Chapter 27
The next morning, our plane touches down in Nashville just after noon.
The moment the wheels hit the tarmac, my stomach lurches with a combination of nerves and first-trimester nausea churning through me like a storm.
Tish, ever the rock, squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go until we’re safely off the plane.
“Breathe, babe. You’ve got this.”
Nashville in June is a humid dream. Sunlight filters through a haze that clings to your skin like a second layer. But I barely notice the heat. Not when every cell in my body is buzzing with one thought.
He’s here.
Sam’s here.
We check into our hotel downtown, just a few blocks from Broadway, the honky-tonk heartbeat of the city.
The venue he’s playing tonight is one of the older ones that’s a restored theatre with vintage red velvet seats and gold accents, chosen intentionally for the intimate setting of his farewell tour .
I can’t stop thinking about it. That I’ll be in the same room as him. Breathing the same air.
Will he see me? Will he care?
The afternoon passes in a blur of prep. Tish puts on music while we get ready, curling her hair and talking through outfit options. I barely speak. My mind’s too far ahead, already at the show and already searching for him in the shadows of the stage.
I pull on a pair of dark denim jeans and a rhinestone-studded tank top that clings just right to my curves. The sparkles catch the light every time I move, and I don’t miss the approving look Tish gives me when I step out of the bathroom.
“You look like heartbreak in cowboy boots,” she says. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I give a shaky smile and check my reflection one last time.
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Because tonight isn’t just a concert. It’s the first step back toward the life I want.
The air is warm, thick with honeysuckle and heat, the kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel electric.
Nashville breathes around us, its heartbeat strung across guitar strings and broken promises.
As we step out of the rideshare, Broadway is alive.
Neon signs blink and buzz overhead, casting pink and blue reflections across the pavement.
Music spills from every bar, every window, every corner of this city built on heartbreak and harmony.
But none of it matters.
Because my entire world is hanging above the venue door.
Sam Stone. His face, his name, his crooked smile printed large on a tour banner.
My breath catches as I take it in. That smile used to be mine.
Those eyes—half-hidden under the brim of his cowboy hat—used to see right through me.
A flutter starts deep in my chest, rippling outward until my whole body hums.
There’s already a line outside. Tish and I take our place, and my heart pounds. When the doors open, we file in and find our seats. Third row center, close enough that I’ll be able to see the stitching on his jeans. Close enough to remember how it felt when he touched me.
Inside, the lights are low and moody. The air buzzes with anticipation, like something holy is about to happen. I can barely breathe.
And then the stage lights flare.
And Sam walks out.
My heart stops.
He’s real. Alive and right in front of me.
Taller than I remembered. Still wearing the same flannel that used to end up crumpled on the floor of his bedroom.
His guitar is slung low, his hat tipped just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes.
But even from here, I can see the wear in his expression.
The weight in his shoulders. He looks older.
Tired. Like the months have been hard on him, too.
He steps up to the mic, adjusting the strap of his guitar, and the room explodes with cheers.
“Thank y’all for coming out tonight,” he says, voice like gravel and velvet. “This tour’s special to me.”
He pauses, soaking it in.
“As the name suggests, it’s my last one. So I figured, what better way to go out than by playing songs from the new album.”
More cheers. Screams. Someone yells, “We love you, Sam! ”
He grins, but it’s fleeting. Like his heart’s somewhere else.
“The first song I’m gonna play is for the girl who saved me before she even knew she did. This one’s called Wyoming Flood .”
My lungs forget how to work. Tish grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, her nails digging into my skin.
“Oh my god, Charlotte,” she whispers.
The opening chords ripple through the air, low and mournful.
And I cry.
Because it’s our story. Word for word. Memory for memory. The cold, the rain, the bridge, the way he held me like I was the only thing tethering him to the earth. It’s all there, wrapped in melody.
His eyes drift across the crowd, scanning faces. Searching.
I sit straighter, willing him to look. To see me. But the lights on stage are bright. I’m in the third row, and he looks right over me.
He doesn’t see me.
When the song ends, the crowd erupts, and Sam just nods. His jaw is tight.
“This next one’s called Makin’ Babies in the Barn ,” he says, with the ghost of a smile.
