8. Lo
— ? —
Lo
The knock comes at ten in the morning.
Jesse left an hour ago for some radio thing in Austin. Another promise to be back by dinner. Another tally mark in my mental ledger.
I open the door. Sloane is standing on my porch. Alone. She’s got her purse over her shoulder and a paper coffee cup in her hand, like she’s just arrived from somewhere.
“Lorilee. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“It’s Lo.” I frown at her. “I thought you moved to the motel in town. Jesse said you needed better Wi-Fi for the video calls.”
“I did. But I wanted to talk to you before I head back.” She tilts her head. “Woman to woman. Can I come in?”
The motel move happened two days ago, after I made it clear I didn’t want her in my kitchen every morning. Jesse framed it as a logistics decision. I framed it as the bare minimum.
“Why?”
“Because I think we got off on the wrong foot. And I’d like to clear the air before tomorrow.” She already has one heel on the doorframe, and the deliberate placement of it, the performance of casual entry, makes my skin prickle.
“The air seems pretty clear to me.” I don’t move out of the doorway.
“Does it? Because from where I’m standing, there’s a lot of tension. And tension isn’t good for anyone.”
“Tension between who?” I keep my voice even.
“Between us. Between you and Jesse. Between-”
“There’s no tension between me and Jesse.”
“Isn’t there?” She tilts her head. “That’s not what it looked like at the rodeo.”
“You were watching me at the rodeo?”
“Everyone was watching you at the rodeo. That’s kind of the point.”
I should close the door. I should tell her to leave. But something in me wants to hear what she’s going to say. Wants to know exactly how bad this is.
“Five minutes,” I say. “Then you’re gone.”
“That’s all I need.”
I step back and let her pass. She walks into my house like she owns it, like she’s been here a hundred times, like the threshold means nothing.
Her heels click on the hardwood floors Jesse and I refinished the summer after we got married, and she looks around with the kind of appraising gaze that makes me want to hide the family photos.
“Charming,” she says, looking around. “Very rustic.”
“Thanks. I decorated it myself.”
“Did you? I would have guessed Jesse. He talks about this place constantly. The ranch, the land, the simple life.”
“He grew up here.” I say it like a fact she can’t touch.
“He did. And now he’s outgrowing it. That’s the natural order of things, isn’t it? People grow. They change. They become someone new.”
“People don’t outgrow their homes.”
“Don’t they?” She moves into the kitchen. Picks up Jesse’s mug from the counter. “This is cute. The chip on the handle. Very authentic.”
“That’s his favorite mug.”
“I know. He has one just like it on the bus. I bought it for him in Memphis. He said it reminded him of home.”
“Put it down.” Something in my chest goes cold and quiet.
“I’m just looking.”
“Put it down. Now.”
She sets the mug on the counter. Not where it was before. A few inches to the left.
“You’re very territorial, aren’t you?”
“I’m very clear about what belongs to me.”
“Are you? Because from what I’ve seen, you’re not clear about anything. You’re confused. You’re overwhelmed. You’re a woman who’s been left behind and doesn’t know how to catch up.” She says it kindly, which is the cruelest part.
“I haven’t been left behind.”
“Haven’t you? When’s the last time you went to one of his shows?”
“I run a ranch. I can’t just leave.” My jaw aches from holding it still.
“Of course you can’t. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? The cattle need you. The hands need you. The land needs you. Everyone needs you except Jesse.”
“Jesse needs me.”
“Does he? Because he seems to be doing fine without you. Better than fine, actually. He’s thriving. He’s becoming someone important. Someone people recognize on the street.” She watches my face for the crack.
“I’m glad he’s successful.”
“Are you? Because you don’t look glad. You look scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything.” The lie sits between us.
“You’re scared of losing him. You’re scared of being replaced. You’re scared that one day he’s going to wake up and realize he’s outgrown you.”
“He hasn’t outgrown me.”
“Not yet. But he will. They always do.”
She moves to the hook by the door. Takes Jesse’s hat off the peg. Holds it.
“This is old,” she says. “Worn out. Like everything else in this house.”
“That hat belonged to his father.”
“Did it? He never mentioned that.”
“There’s a lot he doesn’t mention to you.”
“You’d be surprised what he mentions to me.” She runs her thumb along the brim. “We spend a lot of time together. On the bus. In the hotel. In his dressing room before shows.”
“You’re his manager.”
