deeper, the curls cascading over her shoulder. She’s wearing a denim halter-top jumpsuit covered in rhinestones and a pair of silver-toed, bright red cowboy boots. And even though she’s bigger and brighter and just… more than I remember, she’s also exactly the same. The big green eyes that betray her every thought. The sliver of a gap between her front teeth that makes her smile slightly rascally. And her old Martin on a stand beside an old green velvet couch in the corner of the room. I know it’s the same guitar from forever ago because it bears a scratch down the body from the night a drunk hurled a pint glass at her during a set and I summoned pull-a-car-off-a-child energy and hauled him out of the bar with my bare hands.
“Hi,” she says, her eyes watering. “You came.”
Ever since her first text—hell, ever since I drove away from Nashville—I’ve imagined what I’d say if I saw her again. I tried to formulate something that felt true. Honest. As if I even knew what I felt. When everything went down with my mom, my laser focus turned to Hazel. There was no space for reconciliation.
I can’t believe I almost missed this.
And as soon as I see her and that guitar, the words come easy.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her, and it takes only a beat, one long, conspiring look between us, before we’re rushing to each other, crashing into a big hug almost nine years in the making.
“I’m so sorry,” she rasps into my hair.
“Forgiven and forgotten,” I tell her, and I mean it.
“I was so drunk, and he was?—”
“A bastard,” I finish for her.
She pulls back and dabs at her eyes before her thick mascara stars trailing down her rouged cheeks. “I slapped him as soon as you left.”
“I hope you left a mark,” I say, swiping at my cheeks, though it’s too late for my mascara.
Romy grins, grabbing my hands and squeezing them. “A good one. I was wearing that big old Masonic ring that belonged to my granddaddy.”
I return her squeeze. “That thing’s like brass knuckles.”
“I heard it took four stitches to close the cut on his cheek. They had to airbrush the scar on his album cover.”
“Good girl,” I say.
I lose myself in a momentary spiral of shame that I waited so long to have this moment, but I come out of it when I realize Romy is staring over my shoulder, eyes wide.
I forgot he was even here, but when I turn, there’s Owen standing behind me, hands in his pockets, relaxed and grinning.
Waiting.
Following my lead.
“This is Owen. He’s my…” And now, after the words of absolution came so easily, my brain just…short circuits. I have no words. Pineapple? Can I say pineapple?
But Owen just steps forward and shakes Romy’s hand. “I’m Owen. Pleasure to meet you, Romy,” he says, his voice warm and deep like a hot toddy on a cold night. “Excited to hear your set tonight.”
Fuck, he’s so good . Not pushing me. Not making me explain. My own personal safety net.
“Speaking of, we’re just here to see you,” I add. And like we haven’t missed a day, Romy fills in everything I don’t say.
“You don’t have to worry,” she says, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “He never leaves his green room before he goes on. There’s always a preshow tailgate full of whiskey and women. Sienna’ll show you where you can watch from the wings, and I’ll meet you offstage after.”
Then she pulls me in for another hug. “I missed you,” she says.
“I missed you too.”
Romy is incredible.
As good as I remember, maybe even better. She’s confident and sassy, her fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. She has an incredible rapport with her band, and she soon has the audience—who didn’t even come to see her and trickle in throughout her set—in the palm of her hand. She somehow manages to get them singing along to songs they’ve never heard before.
I watch the whole set from stage left, tucked into the wings beneath lights and rigging and next to the smoke machines I imagine will later obscure the fact that Griffin Stone can’t play guitar for shit.
And Owen stands with me, first beside me, then behind me so I can lean back into him, his arms wrapped around my waist. I like the feeling of being cocooned by him, the smell of his soap or detergent or cologne or whatever it is putting me at ease. Throughout the show he ducks his head every so often to whisper in my ear, just little comments like, “I’ve heard this one” or “She’s really good.” But it has the same effect as if he were whispering utter filth, his warm breath sending shivers up my spine. I just keep sinking further and further into him as the show goes on.
Romy finishes the song that I know is her biggest hit, the one I heard on the radio in Grace’s shop and that I’ve been covertly streaming on my phone here and there. Then she motions for the roaring crowd to quiet.
“When I was just starting out, I used to always close my sets with this last song,” she says, leaning into the mic and smiling like she’s got a secret. My heart leaps into my throat. When she glances to the left with a smile, tears spring to my eyes. “It’s been a long while, but I think it’s time to bring it back.” She unclips the capo from the head of her guitar and moves it to the neck. “A lot of you might know it, so feel free to sign along.”
When she strums the opening chords to “Can the Circle Be Unbroken,” I want to laugh and sob at the same time. Listening to the first verse is like time traveling out of the cavernous arena and directly back to the open mic nights in tiny bars, the gigs where she went on at two a.m., all the backyard bonfire singalongs. My lips move without me even thinking, and if the crowd weren’t singing along so loudly, they might hear me chiming in on the low harmonies, just like I used to back in Nashville. The song feels like a hymn, a prayer, one filled with gratitude for the return of my friend, for the fact that I’ve finally let myself hear her apology, accept the truth. It feels good to put down the grudge I’ve stubbornly carried for so long.
