JENSEN
After a nap, during which Sloane and I did not sleep, a shower, and mediocre Chinese carry out, we head a half hour north of the lake to a town that’s tucked into the mountains like it got lost on its way to somewhere more important.
There are a few low-slung storefronts with western fonts on their signs, and the bar Cody found sits at the far end, sandwiched between a bait shop and a bakery.
“Are you sure about this?” Sloane asks as we approach the entrance. She looks between Cody and me. “Because there’s no chance of you two not being recognized if there are any country music fans in this place.”
“Don’t forget, I’m the one who’s young and famous,” Cody says, executing a fancy two-step move on the sidewalk that I will not, under any circumstances, compliment.
I pretend to study the entrance. “I’m sure about going in, but not at all sure this one’s head is gonna fit through the door.”
“I’ll manage.” He turns and grasps Sloane by the arms like he’s about to hand her the final rose. “You have to promise to rescue me if my mojo is overwhelming to the ladies.”
“Oh, Christ,” I mutter.
She grins. “What’s the sign?”
He pantomimes shooting a gun.
“Are you gonna add pew pew sound effects?” I ask.
He frowns like I’m the one being an idiot. “I think she can get the message without sound effects.”
“When have you ever wanted or needed rescuing?” I shake my head. “Scratch that. You’ve needed it plenty. Never wanted it.”
“Don’t worry, boss.” He gives me an exaggerated salute. “I’m gonna stick to water, just like I promised.”
“I bet you’re the life of the party stone-cold sober,” Sloane tells him.
“The life of your party whenever you’re ready to trade up,” Cody promises.
I flip him the bird then wink at Sloane and hold the door open for her.
The place is fuller than I’d expect for eight o’clock.
Christmas lights loop the ceiling in uneven rows, and the dance floor at the back is empty and dark for now.
It smells like spilled beer, old sweat, and peanuts, which is familiar, although not my favorite.
But Sloane is smiling, so all is right with the world as far as I’m concerned.
“Speaking of water,” Sloane says, “I had too much at dinner. I’m going to hit the ladies’ room.”
“We’ll grab a table,” I tell her.
As soon as she walks away, Cody smacks the side of my head.
“What the fuck was that for?”
“Knocking sense into you, old man.” He shakes his hand like the impact hurt him more than me. “You can’t keep avoiding reality forever.”
I rub the spot where his palm connected and lead us toward a table in the back. Nobody pays us much attention. Cody’s wearing a baseball hat pulled low and, for once in his life, isn’t making eye contact with every woman in the room, which feels like a Christmas miracle in August.
“I’m not avoiding anything,” I say.
“Then it’s time to tell her you’re stupid in love with her,” Cody says, as if those words don’t carry enough force to collapse a building.
I pull out a chair and sit, heat burning under the collar of my flannel shirt. “I haven’t known her long enough to be in love.”
My heart calls me out on the lie as it hammers inside my chest. It’s a protest that no amount of logic has been able to quiet. Not since the morning I woke up with her plastered to me in that tent and thought, I am so far gone.
“The song you wrote after knowing her for two nights tells a different story.” Cody drops into the chair across from me. “I mean, I’m sure she has a clue with those sappy-ass lyrics.”
“She still doesn’t know I wrote it,” I say quietly.
Cody recoils like I just bragged about kicking puppies. “Are you joking? We need to tell her. Because sap aside, that’s a mic drop song, you silver fox.”
“I have a few gray hairs, asshole,” I mutter. “But there’s another reason this can’t work out.”
“Because you’re ancient?” Cody scoffs. “Age is just a number.”
“Yeah, and the number is too old for her.”
“Okay, let me get this straight.” He leans forward on his elbows and taps a finger against his scruffy chin. “You’re not too old to fuck her, but you are too old to admit your feelings for her.”
My jaw tightens, and I seriously consider breaking his finger, except the powers that be at the record label might actually kill me. “Don’t use that word when you’re talking about Sloane. It’s disrespectful.”
“Call it making love,” Cody says in a singsong voice, “but there we are, right back to the problem of you being a chicken shit.”
I want to argue. To tell him he’s a twenty-two-year-old kid who doesn’t know the first thing about what love can cost you.
