Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Today’s session is definitely a gonna-key-your-car country day.
So were the last four.
I scratch another line into my notebook, the pen digging into the page harder than necessary. The words angry and sharp, and everything I’m feeling. They won’t stop coming, yet none of them feel right.
“What’d that paper do to ya?”
I glance up to find Boone watching me from what I now know is his favorite armchair. It’s hideous—lime-green faux leather, worn and stained.
“The paper? Nothing. The man I’m writing about?” I huff. “Don’t even know where to start on that one.”
Boone looks deeply uncomfortable at the mention of anything personal. I swear he only thinks in song lyrics and chord progressions. Saying he’s not a great conversationalist is putting it mildly.
“Angry’s good. Means you still care enough to be mad. It’s when you stop feeling anything that you’re in trouble.”
He sounds like he knows that from personal experience.
“Play what you have.” He takes a swig of water. “Should probably see whether this is time well spent or if you should save it for your diary.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I swear there’s the tiniest twitch of his lips. He pulls his hat down to hide it just as quickly.
I adjust the guitar on my lap and start from the top. It’s sad. Angry. Sharp around the edges. The kind of song that fills the hollow space in my chest with something easier to feel.
When I finish, Boone’s quiet for a long moment.
“Well,” he drags the word out. “Someone really pissed you off.”
“You could say that.”
“That’s the second one this week.”
“Are you complaining?” I raise a brow. “You loved the last one. Need I remind you of Carrie Underwood’s breakout hit?”
“You sayin’ your boyfriend cheated on you?”
“No,” I huff. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Boone nods, slowly. “All right.”
How does he manage to put so much disbelief behind one word?
The silence stretches. I should let it go. Should get back to work. Instead, I hear myself ask: “What about you?” I tip my head at his left hand resting on his knee. “Why haven’t I met your wife? Husband?”
His eyes flick to the wedding band, then look past me. “Wife.”
I don’t know what gives me the nerve. Maybe it’s because I’ve been tiptoeing around Miles for days.
Maybe I’m desperate for actual human interaction.
Maybe I’m hoping our improved working relationship might develop into something close to friendship.
Whatever it is, I ask, “Does she work out of town? Where is she?”
His plastic water bottle crinkles under his grip. Then again. Like he’s testing how much pressure it can take before it cracks.
So much time passes, I don’t think he’s going to answer. His gaze stays fixed somewhere past my left shoulder, vacant. He doesn’t move a muscle. “Dead.”
The single word takes all the air out of the room.
“Oh, God.” I place my guitar on the couch cushion next to me and lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head and blinks back at me.
I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say that won’t sound empty.
“No bother.” He pushes to stand. “Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday with the first heartache song.”
He returns to the boards, tapping a few keys, and pulls up the track we’ve been working on.
“Boone—”
“Drop it, Summer.” He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “I said it’s fine.”
I swallow, then nod.
It’s hard not to think about what it does to someone, losing the person their whole life is built around. Now that I know more about Boone’s past, his attitude makes sense. His gruffness is camouflage for his grief.
I can’t help thinking how I’d feel in his shoes. What losing your other half does to a person. What losing Miles—
No.
We’re not together. We never were. We won’t ever be. He’s made that clear.
But I’ve been drifting through these days like something’s been taken from me, anyway. I’m grieving something that never even got to exist.
The silence in the room stretches. Boone adjusts levels on the board that don’t need adjusting. I pretend to review lyrics I’ve already memorized.
“Take five,” Boone offers, not unkindly. “Get some air. We’ll tackle the bridge when you get back.”
I think the request is more for his benefit than mine, so I grab my coat from the hook by the door.
Outside, the January air—the last day of it—bites through my layers. I pull out my phone more out of habit than hope.
No new messages.
It’s been a day since Miles left on the road trip. Part of me was relieved when he went. Three days of carefully maneuvering around each other after that night were more than enough.
I’ve sent him good luck texts before games—because I can’t have the loss of a whole team on my shoulders. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. He’s responded with his usual check-ins, too. Grace good? House okay? Recording going well?
Surface-level. Safe.
Both of us pretending that night didn’t happen, even though it’s set the tone for every interaction since.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and gaze at Boone’s Airstream in the distance.
At first, I thought he didn’t live in the giant mansion because he was mid-renovation, but I’ve been coming here for over a month and have yet to hear any construction noise or see another soul on the property.
I’m starting to wonder what his story is.
But after what just happened, I’m definitely not asking.
My phone buzzes.
My heart leaps. I can’t help it.
Mia:
Sooooo… Hannah kinda signed you up for an open mic. Cool? Right? Yeah.
I stare at the message.
Mia:
She also kinda invited everyone to come watch you perform.
Is Miles on that list? Jesus, that’d be awkward.
I haven’t told anyone about what happened. Because saying it out loud makes it real, and I’m not ready for that yet.
And I was raised not to share your business, especially if there’s even a hint of struggle. My mama used to say, “Keep it between you and God.” I used to think it was southern manners. Now I think it was pride, too. And I got both.
An open mic night isn’t exactly the place to work through… whatever this is. Come watch me play all these songs I’ve written about you…
But performing could be nice. A taste of my old life. And I can stick to covers—nothing new, nothing personal. Slip back into my old skin. Yeah. This could be good for me.
Me:
Okay, sounds fun!
Mia:
Was worried you wouldn’t be into it
Sunday, Feb 8th
That’s the day Miles gets home from this road trip, and the week after he leaves for 4 Nations.
“You gonna come finish this song?”
I turn to find Boone in the doorway, hands tucked into his Carhartt.
“Coming.”
Inside, I head to the booth. Boone cues up the track.
“Bridge,” he instructs. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Let the anger fall away, and allow myself to feel what’s underneath it.
The wanting. The missing. The way Miles looked at me that night—like I was everything he needed and everything he couldn’t have.
When I open my eyes, Boone’s nodding slowly.
“Good,” he praises. “Again from the top.”
I sing it again. And again. Until the words stop feeling like they’re ripping something open and start feeling like they might be putting me back together.