26. Carly
CARLY
I stood outside Dee's bar for a full minute before I went in.
The neon sign buzzed overhead, throwing red light across the wet pavement.
My fingers wouldn't stay still. I pressed my hands together, trying to stop the tremor, but it climbed up into my chest and lodged there.
God, what was I even doing? The divorce papers had arrived three days ago, final and signed.
I wasn't his wife anymore. I didn't owe him anything.
Not an explanation, not forgiveness, not even a conversation.
But I'd been carrying this around for months, and it was eating me alive.
I'd tried to let it go. I'd tried to move on, to accept that what I'd heard that night was the truth and that our marriage had been built on a lie.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I couldn't stop replaying the moment in my head, couldn't stop wondering if maybe I'd gotten it wrong.
If maybe there was some other explanation.
Probably not. Probably I was just making excuses for him because I was still in love with him and didn't know how to stop.
I pushed the door open.
The bar was quieter than usual for a weeknight.
A few regulars scattered at tables, nursing beers and talking low.
The jukebox played something old and slow, Patsy Cline maybe, and the smell of fried food drifted from the kitchen.
My stomach twisted. I scanned the room and found him at the far end of the bar, wiping down glasses like he'd been doing it his whole life.
Boone.
He looked different. Thinner, maybe, or just tired.
His hair was longer than he used to wear it, curling at his collar.
He had on an old t-shirt and jeans, nothing like the custom-tailored stage clothes I was used to seeing him in.
The sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, showing his forearms, and there was a bar towel slung over his shoulder.
He didn't notice me at first. He was focused on the glass in his hand, polishing it carefully before setting it on the shelf behind him.
Like it mattered. Like this was the most important thing he had to do.
My throat went tight.
Dee appeared from the back, carrying a crate of bottles.
She saw me and stopped dead. Her eyebrows went up, a question she didn't ask out loud.
I nodded once. She studied my face for a long moment, like she was trying to read my mind, then set the crate down with a heavy thud and walked over to Boone.
She said something I couldn't hear. He turned his head, following her gaze, and then he saw me.
His whole body went still.
Dee touched his shoulder, said something else, and walked away. She disappeared into the back and left us alone. Well, as alone as you could be in a bar with half a dozen people pretending not to watch.
I made myself walk over to him. My legs felt unsteady, like I was walking on a ship in rough water, but I kept going. I stopped on the other side of the bar, a safe distance away, and looked at him.
"Carly," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't used it much lately.
"Boone."
We stood there, awkward and lost, neither of us knowing what to do. The space between us felt enormous, even though it was only a few feet. He put the glass down, his hand unsteady. I noticed that. His hands were never unsteady. He was a guitarist, a performer. His hands were always sure.
Not anymore.
"You got the papers?" I asked.
"Yeah. Yesterday."
"So that's it, then."
"Yeah." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "That's it."
We weren't married anymore. The weight of it settled over both of us, heavy and final.
I'd asked for this. I'd signed the papers first, sent them to him through my lawyer, and waited for him to do the same.
And he had. He'd signed them and sent them back without a fight, exactly like I told him to.
So why did it feel like I'd been gutted?
Why did it feel like I'd lost something I couldn't get back?
"I didn't think you'd come here," he said quietly.
"I didn't think I would either."
He nodded, his jaw working. He looked down at the bar, tracing a pattern in the wood with his thumb.
I watched his hands, the familiar shape of them, the calluses on his fingers from years of playing guitar.
God, I'd memorized those hands. I used to sit next to him on the couch while he worked through a song, watching his fingers move across the strings, and I'd thought I knew everything about him.
I didn't know him at all.
"Why are you here?" I asked. My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. "At this bar, I mean. Working behind the counter like?—"
Like what? Like he wasn't one of the biggest names in country music? Like he hadn't sold out arenas and won awards and made more money than most people saw in a lifetime?
He looked up at me, and something in his expression made my chest ache. "I'm here to see you."
"What?"
"I'm here to see you, Carly. To know what I lost by neglecting you."
The words landed like a punch. I stepped back, my pulse kicking up hard and fast. He didn't move. He just stood there, watching me with those tired eyes, waiting for me to say something.
"You can't just—" I stopped, tried again. "You can't just say things like that."