But the truth is, he’s dropping dimes with more clarity about the situation than I’ve managed in weeks.
The fact that a kid who still puts ketchup on his eggs can see it makes me feel like an idiot.
A snowball’s chance I’m admitting that now. “Don’t you have some unsuspecting superfans to seduce?”
He leans in again. “Is this because of your mom?”
My mouth falls open. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?”
“I mean—” He has the decency to look like he knows he’s overstepped, but not enough to stop. “You took care of her when she had cancer, and Sloane has—”
“I don’t have mommy issues,” I say on a growl.
“Okay, then.” He holds up his hands. “Stop being a pussy.”
I’d laugh if it wouldn’t encourage him to keep going, but there’s no denying the kid has a talent for driving a blade straight through the bullshit and into the nerve underneath.
I’ve made peace with my mother’s death, but Cody isn’t wrong either.
I’ve spent the two decades since we lost her building my identity around being useful.
By offering up whatever I had. My guitar, my connections, my time…
My back when heavy things needed lifting.
And Sloane scares me because she doesn’t need or want any of that. She made it clear from the first time I met her that she isn’t looking for a fixer.
If she doesn’t need what I have to give her, then she’d have to want me for—what? Just me? The forty-year-old one-hit wonder with too much gray in his hair and a lifetime of taking care of other people because it was the role that made the most sense?
I can’t wrap my head around that part. It isn’t about loving her. I’ve been crystal damn clear on that since Montana. But what if who I am, stripped of everything I do for people, isn’t enough?
“Gotcha.” Cody grins and smacks his palm on the table as Sloane slides into the chair beside me. Between us, technically, but she angles her body toward mine, and the heat of her shoulder brushing my arm sends a jolt of need straight through me.
“What did I miss?” she asks.
“Nothing,” we say in unison.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s convincing.”
A waitress appears at our table. She’s in her mid-thirties with bright red hair pulled into a high ponytail and a pen tucked behind one ear.
“What can I get you folk—” Her gaze lands on Cody, green eyes widening. “Did anyone—has anyone ever told you that you look like—”
“You should hear me sing,” Cody croons.
The waitress’s gaze swings to Sloane.
“Yeah, it’s him,” Sloane confirms.
The woman’s sparkly-shadowed eyes track toward me. “I know you, too. I just can’t place you.”
“We’ll have a round of Sprites,” I say with a polite smile.
She looks like she wants to say more, but nods and moves off, squinting at me over her shoulder.
I stare at the table and try to corral my thoughts, which is a losing battle with Cody’s words ricocheting through my brain.
Stop being a pussy.
As if the thing preventing me from telling Sloane how I feel is cowardice and not the bone-deep certainty that loving a person means potentially losing them, or worse—losing them after watching them suffer.
Except that’s exactly what it is. Dressed up in legitimate fear, sure, but still cowardice at its core.
Cody gestures toward the section of the bar with pool tables and darts. “Looks like we’ve got a minute before the dancing starts.” He aims a finger at Sloane. “How are you at pool?”
“Terrible,” she says.
“Great. Wanna be my partner?”
She glances at me, a question in her eyes.
“Good luck,” I tell her.
“I don’t know which one of us needs it more,” she answers.
I do, I think. But I keep it to myself.
They head toward the pool tables, Cody explaining some elaborate trick shot he claims to have invented. Sloane is laughing before they reach the table, her head tipped back, and the tenderness that ripples through me is almost painful.
The waitress returns with three Sprites and sets them down.
“I loved your song,” she says.
I’m still watching Sloane. “Thanks.”
“I kept waiting for a follow-up album.”
“Not my path,” I say with a shrug.
“Cody Cassidy is awesome.”
“He’s talented,” I agree.
“And single?” she asks with a smirk.
“Yeah.”
“And you?”
I pull in a quick breath. Across the bar, Sloane bends over the pool table, lining up a shot. Cody shakes his head at whatever she’s doing wrong, and she is clearly ignoring his advice, which is one of about a hundred things I love about her.
“No,” I tell the waitress. “Not even a little.”
She nods, unbothered. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
A way to tell the woman I love that I’m in love with her, I think as she walks away. That would be helpful.
