Chapter 11 Finn
FINN
SHE’S ALL THAT
The Breakaway—The player picks up the puck with open ice ahead, no defenders in the way—full speed ahead, no turning back. It’s pure instinct, adrenaline, and confidence that scream, “Hell yes, I’m going for it.”
Atlanta, Evening
I barely made it.
I caught the last few chords as I stepped into the back of the venue, heart racing— not from the sprint to get up the steps of the venue, but from her. From knowing she was here, somewhere up there, doing whatever it is one does on stage. She’s a country singer.
I spent the travel time researching her. She’s from modest beginnings. She’s almost too young for me, and she lives in Nashville.
I’m learning about my wife as the minutes tick by. I had to buy a ticket to get into the concert. Like what the hell? I have no idea who the headliner is, and I don’t care. All I care about is seeing Kate.
We have to figure things out. However, those thoughts leave me when I see her.
Kate. She’s a vision. The spotlights catch the shimmer in her dark hair, and she’s wearing the same boots as the night I met her. My chest swells with pride when she walks out on the stage.
That’s my wife. I want to shout it to the world.
She greets the audience, and the crowd claps and hollers. But when she strums her guitar and begins to sing, a hush falls over the crowd.
I’m mesmerized. Before I know it, she’s halfway through a song I didn’t know—hell, I don’t know any of them—but it doesn’t matter.
Because I can’t look away, she’s that powerful.
It’s like watching a storm roll in and wanting it to hit you.
Her voice wraps around the lyrics like she'd lived every single one, and the emotion in her voice makes me believe she means it. Her whole body moves in rhythm, her hips swaying, her head thrown back. She’s in the moment, and she’s incredible.
And God, I wasn’t a country fan. Never had been.
But tonight? I am.
Because of her, watching her like this—spine straight, chin up, with the crowd in the palm of her hand. I felt something hit low and deep, making my chest tighten and my gut ache.
I’m falling for her. Is it love? If so, it’s not the easy kind of love. Not the kind you fall into with someone simple or sweet or safe.
No. These feelings are the kind with sharp edges. The ones that bring the fire, pain, joy, elation, and heat. I want all of her. Even the part of her that keeps trying to run, even while I know she’s begging to be chased.
And I’d chase her, as many times as it takes, to convince her to stay and give us a chance.
Standing here, watching her perform as if she were born for it, I know one thing with absolute clarity.
I still want to be her husband for real.
And I meant what I said. I wasn’t too drunk to know what I was doing last night.
I’ve decided that dating hasn’t worked out for me, so why not dive in headfirst?
She hits the final chorus like she is daring the crowd to forget her. Her voice is bold, her eyes blazing. She’s all smiles and grit and that impossible mix of heartache and joy.
I can see her vulnerability, even though she does her best to hide it. But up there, her soul is bare.
The band behind her roars louder, the lights flare—and then her gaze sweeps the crowd and lands on me, in the front row, in the VIP area. She freezes for a second. I see the flicker of recognition behind her eyes—shock, disbelief, maybe a hint of panic.
Her mouth falters for half a second on a lyric she probably knew in her sleep. But then she catches herself and pushes through. The crowd didn’t notice. But I did. She tried to look away as if nothing had happened, but I know something did.
And for that one suspended moment, it was just the two of us in the middle of the arena. It was as if she were singing to me.
She holds my gaze like it hurts her to do it—and maybe it does. Perhaps it was easier for her when I was far away. She probably thought it was a mistake that she could forget.
And damn, it hits me hard.
Because I can see something in her eyes, it might be fear, the fire that consumed us, or parts of her she wants me to see. Especially those.
She might have run out on me, but I’m not going anywhere, not this time. She can fight like hell, but I’m not letting her go. She has to have feelings for me.
I snap pictures like a fan, and video her singing. What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t take a million photos of her?
But it’s more than that. She’s made me a lifelong fan with just one show. After her final number, I slipped past the crowd before the last chord faded, pushing through crew members and tangled cables like I belonged. Like the ache in my chest gave me clearance and a backstage pass.
Only one security guard gave me a hard time. I told him who I was, and he didn’t believe me.
“Then your wife should have given you a backstage pass,” he says. He is a large man with a Southern accent. I have to get to Kate. Then, I resorted to pulling out my phone and showing him the latest news, and I waited until the clip flashed to our wedding picture.
“Oh, I know you! Come this way.”
Finally!
He motions for me to follow him. He leads behind the stage, and I walk through the chaos of techs shouting. The gear was being packed up, and someone was yelling for a missing guitar—but all I could see was her door, and I knew I’d wait for however long it took for her to show up.
Because she’s the woman I came to see.