Luke #2
My chest hurts. My skin feels too tight. I want to say I’m leaving. I want to say okay, okay, I’ll go. Instead, my manager speaks, like he can’t help himself. “Luke,” he says, “we don’t have much time. They’re expecting you.”
Noah’s stare turns murderous, and something in me, something ugly and stubborn... bristles.
Because I hate being told what to do.
Because I hate feeling cornered.
Because I hate that Bailey’s success has made me feel small in rooms where I want to feel large.
I hate it.
And I hate myself for hating it.
Noah’s phone buzzes, he looks down and then back up at me.
“I’m leaving.” he says, "and you should go to Luke."
He starts toward the door and I grab his wrist.
“Noah...”
He yanks his arm free.
“Don’t,” he says.
He’s gone before I can fix it.
The door shuts and the silence that follows is so loud I can barely breathe.
Dave exhales like he just won.“There,” he says lightly. “Now we can focus.”
I stare at the door Noah walked through.
My throat burns as Dave claps my shoulder.
“This is how it works,” he says. “You make sacrifices. You take the opportunity when it’s offered. You can’t be sentimental about it.”
Sentimental. Like my wife isn’t real. Like my family isn’t real. Like Sadie’s wedding is a minor detail.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
“Fine,” I say, because the word is easier than the truth.
Dave smiles. “That’s my guy.”
My world feels like it's spinning. I blink again, trying to push past the ache in my chest, my past mistakes and focus on Noah.
“What day is it?” I repeat, louder now, because the panic is rising.
Noah steps closer, and I see it, how exhausted he looks. How wrecked.
“How many days did you lose?” he asks.
My stomach twists.
My head spins.... I clamp my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
I blink again and I am backstage… it’s a blur of bodies and heat and sound. Hands clap my back. Drinks appear in my hand like magic. Someone presses a shot into my palm and I take it without thinking, the burn a clean line down my throat.
I tell myself it’s to calm my nerves and not to quiet my guilt. I tell myself I deserve one night where I don’t feel like I’m failing. I don’t let myself think about Bailey in a barn surrounded by wildflowers and twinkling lights, or Sadie walking down an aisle without me there to see it.
A band member, someone I’ve known for years but never really known, leans in close, breath reeking of whiskey.
“You look tense,” he says, like it’s funny.
“I’m fine.”
He smirks, pulling something small from his pocket.
“Here,” he says. “This’ll take the edge off. Everybody does it. Not a big deal.”
My stomach tightens.
I should say no.
I should say no like Bailey would want me to.
I should say no like Noah would demand.
But my chest feels like it’s full of broken glass and my thoughts won’t stop looping.
I can still fix it. Bailey will understand.
I take the pill.
It dissolves under my tongue and the relief comes fast. Too fast. The guilt blurs at the edges.
The noise gets softer as my body loosens, and when someone offers me another drink, I take it.
When someone offers me another pill, I take it.
Because now I’ve started, and stopping would mean feeling everything again.
A voice pulls me from the moment, from the memory and I feel like I am floating and falling all at once.
"Luke... what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you on something?"
I groan and push the heel of my palms into my eyes.
"I...."
Fuck.
I am falling…
The party is exactly what Dave promised. It’s not a room, it’s an ecosystem. VIP wristbands, velvet ropes, faces I’ve seen on billboards and award stages. Country royalty laughing like they’ve never cried in their lives. People who smell like money and power.
I should feel out of place, instead, I feel… hungry.
A producer shakes my hand and says my name like it matters. A writer I’ve admired for years claps my shoulder and tells me I’ve got something special. A woman in a glittering dress leans in and says, “You’re gonna be huge.”
Huge.
That word hits something deep inside me. Because Bailey is already huge, and I want to be huge beside her. Not behind her or held up by her. Beside.
Someone hands me another drink and laughs too loud. Another says Kacey’s name and she appears like she’s been summoned, her hand landing on my arm again, her body too close.
“You’re killing it,” she says, eyes bright. “They’re all talking about you.”
Talking about me.
My manager grins from across the room, like this is the moment he’s been building toward.
And I let myself float in it. Because it’s easier than going back to my hotel room and facing the fact that my wife is somewhere else. It’s easier than admitting I chose this over her. Because if I keep moving, I don’t have to feel the weight of what I didn’t do.
I hear Noah again and I try to latch onto his voice, to the present.
“I...” I swallow. My mouth tastes like poison. “What day is it?”
Somewhere in the middle of the night, or maybe the end, or maybe the beginning again... my phone buzzes. At first it’s just one notification, but then it’s another. Then my screen lights up over and over, a relentless pulse. I squint at it like it’s too bright to look at.
