Chapter 18
Almost everything I try on fits, which feels like a small miracle.
I step out from behind the curtain with a grin tugging at my lips, arms full of folded denim, soft cotton, undergarments, and one particularly daring lace set I swore I wasn’t going to get until Sam looked at it like it might undo him.
Sherry looks up from behind the counter. “Everything work out?”
“Yeah,” I say, still smiling as I set the pile on the counter. “Somehow this place has everything I didn’t know I needed.”
Sam’s already there, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“I’ll pay you back once I get my card,” I say automatically, reaching for the clothes.
But he just shakes his head. “It’s a gift.”
My heart stutters, catching on the unexpected softness behind the words.
Before I can say anything, Phern swoops in and dumps a few extra items onto the growing pile. “Buy me a gift, too, brother.”
Liam follows behind her, tossing in a pack of socks and a neon orange hoodie that says GET BUCKED. “I like gifts.”
Sam groans, rubbing the back of his neck with a grin that’s equal parts exasperated and affectionate. “Jesus. I created monsters.”
Sherry’s laughing as she rings everything up, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Guess love really does make you generous.”
Sam glances sideways at me, his hand brushing against mine as he passes over a few bills. “She’s worth it.”
And just like that, I’m warm all over again. Flushed, yes, but something deeper too. Like I’m being chosen in a place I never expected to feel seen.
Sherry bags everything with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times, then waves us toward the other half of the building. “Bar’s open. Go on and get yourselves a drink while I finish tallying this circus.”
The four of us head to the other side of the room, which is darker and warmer despite sharing the same space.
There’s a fire crackling in a stone hearth near the back wall, and the wood-paneled bar is lined with mismatched stools.
A couple of locals sit nursing beers, cowboy hats tipped low, like they’re half-asleep or halfway to drunk. Maybe both.
Sam guides me to a booth near the window, and I slide in next to him. Phern and Liam veer toward the bar, already arguing about what kind of beer counts as “real beer.”
Sam watches them for a beat, then leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the top behind me.
“You always this good at shopping?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You made that look easy. ”
“I can’t remember the last time I found everything I needed that easily.” I pause. “Thank you.”
His expression softens, and something unspoken passes between us. A promise that doesn’t need to be said out loud.
A man appears and drops off two menus with a grunt.
Sam nods at him, then turns back to me. “So. Drink first, or food?”
“I could eat,” I admit. “But maybe a drink will take the edge off.”
“Edge?” He lifts a brow. “You nervous?”
“About going back to the real world?” I glance out the window at the quiet street beyond. “Terrified.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” And then, softer, “You don’t have to figure it all out today.”
I look back at him. “No?”
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together like it’s second nature. “No. You just have to be here. With me. Right now.”
For the first time since the satellite phone rang, I let myself believe that might actually be enough.
We each order a drink. Sam goes straight for whiskey neat, like he’s chasing something familiar. I pick something fruity and strong, a neon pink concoction with a sugared rim and a slice of pineapple skewered through a cherry.
“You’d drink that on a beach,” he murmurs with a smirk, watching the bartender slide it across the table to me.
“That’s kind of the point,” I grin, taking a sip. “It tastes like a vacation.”
He lifts his glass in salute, and we drink in silence for a moment, the low hum of the bar filling the space between us.
Then I ask, softly, “Why haven’t you written anything since your divorce? ”
He stills.
For a moment, he just stares into his whiskey like the answer might hide in the bottom of the glass. Then he grimaces, the movement tugging tight at the corner of his mouth.
“Long story,” he says, voice rough. “Sure you want to hear it?”
“Of course I do.”
He exhales slowly, dragging his fingers through his hair before beginning.
“Gwen and I… we were high school sweethearts. Met at fifteen, said ‘I love you’ at sixteen, lost our virginity in the back of a pickup at seventeen. Marriage just felt like the next logical step.”
He pauses, takes a slow sip.
“When I got my record deal, we packed up and moved to Nashville like we were living in a damn country song. Didn’t look back.”
“But real life’s not that simple,” I say gently.
“No, it’s not.” He chuckles, but there’s no joy in it. “Neither of us knew what life on the road would really look like. I was always gone. She resented that. I resented that she resented it. And instead of talking we just let the space grow.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He shrugs, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “It happens. And for a while, the pain made for good music. There was something electric about bleeding on the page. The label ate it up.”
His smile turns wry, bitter around the edges. “But eventually, the drama dried up because I just didn’t give a damn anymore. And so did the music. I couldn’t fake it. Couldn’t force it. ”
He leans back against the booth, the leather creaking under his weight.
“Record label started breathing down my neck. Sales tanked. My marriage was over. And what did my brilliant team suggest?” He lifts his glass again. “A tour.”
“You couldn’t do it,” I whisper.
“No. I couldn’t.”
His voice drops a little lower, quiet with memory.
“Got served the divorce papers in Montana in the middle of a festival, still sweaty from the stage. Signed ’em in Idaho. By the time I hit Oregon, I was single and pretending I was fine.”
