Chapter 27
Blake
There’s something dangerous about watching someone get ready for a night they’ve been dreaming about.
Especially when you’re the one who brought them there without telling them until the last possible moment.
The excitement doesn’t stay contained inside them the way you expect it to, it spills into the room, into the air, into everything they touch.
It spills until, suddenly, the entire hotel suite feels brighter than it did an hour ago, and you’re standing there, pretending you’re adjusting your jacket when, really, you’re just watching her smile at her own reflection like she can’t believe this is actually happening.
“You’ve looked in that mirror at least twelve times,” I tell her from the doorway.
“I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I am verifying outfit integrity,” she replies seriously.
“You’re verifying boots.”
“These boots are important,” she says. She turns toward me like I should already understand that.
“I never doubted the boots.”
“You doubted the boots earlier.”
“I respect the boots.”
She spins once in front of the mirror again anyway. Just once.
“Too much?” she asks.
“No.”
“You didn’t even look properly.”
“I looked properly,” I say. “You look perfect.”
She narrows her eyes at me like she’s deciding whether I’m allowed to say things like that yet.
It still surprises me even now because after everything we’ve already been through together, hospitals and ice and fights and confessions and secrets, it still matters to her what I think when she asks questions like that.
“You’re biased,” she says finally.
“Yes,” I agree immediately.
“That doesn’t help.”
“It works for me.”
When we leave the hotel, Nashville is already alive in a way Chicago never quite is at this hour.
The sidewalks are warm with evening noise and open doors spilling music into the street.
It’s as if every building is trying to outplay the one next to it.
Lisa slows down without meaning to as we walk because she keeps turning her head toward every sound at once, like she doesn’t want to miss any of it.
“You’re doing the thing,” I tell her.
“What thing?”
“The overwhelmed-but-happy thing.”
“I am not overwhelmed.”
“You just stopped walking in the middle of a crosswalk.”
She laughs, grabbing my sleeve so she doesn’t actually stop walking again.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she says quietly.
“I can.”
“You planned this.”
The closer we get to the venue, the louder everything becomes.
It’s not just the music, but the crowd energy, the hum of people already lining up outside, the sound of boots on pavement, and voices layered over each other.
The whole block feels like anticipation instead of a street.
Lisa slows again when the sign finally comes into view.
“Oh my god,” she breathes.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“The Nashville face.”
“I am not doing a face.”
“You are absolutely doing a face.”
Inside, the room is smaller than the arenas and louder than expected.
It’s warmer than either of us planned for.
The stage is close enough that the crowd doesn’t feel like an audience so much as a shared experience, and the second the first opening chords start, Lisa grabs my hand without thinking about it.
Not because she’s nervous. Because she’s happy. She knows every word. Not most of them. Not some of them. Every single one.
She whispers the song first, like she’s checking whether she’s allowed to. Then louder when she realizes that everybody is living in the moment. She lets the people and the music carry her away, and lets herself be.
I don’t even pretend to watch the stage after that. I watch her instead.
There’s something about the way she moves when she forgets that people are watching her.
It makes everything else disappear for a second.
There’s something about the way her shoulders loosen and her smile settles into something effortless and real that makes me realize I don’t remember the last time I saw her this relaxed anywhere else.
“You’re staring,” she says during one of the quieter songs.
“I’m appreciating.”
“It’s called staring.”
“I’m appreciating aggressively.”
She laughs mid-lyric. Actually laughs. And keeps singing anyway.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says.
Halfway through the set, she leans closer so I can hear her over the crowd.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For this.”
Like that explains everything. And somehow it does.
I don’t answer right away because the truth is bigger than what fits into a sentence shouted over live music. It’s bigger than what fits into a moment between songs. It’s even bigger than what I expected this trip to become when I booked the tickets in the first place.
So instead, I squeeze her hand. And she understands anyway.
After the show ends, neither of us moves immediately. Not because there’s nowhere to go. Because neither of us wants the night to end yet.
“Drink?” I ask.
“Obviously,” she says.
“Good answer.”
The bar we end up in is somehow louder than the venue, but slower at the same time. It’s the kind of place where conversations stretch rather than rush, and no one seems interested in checking the time yet. Lisa slides onto the stool beside me, as she belongs here already.
“You’re glowing,” I tell her.
“That’s humidity.”
“That’s you,” I correct.
She looks at me differently after that. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just softer.
“You planned this before the doctor said your shoulder was ok,” she says after a minute.
“Yes.”
“You were that sure.”
“I was that hopeful.”
She reaches for my hand again across the bar like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it anymore.
“I’m really glad you didn’t wait,” she says quietly.
“Me too.”
Outside later, the city is still loud and bright and alive in a way that makes it feel like midnight doesn’t exist here the way it does everywhere else. As we walk back toward the hotel, she slips her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You know,” she says softly, “this might be my favorite trip I’ve ever taken.”
“We’ve been here less than twelve hours.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a strong review.”
“I stand by it.”
I stop walking for a second. She turns back toward me immediately.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
But that’s not true.
Because somewhere between the concert and the singing and the way she looked standing in the crowd tonight, like she belonged there, I realized something I probably should have admitted to myself earlier.
I didn’t bring her here just to celebrate my shoulder.
I brought her here because anywhere she’s happy starts to feel like somewhere I want to stay.