A video of Bailey. My Bailey. She looks beautiful, but she always does.
My stomach drops so hard I think I might be sick.
I click it.
The audio loads and then her voice fills the space, warm, raw and achingly familiar. She’s on a small stage, string lights behind her, holding a guitar like it’s an extension of her body. People are quiet. Phones are out. Her eyes shine in a way that makes my chest ache.
She’s singing a love song.
Our love song.
The one she wrote for me.
The one she used to sing late at night when we were young and broke and stupidly sure the world couldn’t touch us.
Her voice is steady. But I can hear it, beneath the melody, beneath the lyrics. I can hear the pain, the hurt. My throat tightens, my hands shake and suddenly the room isn’t fun anymore.
Suddenly the lights feel like knives.
Suddenly the laughter sounds grotesque and then it’s like I’m underwater.
I take the drink.
I take the pill.
Because if I stop, I’ll feel her voice in my bones and I won’t survive it.
After that, time stops behaving.
It stretches and snaps.
It disappears entirely.
Hotel rooms blur into after parties blur into backstage corridors. I wake up with my mouth dry and my head pounding and no memory of how I got there.
My phone is dead more often than it isn’t.
My hands shake.
My skin feels wrong.
I lose hours. Then days.
I tell myself I’m fine, that once I get home, I’ll fix everything. But home stops being a place I’m moving toward. Home becomes a word I can’t say without choking.
I feel like I am going to be sick. I try to move, to focus on something, anything.
“It’s your anniversary,” Noah says, voice like stone. “It’s Bailey’s birthday.”
The words don’t make sense. No.
What day is it? How did I lose so much time?
They come to me in pieces.
The wedding.
The choice.
The show.
The guilt…
Anniversary.
Birthday.
Bailey.
My stomach drops.
I sit up too fast and the world sways.
“No,” I whisper. “No... no, that’s not...”
Noah’s eyes burn.
“You missed the wedding,” he says. “You missed everything, and then you disappeared. Do you know what Mom looked like? Do you know what Sadie looked like? Do you know what Bailey...”
“Where is she?” I choke.
Noah’s laugh is bitter. “You don’t get to ask that.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“You don’t deserve to know where she is.”
My chest tightens.
I fling my arm across the bed, searching, searching… I look around the room.
My phone is on the floor, plugged into nothing.
My hands shake so badly I fumble the charger twice before I get it in.
My mouth is so dry my teeth feel wrong.
I stumble to the mini fridge, grab water, gulp it too fast, choke, cough.
“What day is it?” I whisper again, like if I keep asking I can rewind time.
Noah watches me with disgust.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You really don’t even remember.”
A knock at the door.
Three sharp knocks.
Noah’s head snaps up and he moves to answer before I can.
The door opens, as the room spins…
Why is the room so bright?
A man in a suit stands there with a large envelope.
“Luke Carter?” the suit asks.
Noah’s jaw tightens, pointing in my direction. “That’s him.”
The man’s eyes flick to me, taking in my state, the wreck of the room.
“I need a signature,” he says, holding out a clipboard.
“What is this?” Noah demands.
I don't hear what he says, my stomach drops again. I fumble toward the door, still foggy, still blinking like I’m underwater.
“What day is it?” I rasp again, like a broken record.
Noah’s eyes flash. “Sign the damn thing.”
My hand is shaking so hard I can barely hold the pen.
I sign.
The man nods once, professional. “You’ve been served.”
He hands over the envelope and leaves.
The door shuts.
The room goes quiet.
I stare at the envelope like it’s not real.
Like it’s a prop.
Like if I don’t open it, it can’t hurt me.
Noah’s voice is low. “Open it.”
I swallow hard.
My hands shake.
I set it on the table like it might explode.
I don’t open it.
I can’t.
Because my brain is still stuck on the date.
Our Anniversary.
Her Birthday.
Bailey.
A burst of panic makes my skin go cold.
My phone finally flickers to life.
And then it starts screaming.
Notifications. Alerts. Messages.
What is going on?
Dave bursts into the room and I flinch at the noise.
“Turn on the TV,” he says, breathless. “Now.”
Noah glares. “Get out.”
My manager ignores him, grabs the remote, flips channels fast. A broadcast loads.
A stage.
A crowd.
Jackson Reed.
My stomach twists.
Jackson grins into a microphone like the world belongs to him.
“Y’all ready for something special?” he says.
My heart hammers.
Dave leans toward the screen, excited. “This is huge. This is exactly the kind of event we need you at next year.”
Next year.
Dave and Noah argue, but my brain is trying to catch up. I feel like I am missing something...
Jackson lifts a hand.