5. Carly
CARLY
Dee's bar smelled like lemon oil and old wood.
I pushed through the door and stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
The place was nearly empty. A couple of regulars sat at the far end of the bar, nursing beers and watching the game on the TV mounted above the liquor bottles.
The jukebox in the corner played something low and bluesy that I didn't recognize.
Everything about this place felt familiar and safe in a way my own house didn't anymore.
Dee looked up from behind the bar, a dishrag in one hand and a glass in the other. She saw me and her whole face changed.
"Carly," she said.
I crossed the room and slid onto a stool. My hands were shaking, so I folded them on the bar and tried to look like I was fine. Like I hadn't just driven here with my chest so tight I could barely breathe. Like I wasn't falling apart.
Dee set the glass down and tossed the rag over her shoulder.
She studied me with that sharp, assessing look she always had, the one that made you feel like she could see straight through whatever lie you were about to tell her.
She leaned her forearms on the bar and tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing." The word came out too fast, too defensive. I tried again, forcing my voice to sound lighter. "I just wanted to get out of the house for a while."
Dee didn't move. She just kept looking at me, her dark eyes steady and patient, and I felt something in my chest crack open. My throat went tight. I swallowed hard and looked away, staring at the bottles lined up behind the bar like they were the most interesting things I'd ever seen.
God, I was such a mess.
"You want a drink?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Please."
She poured me a whiskey, neat, and slid it across the bar.
I picked it up and took a sip, letting the burn settle in my throat.
It didn't help. The warmth spread through my chest, but it didn't touch the cold, hollow feeling sitting there like a stone.
I set the glass down and stared at it like it had personally offended me.
Dee waited. She was good at that. She didn't push, didn't ask questions I wasn't ready to answer.
She just stood there, wiping down the bar in slow, methodical strokes, giving me the space to figure out what I wanted to say.
One of the regulars laughed at something on the TV, the sound sharp and too loud in the quiet bar, and I flinched.
I took another sip. The whiskey didn't taste like anything. My hands were still shaking.
"Carly," Dee said quietly. "What's going on?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
I didn't know where to start. I didn't know how to explain the way Boone had kissed me this afternoon and then walked out the door the second she called.
I didn't know how to put into words the feeling of sitting at his parents' table while Savannah asked me what I actually did, like I was nothing.
Like I didn't matter. Like I was just taking up space in a life that didn't belong to me anymore.
"There's something wrong," I said finally. My voice came out small and tight, barely louder than a whisper. "Between me and Boone."
Dee's expression didn't change, but her hand went still on the bar. She set the rag down and straightened, her full attention on me now. "Wrong how?"
I swallowed. "I don't know. It's like — " I stopped, trying to find the words.
Trying to make sense of something that felt too big and too tangled to explain.
"It's like there's this distance between us, and I don't know how it got there or how to fix it.
He doesn't talk to me anymore. He doesn't look at me.
He's always on his phone, always distracted, always somewhere else even when he's standing right next to me. "
Dee nodded slowly, her jaw tight. "How long's this been going on?"
"I don't know." I rubbed my hands over my face, frustrated with myself for not having a better answer. My palms were clammy, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Months, maybe. Or longer. It's hard to tell. It happened so gradually I didn't even notice until it was already too late."
"Too late for what?"
"Too late to stop it." The words caught in my chest, and I had to force them out. "There's a rift, Dee. Between us. And it's getting worse."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and real, and I felt like an idiot for saying them out loud. Like admitting it made it true in a way it hadn't been before. Like I'd just drawn a line in the sand and there was no taking it back now.
Dee straightened and crossed her arms. She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she asked, "Have you talked to him about it?"
I laughed, sharp and bitter. The sound came out harsher than I meant it to, and one of the regulars glanced over at us before turning back to the game.
"Talked to him? He barely listens when I ask him if he wants lunch.
I can't just — " I stopped, shaking my head.
"He doesn't see it. He thinks everything's fine. Or maybe he just doesn't care."
"Carly — "
"I don't know what to do," I said. The words came out in a rush, desperate and pathetic, and I hated how I sounded.
Like I was begging. Like I was helpless.
"I've tried. I've tried being patient, tried giving him space, tried being supportive.
I've done everything I'm supposed to do, and it's not working.
Nothing's working. The rift just keeps growing, and I don't know how to make it stop. "
My voice broke on the last word, and I pressed my hands flat against the bar to keep them from shaking. My pulse was pounding in my ears, loud and unsteady, and I could feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I blinked hard, refusing to let them fall.
Dee was quiet for a long moment. She picked up the glass she'd been cleaning and set it on the shelf behind her, her movements slow and deliberate. Then she turned back to me and leaned on the bar again, her gaze steady and calm in a way that made my chest ache.
"What do you need from me?" she asked.
My chest tightened. "I don't know," I said. My voice came out thin and cracked. "I just — I need help. I need someone to tell me what to do, because I can't figure it out on my own anymore."
Dee reached across the bar and put her hand over mine. Her skin was warm and rough from years of working behind the bar, and the contact made my throat ache. I hadn't realized how much I needed someone to just touch me, to remind me I was still here. Still real. Still worth noticing.