And having Owen here for this moment when the before and after of my life meet feels like opening a door inside myself and inviting him inside. It feels precious.
It feels right.
When the song ends, Romy slings her guitar around to her back and blows kisses to the crowd, then trots offstage and directly into my arms.
“Soon you’ll be on your own headlining tour,” I tell her. And I mean it. She was absolutely incredible.
“God, I hope so,” she says, fanning herself. “I know you want to get out of here before he goes on, but I have something for you. Wait here, I’ll be right back, ’kay?”
I nod and watch her move through the backstage area like it’s her home.
She’s only been gone for a moment when I feel his arrival like a summer storm.
When I turn, there he is.
Griffin Stone.
Exactly the same, but somehow smaller.
He looks like someone typed “country music asshole” into an AI generator. He’s wearing skintight jeans and a black Johnny Cash T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve, even though he’s never smoked a day in his life. Hell, he used to call the cops on the hipsters who smoked Spirits on the sidewalk outside our apartment.
My stomach curdles when he smiles.
Which is not what I want. I want to be a badass. To deliver a devastating line and leave him grasping. If I have to run into him, I want to win.
Instead I’m frozen.
“I knew as soon as I heard that old Carter Family song on the monitors that you had to be here,” he says, his eyes roaming up my bare legs. “Looking good, Wyatt.”
I can’t make my mouth move. I just let him stand there looking satisfied while he ogles me. The longer it lasts, the more paralyzed I become until I’m worried I won’t even be able to walk away from him. I’ll have to live here, rooted to this stage, for the rest of my life.
And then Owen leans in.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Owen McBride. And you are?”
I suck in a breath, watching as Griffin grits his teeth, barely hanging on to his smile.
“Griffin Stone,” he says with a bro nod, ignoring Owen’s outstretched hand.
“Sloane?” Owen asks, and I nearly snort out a laugh. It’s only by the grace of God that I manage not to grin.
Owen takes his hand back, wrapping it around my waist and bending to nuzzle me just behind my ear, knowing full well that it’s a spot that always makes me moan a little. I can practically feel his smile against my neck when the sound escapes.
In front of us, Griffin’s eyes cloud.
“Stone,” he replies through clenched teeth, his shit-eating grin now gone.
“Ah, right, the man of the hour,” Owen says. “Sounds like Romy got the crowd good and warmed up for you.”
Griffin’s eyes flash, but it’s less a warning than a malfunction. He looks like he’s desperately trying to come up with a comment that’ll put him back on top, but he can’t find anything.
“She’s great,” he finally manages to say.
“And how do you know my Wyatt?” Owen asks him, flexing his forearm around my midsection to pull me closer. Griffin’s eyes drop down to watch the way I settle my ass against him.
“We were together for three years,” Griffin says, and finally that cocky smirk is back on his face. He thinks he’s got me. That maybe Owen doesn’t know, maybe he’s exposed a lie.
But Owen just smiles, then drops his lips to my neck, brushing me with a gentle kiss. Then he looks back at Griffin, a smile on his face that I haven’t seen before. It’s…smug.
“And you let her get away?”
I don’t bother to hide my gasp, and I know Owen feels it in my belly when his hand flexes against it. He bends down again to sink his teeth into my earlobe, letting out a light chuckle.
“Lucky me,” he says, and it’s meant for me , not for Griffin.
Country music’s biggest douchebag clears his throat, looking anywhere but at us. “I gotta go get ready for my set,” he grumbles, then walks away, his brand-new thousand-dollar poser cowboy boots clomping across the floor.
“Break a leg,” I call after him, my voice finally returning.
“Or I could break your face,” Owen mutters as Griffin disappears into the darkness of backstage.
I spin and practically leap into his arms, laughing.
“Oh my god, that was the meanest thing you could possibly have done to him,” I say before planting a big sloppy kiss full on his mouth. “I loved every second.”
Owen gives me a hearty you’re welcome by slipping his tongue between my lips, a preview of later, and everything around us disappears in a haze of lust as I surrender my mouth to his.
When Romy returns, she has to clear her throat to interrupt our kiss.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, enveloping me in another hug. “I’d ask you to stay, but I have to do my stupid cameo during his big party song. But I’ve got a day off before Cincinnati. I could rent a car and drive down.”
“I’d love that,” I tell her. “I’m working tomorrow, but I’ll text you details.”
“Great. This is for you.” She hands me a little plastic case containing a mixtape, her familiar loopy script on the liner. “You know what they say—love is a mixtape. Hopefully you still have a way to listen to it?”
“Girl, I still drive my same truck,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“Well, that’s the soundtrack for your drive back,” Romy says, then smiles at Owen. “It was nice to meet you, Owen.”
“Same to you,” he says with that dazzling smile. “You were absolutely incredible.”
“Thank you,” she says, then turns to me and mouths I like this guy!
“Me too, Rome,” I say, as I lean into the firmness of his shoulder, letting him hold me up.