I don’t speak. I just let him sit in it for a second. Because it’s not fine. And he deserves someone who doesn’t rush past that.
“And that’s when you started skipping concerts,” I say softly.
He nods. “I’d show up, stare at the stage, and feel nothing. Like the part of me that used to write and sing and feel had just gone dark.”
He turns toward me again, eyes searching. “I haven’t written a single song in almost three years. It felt like I’d lost a piece of myself, and I didn’t know how to get it back. Even being back at the ranch didn’t help.”
Then his gaze softens.
“Until now.”
My chest tightens, breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my heart. “Sam.”
He covers my hand with his.
“You walked into my life in a damn flood,” he says quietly. “Maybe you didn’t just wash everything away. Maybe you brought something back.”
My heart stutters .
“Sam…”
We’re still. His eyes lock with mine, warm and searching, like he’s trying to see all the way through me.
And I let him.
The words press against the back of my throat. I love you. They ache there, ripe and ready. But I swallow them down. Not because they aren’t true but because some words need the right moment to bloom.
Instead, I lift my glass and drain the last of my drink, setting it gently on the table.
“Let’s find a computer so I can let my boss know I’m alive.”
Sam blinks once, lips twitching with a smile that’s still soft from everything we didn’t say. He rises after me. “Alright.”
“And then,” I say, slipping my coat on, “I want to go home.”
He stills for just a second. “I see.”
I tilt my chin toward him, a slow grin spreading across my lips. “I don’t think you do. I want to go back to the ranch. That kind of home.”
A beat.
Then his face cracks open into something so pure it makes my chest ache.
“Darlin’,” he says, sliding his hand into mine, “I think we can make that happen.”
He pulls me gently to his side, presses a kiss to the top of my head as we step out into the crisp air, our boots crunching over the snow-packed sidewalk. The town may be quiet. But something between us is loud and clear.
We walk three buildings down, the cold biting at my cheeks, but I barely feel it with Sam beside me. The streets are still quiet, sleepy in that small-town kind of way, like nothing here ever moves too fast even when everything in you does.
The library’s front door creaks as we step inside. Another bell jingles overhead, and the scent of old books and lemon polish fills the air. It’s warm and quiet.
An older woman with silver hair pulled into a tidy twist looks up from behind a wooden desk. She beams the moment she sees Sam.
“Good morning, Sam,” she says, her voice honey sweet. “Who’s this?”
“This is Charlie,” he says, gesturing to me like I’m something precious. “And we’re hoping your internet’s working.”
“It is.” She pats the counter and begins her slow wobble around it, leaning heavily on a cane with a floral handle. “Let me get the old girl booted up for you.”
I smile, biting back a snort as she leads us toward a corner desk. The computer is ancient—cream-colored plastic, the monitor thicker than a dictionary, and a keyboard that looks like it’s seen generations of snack crumbs.
“I think I used this same model when I was in grade school,” I murmur to Sam as the machine lets out a low, grinding whir.
“Still runs faster than Phern before her coffee,” he whispers back, and I chuckle.
We wait in silence while the screen flickers to life one pixel at a time, and I glance at him, just watching him.
This is what life looks like with him. No red carpets. No urgent headlines. No pretending. Just an old computer, a friendly librarian, and a man who makes me feel like I could belong somewhere. Even here. Even now.
“There you go, dear.”
“Thank you.”
I settle into the worn, creaky chair, the padding thin and armrest cracked, but somehow it fits. Like everything in this town, it’s a little battered but still standing.
The computer takes its sweet time loading, the fan humming like it’s about to lift off. When my inbox finally appears, I groan. Four hundred and twelve unread emails. I stare at the number for a beat, then shake my head and ignore them all.
I click into my last thread with Frederick. Two replies blink back at me.
Char, The station expects an update by Tuesday.
-F
Char, Sorry to do this, but you’re being cut.
-F
No greeting. No explanation. Not even my actual name.
My chest goes tight for a moment, but it fades fast like I already knew this was coming, and it’s just the confirmation I needed.
I crack my knuckles and start typing.
Frederick,
Sorry for the delay in response. I was caught in a freak storm and just now have access to the internet. Sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused. I’ll clean out my desk when I return.
Best,
Charlotte
My finger hovers over “send” for a half second. Then I hit it. Clean. Done.
Before I can even turn to Sam, another reply pings into my inbox .
Char, Where are you again? Did that lead pan out?
-F
Seriously? I exhale slowly and type.
Frederick,
It did not.
Best,
Charlotte
P.S. My name’s not Char , nor has it ever been. That should have been my first sign that this job wasn’t right for me.
Send.
The weight that’s been dragging at my shoulders loosens. I turn in the chair, looking at Sam.
He hasn’t said a word, just stands there, watching me with that same steady expression he always seems to wear, like he knows I’ve got this but he’s here just in case I don’t.
His eyes search mine. “You good?”
I nod. For real this time. “Yeah. I am.”
Then I stand and slide my hand into his.
“Let’s go home.”