Xander #3
Aidan doesn’t smile. He just watches me. “Everything staying under control out there?”
“Depends what you’ve heard.”
Tommy lets out a whistle. “That’s not the answer you give a sheriff if you want him to relax.”
“I’m not trying to relax him.”
“Bold strategy.”
Aidan’s expression doesn’t change, but his attention narrows. “Heard there’s more people coming through town than usual.”
Tommy cuts in, easy. “Which is great for business, to be clear. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying if this turns into one of those situations where suddenly I need a second bartender and a bouncer who can actually bounce—”
“You won’t,” Aidan says calmly.
Tommy glances at him. “That sounded confident.”
“It is.”
Tommy looks back at me. “See? He’s got faith in you.”
“I didn’t say that,” Aidan replies.
Tommy grins. “You implied it.”
“I didn’t imply anything.”
“You definitely implied something.”
Aidan ignores him completely, eyes still on me. “You expecting more attention?”
“Yes,” I say. “I hope so.”
Tommy winces lightly. “See, again, not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Tommy studies me, a thoughtfulness slipping under the easy humor. “You sure you’re ready for that?”
“No.”
That gets a real laugh out of him.
“Alright,” he says, lifting his coffee in a toast. “At least you’re honest about it.”
Aidan nods once. “Honesty’s useful. As long as it’s followed by something solid.”
“It is,” I tell him.
He holds my gaze. Long enough to make it clear he’s deciding whether he believes me. Then, finally, a small nod.
“Good,” he says.
Tommy exhales the tension that slides past him without sticking. “Great. Everyone’s confident, no one’s panicking, this feels very reassuring for me personally.”
“You’re always panicking,” Aidan says.
“I’m selectively concerned.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Tommy turns back to me, grin back in place. “You sticking around, or are you just doing your mysterious walk-through thing where you show up, make everyone nervous, and then disappear again?”
“I might stay.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ve got a guy coming in later who swears he used to tour with you. I’d like confirmation before I decide whether to believe him or throw him out.”
I move on before Tommy can start asking more questions he’s not entitled to answers for and cut through the far side of the square where the flower stalls give way to baked goods and handmade soap.
Somebody waves. Somebody else nods. A little girl runs past with a ribbon trailing from one wrist and nearly crashes into my leg before veering away at the last second.
The normalcy of it hits harder than I expect.
Maybe because it stands in such direct opposition to the studio.
To the song.
To the fact that half an hour ago I was singing about ghosts in a room built to make memory louder.
Here, life is simpler. Not easier. Simpler. Bread. Flowers. Dogs under tables. Someone arguing over zucchini.
I’m almost at the far end of the square when I hear Grace Holloway before I see her.
“Well, now, this is interesting.”
I turn.
Grace is standing behind a small side table attached to the bookstore’s outdoor display, arranging paperbacks in neat stacks no one will leave neat for long. She’s got one of those smiles on her face that means she already knows something and wants to watch you pretend she doesn’t.
“Grace.”
“Xander.”
Her gaze drops to the bag in my hand. “Peaches. Domestic.”
I look at the books instead of engaging with that. “Business good?”
“Better than ever.” She leans in. “You know, mysterious men with tragic faces are excellent for foot traffic.”
“I’ll alert the tourism board.”
“You joke, but I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what makes it dangerous.”
Grace laughs and starts straightening a stack that doesn’t need it. “You look different.”
That gets my attention. “How?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Less dead behind the eyes.”
I stare at her.
She smiles wider. “I mean that kindly.”
“Impressive skill.”
“It is. Ask anyone.”
I should leave. Instead I say, “You always this subtle?”
“No. Why waste the effort?”
Fair.
She tilts her head, studying me the way older women do when they know perfectly well they’ve earned the right. “Something’s moved.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t have to.
Her gaze goes soft in a way that somehow feels more invasive than if she’d smirked. “Good.”
By the time I circle back toward the square’s center, the edge is a little softer. Not gone. Nothing that moved in that studio is gone. But it’s manageable now. Contained enough to carry.
The song is still there waiting for me.
So is everything underneath it.
Josiah. Dylan. The stage. The silence after.
And Willow, whether I want her in the middle of all of that or not.
Especially because I do.
I stop near the fountain and look out over the market one more time. Over the locals and the stalls and the easy noise of a town that keeps insisting on being real no matter what gets built around it.
Then I pull my phone from my pocket, open my notes, and type the bridge before it can disappear.
I built a house from wires and locked doors.
Still wake up hearing you in the rain.