“I’m his partner. In every way that matters.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” She puts the hat back. Not in the same spot. “Let me tell you something about your husband. Something you might not know.”
“I know everything about my husband.”
“Do you know about the new single? The one going to radio on Friday?”
“He mentioned it.” I keep my face shut.
“Did he mention what it’s about?”
“Music.”
“It’s about inspiration. About meeting someone who changes everything. About seeing the world through new eyes.” She pauses. “It’s about me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She reaches into her bag. Pulls out a folded piece of paper. “This is an early draft. His handwriting. His words.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“But you should. You should know what he’s writing when he’s not here with you.”
She unfolds the paper and sets it on the table. I don’t want to look. But I look anyway.
It’s Jesse’s handwriting. The messy scrawl I know as well as my own. Lyrics crossed out and rewritten, the way he always works:
you came in like a storm I didn’t see coming
tore down every wall I built
showed me what I could be
made me want to be it
And in the margin, small but clear: S.
“S,” Sloane says. “For Sloane.”
“This doesn’t prove anything.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Anyone could have written this.” My voice sounds far away.
“In his handwriting? With his phrasing? On the paper he uses for every song?”
“It could be forged.”
“It could be. But it’s not. And you know it’s not. That’s why you’re shaking.”
I’m not shaking. My hands are steady on the counter.
“And he’s ticklish. Right below his ribs. On the left side. He laughs like a little boy when you find it.”
“How do you know about the ticklish spot?” I ask.
“What?”
“Below his ribs. The left side. How do you know about that?”
“He told me.” She says it without blinking.
“Jesse would never tell you that.”
“Wouldn’t he? We’ve spent a lot of late nights together. When you’re tired, you talk. You share things. Things you wouldn’t share with anyone else.”
“You’re lying.” But my stomach is already dropping.
“Am I? Then how do I know about your anniversary? The one he forgot? He told me you sat in this kitchen and cried. He said he didn’t know how to fix it.”
I told him that. In a voicemail, weeks after it happened, when I finally broke down and admitted how much it hurt. I told him in confidence, in a moment of vulnerability, and now this woman is throwing it back at me like a weapon.
“He wouldn’t tell you that.” I keep my voice flat, both palms pressed to the counter’s edge.
“Wouldn’t he? People share things when they’re vulnerable. When they’re tired. When they’re far from home and lonely and looking for someone who understands.”
“Jesse isn’t lonely. He has a wife.”
“A wife who’s never there. A wife who chooses cattle over him. A wife who couldn’t be bothered to show up to his album release party.” She lists them off like line items, each one filed and ready.
“I was calving. We lost three heifers that week.”
“Of course you were. There’s always something more important than him, isn’t there? The ranch. The cattle. The fence that needs mending.”
“Those things keep us running. Those things pay the bills when the music doesn’t.”
“The music is paying the bills now. The music is paying more than this ranch ever will.” She drifts a manicured hand along the back of a chair that isn’t hers.
“This ranch is our home.”
“This ranch is your anchor. The thing that keeps him tied here when he should be free.”
“He doesn’t want to be free of me.”
“Are you sure about that? Because a man who wants to stay married doesn’t take off his ring. A man who’s happy at home doesn’t spend three hundred days a year somewhere else.” She tilts her head, waiting for the flinch.
“He spends three hundred days a year on tour because that’s what touring musicians do. I knew what I was signing up for.”
“Did you? Did you know you’d be sitting here alone while he builds a life without you? Did you know you’d become irrelevant?”
“I’m not irrelevant.”
“You’re not relevant either. When’s the last time you contributed to his career? When’s the last time you helped him make a decision that mattered?” Every word lands exactly where she aimed it.
“I helped him decide to sign with the label.”
“Eighteen months ago. What have you done since?”
“I’ve kept his home running. I’ve managed four hundred head of cattle, two hired hands, and the pastures while he was gone. I’ve paid the property taxes and fixed the fences and kept the lights on.”
“Ranch work. Anyone could do ranch work.” She says it to my cast-iron skillet like it proves her point.
“Anyone can’t do this ranch work. This land has been in his family for three generations.
I learned every acre, every water source, every grazing pattern.
I know which pastures flood in spring and which ones hold through drought.
I know the cattle by sight - not by tags, by sight.
I can tell you which cow is due, which bull is throwing good calves, which section needs to rest before winter. ”
“How charming. You know cows.” The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I know this life. Our life. The one we built before you ever showed up.”
“The one that doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters to him.”