I sip my Sprite and keep watching them play. Sloane is legit terrible, but she laughs and nudges him with her elbow every time he tries to correct her grip. She even sends the cue ball bouncing off the table at one point. Cody’s outrage drowns out the jukebox, which clearly delights her.
Oh, yeah. Every single version of this woman I’ve seen since Nashville has leveled me, but carefree Sloane in a dive bar outside of Tahoe might be the one that finally does me in. I want to bear witness to her being this unguarded for the rest of my life.
I’ve spent twenty years thinking my value was in what I could do for people. Play a song. Mentor a kid. Sit by a bedside. I built an identity around being needed, because it’s the kind of connection I’m good at.
My mother needed me. Jamie needed me. Cody needs me. As long as someone needs me, I have a reason to exist.
Sloane doesn’t need me, and the fact that she lets me stay anyway carries a meaning I’m only now beginning to appreciate. She’s not keeping me around because I’m useful. She just wants me here.
Which is a revelation in and of itself. What if I’ve been enough this whole time and too afraid to believe it?
The DJ comes on around nine, and the dance floor fills with locals and tourists who’ve had enough drinks to stop worrying about their footwork.
When Sloane comes back to the table, flushed and grinning after another loss, I feel my chest crack open so fast and wide there’s no first-aid kit in the world that could patch it.
“We lost again,” she announces, taking a long drink of her soda. She looks delighted. “I bet you’re good at pool.”
“I’m not bad.”
“You’re good at everything.”
Not figuring out what happens next. Not finding the words to ask her if I can keep being a part of her life after we leave this place.
“Let’s dance,” I say instead.
I need her in my arms. To stop thinking and just feel her hand in mine, her lavender scent surrounding me, and the way we fit together that’s everything good in my life. I want to hold her in front of this bar full of strangers and not pretend she’s temporary.
“I should warn you,” she says as I stand and offer her my hand, “I’m worse at dancing than I am at pool.”
“Oh I remember,” I tell her.
“Then you can’t want to...”
“I do.” I lead her to the dance floor and draw her against me, one hand settling on her lower back and the other holding hers against my shoulder.
The song is some up-tempo pop number I don’t recognize, but I ignore the beat and sway slow.
I couldn’t give a shit about the music. All that matters is the woman in my arms looking up at me with those blue eyes that have been undoing me since a bar in Nashville fourteen months ago.
She steps on my foot. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She steps on the other one. “I warned you.”
I laugh and pull her closer, leaving no space between us. She rests her cheek against my shoulder, and my heart has never felt lighter.
Before she got sick, my mother used to dance with Jamie and me in our tiny kitchen. She was a great dancer. Always said you couldn’t fake it on a dance floor.
I’m not faking a thing.
Cody catches my eye from across the room, leaning against the bar with a grin that says I told you so louder than any words could. I shake my head at him, but I’m smiling. He gives me a thumbs-up and then turns away.
“Jensen?” Sloane’s voice is muffled against my shirt.
“Yeah.”
“This is nice.”
I press my mouth to the top of her head and breathe her in, and the ache in my chest isn’t pain anymore. It’s the feeling of a door creaking open in a heart that’s been shut up too long.
“It is,” I say.
The longer we dance, the worse she seems to be at it, and I don’t care. She trips over her own feet during the “Electric Slide” and grabs my hands to steady herself. When she looks up at me, grinning and gloriously imperfect, I understand with total clarity what I’m going to tell her.
I’m hers, and she’s mine. And I’ll love her forever.
I won’t say it tonight in this bar. I’m not that much of an idiot. But soon. Cody’s right. I’ve been a coward, and Sloane deserves more than a man who hides behind usefulness because he’s afraid of being seen.
She deserves someone who shows up with everything he is. The mess and the music and the fear and the feelings that have been building since the first night I heard her laugh in that booth at The Alcove and thought, Oh. There you are.
As the song changes to a slow one, she melts against me, and I hold her tighter.
“For the record,” she murmurs, “I’m glad you came to Tahoe.”
“For the record,” I say, “there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
In this moment, I feel more at home than I have in years. Because home was never a place. It was always going to be her.