18. Bailey
bailey
. . .
The last leg of the tour feels different. It’s hard to pinpoint why, it isn’t louder or bigger. Just… settled.
Every show is sold out now. There are no more dates to add, no last-minute schedule changes to squeeze another city in.
Rachel shut that down weeks ago. This run is contained.
Finite. After this, there will be press, a few appearances, obligations that live on paper instead of stages, but the tour itself is ending.
I know exactly how many nights I have left.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not counting them like I’m running out of oxygen.
My social media manager, Brandy, has been gently persistent about behind-the-scenes content.
Nothing invasive, just moments that are real.
Coffee cups on the bus, soundcheck laughter and blurry photos of stage lights before the crowd comes in.
Fans love it, she says. They want to see me, not just the performance.
So I let her do her thing, it is hard not to get into what she is doing with her quirky infectious personality.
Morning light slants through the bus windows in pale gold, catching the steam curling up from mugs. Someone always has coffee going before I wake up. Today it’s Jackson.
He’s sitting at the small table near the front, long legs folded awkwardly, one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug that definitely didn’t come with the bus. He looks… normal. No stage presence. No legend aura. Just a man in a worn T-shirt, hair still damp.
“Tea?” he asks, lifting the second mug when he notices me hovering.
I blink. “How did you know?”
He smiles, as he shrugs, saying, “I’ve noticed you prefer to drink tea. You only drink coffee when you’re running on steam… or when someone offers it to you and you are being polite.”
That makes me laugh, but a pain stabs at my chest from the thought that he paid attention enough to notice and yet…
Pushing that thought away I sit across from him, the bus humming softly beneath us as the driver pulls onto the highway. For a few minutes, we don’t talk. We just sip and stare out at the passing landscape. Flat stretches of road. Low buildings. The slow waking of another city.
“Is this always what you wanted?” he asks eventually.
I think about it longer than he probably expects.
“Yes,” I say. Then, “No.”
Then I shake my head. “Not like this.”
He waits, he’s good at that. Not filling silence just because it exists.
“I wanted to sing,” I say finally. “I wanted to write. I wanted… music. But I didn’t picture arenas or charts or headlines. I pictured people. Small rooms. Choir risers. Anywhere that felt like being heard instead of watched.”
He nods like that makes sense.
“My parents died when I was young,” I continue, the words steady now, practiced in the way only old truths can be. “Before that, they weren’t really around. When they were, they weren’t present. My sister… she stepped in. She raised me, protected me.”
I swallow, warmth pressing behind my ribs.
“The Carters were the first place that ever felt safe outside of Sadie. They bought me my first guitar. My first piano. Encouraged me in ways no one else ever had.”
He glances at me. “So you and Luke really did grow up together?”
I nod. “Trailer park and a small bungalow a few streets over. Same school. Same age. Once I met him, he was… everything. I was shy. I sang whenever I could, choir, assemblies, but I didn’t put myself out there. He did that for me. Pushed me. Believed in me before I believed in myself.”
I smile faintly. “We used to sneak into bars. Play for tips. We were so excited the first time someone paid us twenty dollars to sing.”
Jackson smiles and waits for me to continue.
“He came up with the Nashville idea,” I say.
“Or maybe I did and he refined it. Hard to remember. We wanted enough money to take care of our families. To give them something better. That dream… it grew. Took on a life of its own.” I pause, trying to separate the words from the raw feelings they evoke.
“So the day I turned eighteen, we got married at the courthouse near our town. Hopped in his truck and drove straight to Nashville.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “Did you reach the dream?”
I don’t hesitate. “Our families did.”
That feels like the truest answer I’ve ever given. I pull my phone out and show him pictures of the property. The orchards. The rebuilt barns. The houses tucked into the land like they belong there. I’ve never shown this to anyone outside my inner circle.
His eyebrows lift. “You built all that?”
“We did,” I say. “Together. At first.”
He studies the photos, then looks back at me. “You ever think you’d be happy just… staying there?”
I smile. “Sometimes I think I’d love being a music teacher. Or scaling back and writing from a home studio. Or running home and disappearing from this whole scene.”
He shakes his head slowly. “No, Bailey. You were born to shine. That doesn’t mean you can’t go home. But it does mean you don’t disappear.”
The words settle into me.
Jackson hesitates for a moment, then asks quietly, “Was he your dream?”
I don’t answer. I just give a small, sad smile. A slight nod.
I wipe the solo stray tear that fell and clear my throat. “What about you? Are you living yours?”
His grin is immediate. “Yeah. This is it. Always has been. The music. The fans. Nothing else ever mattered as much.”
There’s no ego in it. Just the truth.
The conversation shifts naturally after that, schedules, writing windows, how we’ll carve out time on the bus. He pitches an idea that’s been circling us both for weeks now.
“Let’s reclaim it,” he says. “‘No Place I’d Rather Be.’ Make it an anthem. Not about romance. About being right here. With the fans. With the music.”
I feel something spark, as we talk about bringing other artists in. Making it communal. Big. Fun. For the fans.
And then the tour keeps moving. Stage lights. Crowds roaring, as Jackson stepped out beside me night after night like it was always meant to be this way. Harmonies sliding into place. Me singing louder than I ever have without checking myself first.
One night, the bus is full. Other artists piled in, guitars out, cases open. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Brandy is perched in the corner, filming everything, unprompted, catching magic without trying to control it. She is so excited, I swear I see her happy clap.
We write No Place I’d Rather Be right there. On the bus. In one night. It’s messy and electric and perfect. I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.
With Rachel and Brandy’s encouragement, I start doing short live videos. Talking to fans. Letting myself enjoy it. The interaction. The gratitude. The joy.
And somewhere between cities, between songs, between nights where the music carries me instead of the other way around, I start asking myself a question I’ve never allowed before.
If that dream is gone…
If that future isn’t written anymore…
What do I want now?
One night, I video call Sadie and Cole. They walk me through the property, showing me how fall is already creeping in. Leaves are just starting to turn. Noah’s in the background, pretending not to listen. Sadie’s glowing.
“You look happy,” she says softly. “I know you. I know you haven’t had time to process everything. But… you look like you again.”
Jackson leans into frame, grinning. “Hi, family.”
Sadie fan-girls immediately and I laugh. Really laugh.
The bus hums. The road stretches on. The music embraces me. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something I owe anyone. It feels like something I get to choose.