2. Lo #2
“Yes. You should have.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“That seems to be a pattern.” I don’t soften it.
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. But I’ve been the only one here for every calving and every broken pump since you left, Jesse. I’ve earned the right to be unfair.”
“You have.” He says it to the floor.
“Then why am I still not sure you have any idea what my life looks like when you’re not here?”
“Tell me.”
“I’m up at four. Every morning. I’m checking cattle, mending fences, hauling feed. I’m doing the books and the vet calls and the equipment repairs. I’m managing Cal and Miguel and making sure we don’t lose any calves.” It all comes out in one breath.
“That’s a lot-”
“It’s everything. It’s everything you used to do with me, and now it’s just me.”
“I’m sorry.” There it is again.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
“Then show me. Stop saying sorry and start being here.” I need him to hear the difference.
“I’m trying.”
“Are you? Because bringing a crew and a manager doesn’t look like trying. It looks like avoiding.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.” But he still won’t look at me.
“Then why won’t you look at me when I’m talking?”
He looks up. Meets my eyes. And there it is, the Jesse I married. Buried under exhaustion and obligation and whatever Nashville has done to him, but still there.
“I love you,” he says.
“I know you do.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“Neither do I. But I need you to hear me.” I put my hand flat on the table between us.
“I’m listening.”
“This can’t be the next two weeks. Sloane running the house, you on the phone, me waiting for scraps of your attention.”
“It won’t be.” I want to believe him. I almost do.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Because I have something to tell you, Jesse. Something important. And I need you present when I tell you.” My hand drifts toward my stomach and I stop it.
“Tell me now.”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow. At the bonfire. When it’s just us.”
“Okay. Tomorrow.” He doesn’t ask what it is. That stings more than anything.
“Okay.”
We do the dishes together. Almost normal. He hands me plates to dry, and I put them away, and we don’t talk much, but we’re in the same room, and that’s something.
Then I notice his hands.
“Where’s your ring?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“Jesse. Your ring. Where is it?”
“It’s in my bag.”
“Why is it in your bag?” I keep my voice careful.
“It’s a stage thing. Sloane said the label wants - it’s better for the image. More accessible.”
“The image.”
“It’s not a big deal, Lo.” He reaches for the next plate like this is normal.
“You took off your wedding ring because Sloane told you to.”
“It’s a marketing thing. It’s not about us.”
“It’s exactly about us. It’s literally about whether or not you’re married.” I set the towel down.
“Everyone who matters knows I’m married.”
“Do they? Because from what I’ve seen, nobody knows. You don’t mention me in interviews. You don’t wear your ring. Half the internet thinks you’re single.”
“That’s just - that’s the brand. It’s not real.” The brand. Like our marriage is a marketing line.
“It feels real to me.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Am I? What would you call it if I took off my ring and told everyone I was single?” He doesn’t have an answer for that.
“That’s different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because you’re not - you don’t have fans who - it’s just different.” He can’t even build the sentence.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s complicated.”
“You keep saying that too. Complicated. Easier. All these words that mean you don’t have to actually explain.” Every one of them a door he closes.
“What am I supposed to say here?”
“Say you’ll put it back on.”
“I can’t do that.” He says it quietly, like it’s out of his hands.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“The label - Sloane says-”
“Sloane says. Sloane wants. Sloane thinks.” I put down the dish towel. “Do you even have your own opinions anymore, or does she do all your thinking for you?”
“That’s not fair.”
“There’s that word again.”
He reaches for me. Tips my chin up with wet fingers.
“It’s in my bag,” he says. “Right where I can find it. This isn’t about us. It’s just business.”
He kisses my forehead. Like that settles it.
It doesn’t.
“I’m going to head up,” I say. “Long day tomorrow.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
***
I climb the stairs alone. Get ready for bed alone. The test is in my nightstand, wrapped in toilet paper. Waiting.
He lies beside me in the dark. I listen to him breathe.
“Jesse.”
“Mm.”
“Are you awake?” I say it to the ceiling.
“Barely.”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“Now?” I feel him shift beside me.
“Yes. Now.”
He sighs. Opens his eyes.
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“Sloane makes me uncomfortable.”
“What?”
I make myself say it plainly.
“The way she talked to me today. The way she touched your arm at dinner. The way she says ‘we’ when she means you and her.”
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Sloane? Lo, come on. She’s like that with everybody.”
“She’s not like that with everybody. She’s like that with you.”
“It’s a Nashville thing. She’s a flirt. It’s how she operates.” He says it like it should reassure me.
“It’s different with you.”
“It’s not different with me.”
“I’ve watched the livestreams, Jesse. I’ve seen the interviews.” I’ve watched more than he knows.
“You’re seeing things.”
“I’m not-”
“You’re tired. You’ve been running this place alone for too long. You’re exhausted and you’re seeing things that aren’t there.” He reaches for the easy explanation every time.
“I’m not paranoid.”
“I didn’t say paranoid.”
“You didn’t have to.” The dark makes it easier to say.
“Lo, Sloane is my manager. That’s it. She’s good at her job. Part of her job is being close to me. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to me.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
The word lands like a slap.
“Forget it,” I say.
“Lo-”
“I said forget it. Go to sleep.”
“Don’t be like that.” He rolls toward me in the dark.
“Like what?”
“Like - I just got home. Can we not do this tonight?”
“I told you how I feel. You laughed at me.” Saying it out loud makes it worse.
“Because it’s funny. The idea that I would ever - you know me better than that.”
“I used to think I did.”
“What does that mean?” I turn away from him.
“It means go to sleep, Jesse.”
He sighs. Rolls onto his back.
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Whatever.”
He’s asleep within minutes. I lie there staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow. The bonfire. I’ll tell him about the baby and everything will change.
It has to change. This can’t be all there is.
I reach into my nightstand, feel the test, the plastic edge, the truth I’m carrying.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow he’ll remember who we are.
I don’t believe it.
But I have to try.