Chapter 17 Delaney #2
I smile despite myself. “You, talking. Tragic.”
“Ask Sloane,” he says dryly. “She has graphs.”
“Of course she does.”
He kicks a pine cone off the trail, watching it bounce into the underbrush.
“It started… I don’t know.” He shrugs one broad shoulder.
“I thought I was good at keeping things compartmentalized. Drums. Set lists. Schedules. That’s my job.
Let Roman and Ezra burn hot. Let them be brilliant and insane.
I keep the train on the tracks. Then Sloane shows up with her soft sweaters and this ridiculous belief that we deserved more than the bare minimum, and suddenly half my compartments don’t make sense anymore. ”
“And Roman fell first, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Creed agrees. “He’s never met a feeling he didn’t want to amplify through a sound system.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Ezra took longer,” Creed continues. “He always does. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For her to get bored. For him to mess it up. For it to be another story where someone leaves.”
My chest aches at that. I’ve read enough drafts of Ezra’s lyrics to know exactly how deep those roots go.
“And you?” I ask quietly.
He thinks about it.
“I thought I was fine. I told myself I was fine. I… cared.” His mouth tightens. “But I was going to stay out of the way. Let them have… that.”
“And?” I push.
“Sloane didn’t like that plan,” he says simply.
Of course she didn’t.
I slow as the path widens into the lookout. A flat rocky ridge that juts out over the valley, the trees falling away to reveal a sweeping, ridiculous view of Coyote Glen and the mountains beyond. The wind is stronger here, tugging at my hair and jacket, but the sun on my face balances the chill.
I walk to the edge of the rock and stop, toeing the invisible line Boone once joked Sadie wasn’t allowed to cross without “three adults and at least one safety harness.” Below, the tiny patchwork of the town looks peaceful.
Smoke curls lazily from chimneys. Cars move like toy models along the roads.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say quietly. The words blow out of me, carried off by the wind. “With Boone. Or Silas. Or Caleb. Or myself, honestly.”
Creed comes to stand beside me, leaving a careful foot of space. Like with the animals, he lets me set the distance.
“I came here to get my life back,” I say. “To… remember who I am when I’m not Marcus’s secret or the internet’s punchline or the sous chef whose name everyone forgets in reviews.”
He doesn’t say anything. I stare at a cluster of houses, trying to guess which one is Ivy’s by the number of cars in the driveway.
“And then I… met them,” I continue. “And it was supposed to be simple. Cook. Save money. Pet some horses. Occasionally breathe mountain air and text pictures of cows to Sloane.”
“She appreciates the cows,” he says seriously.
“She does,” I agree. “And now I’m… kissing my boss in pantries and making out with his best friend in hallways and telling myself it’s just… chemistry. Distraction. Except it doesn’t feel like just anything, and I don’t know how to do this without repeating all my old mistakes.”
The wind whips my hair into my face. I shove it back with a frustrated noise.
“I don’t want to hurt them,” I say. “Or Sadie. Or me. I don’t trust my own judgment, Creed. Last time I thought I was in love, I blew up my career and my reputation and my entire life. I don’t get to be reckless anymore.”
His silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel like he’s judging me. He’s listening so carefully that the air itself is holding still.
“When you say it doesn’t feel like ‘just anything,’” he asks finally, “what does it feel like?”
I swallow.
“Like… breathing,” I admit. “Like coming into a room I didn’t know I’d been locked out of my whole life.” Shame heats my cheeks. “Which is dramatic, I know.”
“Coming from someone who’s spent the last decade playing with a man who jumped off a lighting rig because he ‘felt it in the bridge,’” Creed says dryly, “it barely registers.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, half hysterical and half grateful. “Oh my goodness, I forgot about that.”
“He has not.” Creed’s lips press together in a faint smile. “His back reminds him every time it rains.”
We fall quiet again.
“Look,” he says eventually. “I’m not going to give you a speech about how love is worth the risk or any of that bullshit. You know that song already.”
“Yeah.” My chest tightens. “I do.”
“What I will say is this.” He shifts his weight, turning to face me more fully. “What happened with Marcus wasn’t your fault.”
The sentence lands like a slap.
I blink at him, stunned. “I—”
“You got involved with a man who abused his power,” Creed continues evenly. “Who lied. Who made you responsible for his choices. Who threw you under the bus to save himself. That’s on him, Delaney. Not you.”
My throat closes. I look away, out over the valley, because if I look at him, I might cry, and I am very committed to not crying on mountain ridges with drummers.
“I should’ve known better,” I whisper.
“Maybe,” he allows. “But knowing better is a privilege people who haven’t been hurt love to talk about. You’re allowed to have believed someone who told you they loved you and then acted like a coward.”
The words get past my defenses in a way all the well-meaning “you’re so strong” pep talks never have. They’re too blunt to be platitudes. Creed doesn’t traffic in platitudes.
“I’m not saying don’t be careful,” he says. “You should be. Take your time. Ask for what you need. Set boundaries. Make mistakes. Apologize. Try again. That’s… life.”
