Chapter 56
THREE WEEKS LATER
Knoxville smells like wet pavement, car exhaust, and old ambition.
It rained overnight, the streets still slick and shining under a washed-out morning sky.
I sit in my Bronco outside the studio for longer than necessary, resting my forearm on the open window as my gaze wavers between watching cars pass and the studio.
The building hasn’t changed at all. A faded black awning hangs from the brick front, and the small brass plaque with the studio’s name etched into it still hangs a little off-kilter beside the door.
There is a lot of history inside that building.
Some of Nashville’s most famous stars have recorded here.
I used to be one of them. But today, I can’t bring myself to get out of the truck.
“You gonna sit out here all day?” I glance up to find Mason walking along the side of my truck. He stops at my window, coffee in one hand, and his sunglasses resting low on his nose.
“No. I was just getting out,” I lie before rolling up the window.
I kill the engine and slip from behind the wheel.
We walk toward the studio together, making insignificant small talk.
He steps aside when we reach the door, so I can enter first. When I cross the threshold, the memories of this place hit me so hard they might as well be a slap across the face.
This is where I was when Rosie died.
I swallow hard, trying to swallow the memories.
“Feels the same,” Mason says, watching me carefully.
“Yeah…” But it doesn’t. It feels smaller. The hallway that once felt like a tunnel toward something bigger and life-changing now feels like a narrow corridor lined with ghosts.
We step into Studio A. The room opens up, with high ceilings crossed with beams and sound panels lining the walls. The big mixing board sits under low lighting. A readied microphone and a guitar resting on a stand are positioned beside a stool, waiting for me.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
The question hangs between us for a moment before I answer, “No.”
I slip the guitar strap over my head and lower myself onto the worn stool in the center of the live room, adjusting to what used to be a familiar weight settling across my shoulder.
Mason moves without a word to the empty stool beside the mixing board on the other side of the glass, his presence steady and unobtrusive.
He isn’t here as my guitarist today. He’s here to support me.
I let my fingers fall into position and strum the first chord.
It rings out through the monitors, clean and sharp.
It’s loud, not in volume, but in presence.
It fills the space completely. It used to feel like oxygen, like the first full breath after being underwater too long.
Now, it’s heavier, demanding something from me I’m not sure I still possess.
My hand tightens slightly around the neck of the guitar, and muscle memory slides into place with unnerving ease, my fingers finding the frets without hesitation, and my foot tapping a quiet rhythm against the floor, like it never forgot the language of this room.
My body knows what to do even if my heart doesn’t.
Even if the part of me that used to burn for this feels distant and muted.
We start with something old. Something safe. A track I could play in my sleep. Through the glass, Mason watches, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his eyes never leaving me as he shifts toward his mic. His voice comes through the headphones, calm and even. “Whenever you’re ready, East.”
I lean toward the microphone, close enough to feel its cold presence, waiting for me to fill it.
The first lyric leaves my mouth steady and controlled, my pitch lands exactly where it should.
My breath follows the same pattern I’ve trained it to, but the words don’t mean anything beyond their acoustics.
It sounds like me, but it doesn’t feel like me.
I close my eyes and reach for it. The ache.
The love. The restless hunger that used to live under my skin, clawing its way out the second I wrapped my hands around a guitar.
The thing that made this more than performance.
The thing that made my music relatable to fans around the world. But it isn’t there.
We run it again.
And again.
Each take blends into the next, indistinguishable except for the growing tightness in my chest, the quiet frustration coiling deeper with every attempt to reach something that won’t answer.
By the fourth take, sweat gathers at the base of my neck, dampening the collar of my shirt.
Not from effort. From the strain of trying to feel something that refuses to be summoned.
I let the final chord die beneath my fingers and lower the guitar, exhaling slowly as Mason disappears from behind the glass.
A moment later, the studio door opens, and he steps inside, moving toward me with an unhurried calm that makes the silence between us feel intentional. He studies me for a long moment, his head tilting slightly, his expression thoughtful but unreadable.
“You remember the first time we walked in here?” he reminisces, grabbing another stool and taking a seat beside me.
I nod faintly. “Yeah.”
“You couldn’t stand still,” he says. “You were vibrating. Like, if we didn’t hit record fast enough, you might explore.”
“I was fucking terrified,” I admit.
“And now?”
I chuckle dryly, the sound hollow in my own ears.
“Still fucking terrified.” I stare down at the guitar resting across my lap, my fingers tracing absent patterns along the strings, feeling the faint grooves worn into the wood from years of use.
This instrument used to feel like an extension of me.
Now it feels like something I picked up off a stranger’s floor for the first time.
“I’m not sure this is my life anymore,” I confess quietly.
The words surprise me, even though they’ve been living somewhere inside my chest for months, waiting for a place to land.
Mason leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped loosely as he watches me with the same steady patience he’s always had. “Then what is?” he asks simply.
I let out a slow breath, my gaze drifting toward the far wall, where sound panels hang in neat, perfect symmetry. “Something smaller. Simple.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that makes it impossible to hide behind vague answers.
“Simple,” he repeats. I nod gently, though the word doesn’t fully capture it.
Simple sounds like settling, like shrinking.
And nothing about the simple life I can’t stop of thinking of is small.
That life was going to be grand beyond measure.
“Something with her,” he corrects gently.
“I miss her,” I admit, the words leaving me before I can dress them up.
Mason exhales slowly beside me, like he’s been waiting for me to say it out loud. “I’ve been your friend for a long time, East.”
I nod in agreement.
“I was there the night you met Rosie,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “You remember that?”
Of course I remember.
The bar had been loud and crowded, her laugh cutting through the noise and impossible to ignore. I’d noticed her the second she walked across the room.
“I remember,” I say.
“You were unbearable.” He laughs softly. “Couldn’t shut up about her. I was there the day you met her and the day you buried her.” Mason sets his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I watched you disappear after that. Piece by piece.”
I swallow hard, remembering him being there for me at my worst. Well… my almost worst.
“And seeing you on that ranch,” he continues, “it was the first time you’ve looked alive since you lost her.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I sigh, the admission coming out rougher than I intended. I replay that night over and over in my head, unable to wipe away the unforgivable look of betrayal on her face. “I screwed that up.”
Mason leans back slightly, studying me with a frown. “What happened to the persistent guy who asked a waitress out nearly every night for two months until she finally said yes?”
A humorless breath escapes me. “He was young and dumb. He didn’t know any better.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “He just knew what he wanted.”
I don’t respond because he’s right. I spent weeks walking up to that bar, willfully taking every polite rejection Rosie handed me. Every one of them a reason to give up. Yet, every night, I showed up and tried again.
“She doesn’t want me, Mase.” I let out a heavy sigh. “She told me to leave.”
“And?” Mason shrugs one shoulder before leaning forward again, his gaze steady on mine. “You ever think maybe she told you to leave because she didn’t think you actually wanted to stay?”
He might be right, but he didn’t see the look in her eyes. I don’t think merely showing up doesn’t fix this.