"You know what you need to do," Dee said.
I shook my head. "I don't."
"Yes, you do." Her voice was firm but not unkind. Her fingers squeezed mine, just once, before she pulled her hand back. "You need to go to him."
I pulled my hand back, my stomach twisting. "Dee, I just told you — "
"I know what you told me." She straightened, crossing her arms again. Her expression was serious now, all business. "But sitting here feeling sorry for yourself isn't going to fix anything. You want to close that rift? You have to go to him. You have to make him see you."
"I've tried that," I said. My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "I've been trying that for months. He doesn't see me. He looks right through me like I'm not even there."
"Then make him look at you differently."
"How?" I was frustrated now, my hands curling into fists on the bar. "How am I supposed to do that when he won't even put down his phone long enough to listen to me?"
Dee tilted her head, studying me with that same sharp, assessing look.
"You go to him as his wife, Carly. Not as help.
Not as the woman who runs his house and fixes his songs and disappears into the background whenever he needs you to.
You go to him as the woman he married. The woman he's supposed to love. You remind him who you are."
I stared at her. My heart was pounding in my chest, hard and unsteady, and I felt something in me shift. Not hope, exactly. But something close to it. Something that felt like the faintest possibility that maybe, just maybe, this could work.
"What if he doesn't want to see me?" I asked. My voice came out small again, quieter than I wanted it to be.
"Then at least you'll know." Dee's expression softened, just a little.
"But you can't keep doing this, Carly. You can't keep waiting for him to notice you're hurting.
You have to go to him. You have to tell him.
You have to show up in his life and make him remember that you're not just some fixture in his house, you're his partner.
You're his wife. And you deserve better than what he's been giving you. "
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I looked down at my hands.
They were folded on the bar, the wedding ring catching the light from the dusty fixture overhead.
The band was simple, silver, engraved with both our names and the date we'd gotten married.
I'd worn it every day for ten years, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd looked at it and felt anything but tired.
"I don't know if I can," I said quietly.
"You can," Dee said. Her voice was steady, certain. "You're stronger than you think you are."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe I could walk into Boone's world and demand that he see me, that he listen to me, that he remember I was more than just the woman who made his coffee and fixed his melodies.
But the thought of it made my stomach twist with something that felt too much like fear.
Not that I was afraid of him. I was afraid of what would happen if I tried and it didn't work.
If I went to him and he still didn't see me.
If I laid myself bare and he looked right through me the way he'd been doing for months.
If I showed up and he turned me away because I wasn't her. Because I wasn't enough.
But Dee was right. I couldn't keep doing this. I couldn't keep sitting in the background, waiting for him to notice I was disappearing. I had to do something. Even if it didn't work. Even if it hurt.
I reached for my glass and drained the rest of the whiskey. It burned going down, sharp and hot, and I set the glass on the bar with a soft thunk. Dee watched me, her expression calm and steady, like she already knew what I was going to say.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." I nodded, more to myself than to her. My pulse was still pounding, my hands still shaking, but there was a kind of resolve settling in my chest now. "I'll go to him."
Dee's mouth curved into a small, approving smile. "Good."
I stood up, my legs unsteady beneath me.
My heart was pounding, and my hands were still shaking, but there was something else there too.
A kind of determination I hadn't felt in months.
Maybe longer. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, I could do this.
I could walk into that studio and remind Boone who I was. Who we were.
I looked at Dee, and she nodded at me, her eyes warm and fierce at the same time.
"Go," she said. "Go now, before you talk yourself out of it."
I grabbed my purse off the bar and slung it over my shoulder. My fingers brushed the edge of my wedding ring, and I twisted it once on my finger. The metal was cool and familiar, a weight I'd carried for so long I'd stopped noticing it was there. But I noticed it now. I felt it like an anchor.
I pushed through the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The air was warm and heavy, the kind of September heat that made everything feel slow and thick. My car was parked across the street, and I walked toward it with my heart in my throat and my hands curled into fists at my sides.
I got in and sat behind the wheel, my hands gripping it tight. I could see the bar in my rearview mirror, Dee's silhouette visible through the window. She was watching me. Waiting. Making sure I actually left.
I started the engine.
The recording studio was across town, in the warehouse district where Boone spent most of his time when he wasn't on tour.
I'd been there a hundred times, but I'd always gone as help.
As the wife who brought him lunch or picked him up when his truck was in the shop.
I'd never gone as his wife. Not the way Dee meant it.
Not as the woman who had every right to walk into that studio and demand that he see me.
That he listen to me. That he remember who I was.
I pulled out of the parking spot and turned onto the main road.
The city slid past the windows, familiar and indifferent.
Nashville in September, warm and golden and full of music I couldn't hear anymore.
My hands were tight on the wheel, my knuckles white, and I could feel my pulse beating hard in my throat.
I touched the ring on my finger again, twisting it once, twice.
The engraving was worn smooth from years of wear, but I could still feel the shape of our names under my thumb.
Carly and Boone. Ten years. Ten years of writing songs nobody knew I'd written.
Ten years of standing in the background while he took all the credit.
Ten years of being invisible in my own marriage.
Not anymore.
I kept driving.