I sniff, swiping at the corner of my eye before anything spills over. The wind helps. I can blame it later.
“And if,” he adds, “you decide that whatever’s happening with those three men and that kid and that ranch is something you want… then build it on purpose. Don’t let it happen to you. Choose it. Or don’t. But make sure you’re the one driving, not fear and not your past.”
I stare at the line of mountains in the distance until they blur.
“Do you ever get tired of being unreasonably wise?”
“Constantly.”
I laugh again, softer this time. The tightness in my chest eases a fraction.
Below us, the sun glints off something metal near The Hollow. A few tiny figures move around what might be the rec field behind it.
“What are we looking at?” I ask, needing a change of subject before my emotions go into full meltdown.
Creed follows my gaze. “Probably Lani and company setting up boards.”
“Boards?”
“Coyote Cup Showdown.” He nods toward the rec field. “Season starts soon.”
I frown. “What is that?”
He actually smiles, full this time. It transforms his whole face, like someone turned the lights up behind his eyes. “You have no idea.”
“Enlighten me.”
He leans his elbows on the invisible rail of air in front of us, shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Imagine this town at its most competitive. Now take away any stakes that actually matter. Keep the pride.”
I squint. “That sounds… dangerous.”
“Oh, it is,” he assures me. “From what I’ve seen, the Coyote Cup started as a casual excuse to drink beer behind The Hollow and throw bean bags at wooden boards with holes in them.
Now there are brackets. Jerseys. Lani runs odds behind the counter.
Terry and Joanne bring themed floral arrangements.
Dottie live blogs it in the farmers market newsletter. ”
I choke. “You’re lying.”
“Ask Sloane.”
I can, in fact, immediately picture Dottie in a lawn chair with a clipboard, whispering stats into her phone like a sports commentator.
“And the guys?” I ask. “Where do they fall in this… hierarchy?”
“Boone pretends he doesn’t care,” Creed says. “Shows up in the same worn hat, throws like he’s just passing time. But if you watch him after, he’s replaying every shot like game footage.”
That tracks unsettlingly well.
“Caleb only plays if someone needs a partner,” Creed continues. “He’s stupidly good. People keep trying to draft him. He declines by disappearing.”
Also tracks.
“And Silas?” I ask, already laughing.
“Silas has custom bags,” Creed says. “And a victory playlist.”
I lose it, doubling over with laughter that feels like it’s washing something sour out of my chest. Tears sting my eyes again, but this time they’re from hilarity, not hurt.
“Oh wow,” I wheeze. “Of course he does.”
“He tried to convince Roman to sponsor his ‘team’ last year,” Creed adds. “Was working on logo designs.”
“I hate how much I want to see that,” I groan.
“You’re about to. Trust me. Once the season starts, it’s all anyone talks about. You’ll be making themed snacks by week two.”
“That implies they’d trust me with their precious carb supply during competition.”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You might have to prove yourself in preseason.”
The absurdity of it all. The world touring rock drummer and the disgraced sous chef standing on a mountain ridge discussing small town cornhole leagues, hits me square in the chest.
We used to measure our lives in cities and venues and chart numbers. In ticket sales and sold-out nights and reviews left by strangers who had Opinions about our work. Now the biggest sporting event on the horizon involves bean bags and beer.
“Do you ever think about how different things look from here?” I ask quietly.
He follows my gaze.
“Onstage, everything feels… huge,” I say. “Every mistake. Every compliment. Every decision. It’s all amplified. Up here, the town looks like something you could hold in your hand. Like you could just… set it down somewhere safe and nothing bad would ever happen to it.”
His jaw shifts.
“I used to think the only way I’d feel alive was behind a stove in a Michelin kitchen,” I admit. “Pressure. Adrenaline. Tickets flying in. Marcus shouting. Being… needed.”
“And now?”
“And now…” I look down at Sunridge, where the ranch is a small patch of brown and green at the edge of things.
I think about Sadie’s laugh when she licks batter off a spoon, about Boone’s lunchbox full of receipts, Caleb’s quiet hands on a horse’s neck, Silas dancing in the farmers market like the pavement is a stage.
“Now it turns out I can feel alive baking muffins for a six-year-old and fighting with the pantry,” I say. “And walking up a mountain. And… talking about bean bags.”
He nods.
“Wild Reverie seems… happy,” I add. “Messy. But… balanced. Like you all decided what matters and built around that instead of letting the world decide for you.”
Creed’s gaze stays on the horizon. “We’re trying.”
I hug my arms around myself, the wind cutting a little sharper now.
“I’d like that,” I say softly. “To… decide. And then build around it. I just don’t… know what I’m choosing yet. Or if I’m brave enough to say it out loud when I do.”
He looks at me then, really looks, his eyes clear.
“You don’t have to know today,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or by the time the Coyote Cup starts. Just… keep walking toward what makes you feel like yourself. And away from anything that makes you feel small.”
Marcus. Headlines. Shame.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“That’s all any of us are doing.”