Laughter ripples through the room. My heart flinches. If only they knew how literal that title really was.
Song after song, he pours his soul into the room. Each one cracks me open more. They’re love songs. All of them. Honest, aching declarations. A record made from longing and regret and the kind of love that haunts a man. That haunts me.
And then, the lights dim again .
He clears his throat, fingers drifting across the strings.
“This last one. It’s the hardest one I’ve ever written,” he says softly. “It’s called Charlie .”
The breath rushes from my lungs.
The theater falls silent.
And he sings.
My name on his lips is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. The lyrics are soft, like a prayer whispered in the dark. About a lover who vanishes, leaving him broken. But it’s also full of hope. And love. So much love.
The sob escapes me before I can stop it. Silent, guttural, impossible to hold back. My hands cover my mouth, but the tears fall freely.
Because now I know. He never forgot me.
Every word he sings is proof. Every note is a piece of his soul offered up on stage.
He still loves me.
The final chord of Charlie lingers in the air, his voice echoing through every cell in my body long after the stage lights dim, and he disappears into the darkness. I sit frozen as the crowd cheers and stands. Some are wiping tears. Others are screaming for an encore.
But I don’t move. I can’t.
Because he just sang my name like it was a promise and now he’s disappearing backstage like I never existed.
Tish touches my arm. “You have to go.”
I nod, my legs shaking as I rise. “Stay here. I’m going to try.”
She grips my wrist. “Charlotte. Good luck.”
I make my way through the sea of bodies, heart pounding. My palms are damp. My throat is dry. I move with purpose toward the side hall marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” A burly man in a black T-shirt with Sam’s face on it stands in front of the backstage entrance, arms crossed, earpiece in place.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I just need a second with Sam. I mean—Sam Stone. I was with him before at his ranch in Wyoming, and?—”
“No backstage access without credentials,” the man says flatly.
“I know, I know. But I’m not a fan. I mean—I am—but not like that.” I laugh nervously. “We were together. He—he wrote that last song about me.”
His brow lifts. “Right.”
“I swear. My name is Charlotte. Charlie. I just need to talk to him. Please.”
The guard’s expression doesn’t change.
“No access. No exceptions.”
“Can you just tell him I’m here? That I’m waiting?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t pass messages. If he wanted to meet someone, he’d have it on the list.”
My heart sinks.
I stand there, staring at the steel door behind him like it might magically open. Like he might appear.
But the door doesn’t budge. And neither does the man guarding it.
I step back, throat tight, eyes burning.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
I turn around and walk away before the tears fall again.
Tish is waiting just outside the venue, clutching my purse and her own tightly against her chest. One look at my face and she knows.
“No?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t even know I was there.”
She opens her arms, and I fall into them .
“Maybe he’ll see the letter,” I whisper. “Maybe there’s still time.”
But in my chest, something cracks. Because I was so close I could feel his voice in my bones, but it wasn’t close enough.
We leave Nashville the next morning, catching a short two-hour flight to Oklahoma City.
The second we step outside the airport, Tish groans. “Oh my god. This heat is criminal.”
I snort. “This isn’t even peak summer. Wait until August.”
She fans herself dramatically, tugging at her neckline. “I need air conditioning before I combust.”
We grab the rental car, and I take the wheel. Oklahoma feels familiar but distant like a dream I once had and almost forgot. I drive Tish past my old neighborhood, the houses lined with pecan trees and sun-scorched lawns.
“That’s the one,” I say, slowing in front of a weathered blue house with chipped paint and a sagging porch. “My mom loved this house.”
“Do you miss them?” she asks gently.
I nod, watching the ghosts of memory flit across the lawn. “Yeah. Especially now. I keep thinking how thrilled she would’ve been about the baby. She would’ve gone overboard. Handmade booties and all.”
Tish reaches over, squeezing my hand. “They’d be so proud of you.”
“I hope so.”
We pass my old schools, the college in Norman, and finally the news station where I once thought my future was carved in stone.
“There’s a lot of history here,” Tish says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “But it’s not home anymore.”
We check into the hotel, the air heavy with something unresolved. I shower and hold up two tops. One sleek and black, the other bold and hot pink.
“Which one?” I ask.
Tish doesn’t hesitate. “Pink. You’re not here to hide.”