"I know." His voice was steady now, clear.
"I know I can't. But it's the truth. I've been here for three months, working every shift Dee will give me, because you used to work here.
You used to sing here. I wanted to understand what that was like, what you gave up when you married me.
I wanted to see it. To feel it. To know what it cost you. "
My throat closed up completely. I couldn't breathe. He was standing there, saying all the things I'd needed him to say for years, and it was too late. We were already divorced. The papers were signed. It was over.
"I've been learning what it means to serve people," he continued.
He kept his eyes on me, steady and intent.
"To show up every day and do the work, even when nobody notices.
Even when nobody thanks you for it. You did that for me for ten years, Carly.
You wrote my songs and fixed my melodies and made me better, and I never even put your name on them.
I didn't see you. I didn't see any of it. "
Like an idiot, I felt tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blinked them away, hard.
"I heard you," I said. The words came out in a rush, shaky and desperate. "That night, at the studio. I heard you talking. You said you didn't think about me the way you used to. You said she didn't know. That you weren't ready to tell her."
I saw the confusion flash across his face, then the realization, and then something that looked like horror.
"Carly—"
"I left after that. I couldn't—I couldn't stay and hear any more. I already knew, but hearing you say it out loud?—"
"That was Tuck," he said, his voice rising. "That conversation was with Tuck. I was talking about the song."
I stared at him.
"The song," he repeated. He came around the bar, moving slowly like he was afraid I'd bolt.
Maybe I would. My heart was racing, my pulse hammering in my throat.
"I don't think about her the way I used to.
I think about her all the time now, and I just realized I never tell her that.
" His voice was steady, clear. "That's what I said to Tuck.
The part you walked out before hearing was the second half.
You didn't know about the song yet. I wasn't ready to tell you because I was still writing it, still trying to get it right.
I didn't want to hurt you more by getting it wrong. "
"Oh, God." The words came out strangled. I pressed my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the sob building in my chest.
"The song is called Coming Home. It's about walking away from everything that doesn't matter and finding my way back to the person who does.
It's about realizing I lost you because I wasn't paying attention, because I was so caught up in my career and my family that I forgot the only person I should have been listening to was you.
Nashville is where we met, Carly. It's where my career began because you were the one who believed in me.
It's where you used to sing on that stage in the corner.
The song is about coming back to that. Coming back to you.
It was never about Savannah. Jesus, Carly, it was never about her. "
I couldn't stop the tears. They spilled over, hot and fast, and I turned away from him because I didn't want him to see me fall apart.
But he was already moving. He came around the bar and stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the heat off him, far enough that he wasn't touching me.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke.
"I'm so sorry, Carly. I failed you. I wasn't there when you needed me.
I didn't defend you from my family. I didn't listen when you tried to tell me what was wrong.
I let Savannah take up space in our marriage because it was easier than dealing with my mother, and I let my career take everything from you until there was nothing left.
You gave up your music for me. You gave up your name, your work, your dreams. You wrote my songs and fixed my words and made me better at everything, and I didn't even tell anyone it was you.
I silenced you. I took everything you had and I didn't even see it. "
My chest was so tight I thought I might crack open. I turned to look at him, and the expression on his face destroyed me. He looked wrecked. Completely and utterly wrecked.
"Every song I wrote was because of you," he said.
His voice was raw. "Every good line, every melody that worked, every record that mattered—that was you.
You were my partner. You were supposed to be my equal.
And I treated you like help. I treated you like you were there to make my life easier, and I didn't give you anything back.
I checked my phone when you were talking.
I let my mother say horrible things about you and I didn't stop her.
I let Savannah act like she had a claim on me because it kept the label happy, and I told myself it didn't matter because you knew the truth.
But you shouldn't have had to know the truth in private, Carly.
You should have been standing next to me in public.
Your name should have been on every song. Everyone should have known."
His words crept under my skin, breaking me open.
"You deserved better than that," he said. "You deserved a husband who showed up. Who listened. Who put you first. I didn't do any of that, and I'm sorry. I know it's too late. I know I don't get to ask for anything. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see what I did, and I'm sorry."
I didn't decide to move. My body did it on its own, closing the space between us in two steps. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down and kissed him.
He made a sound, something broken and desperate, and his hands came up to cup my face.
The kiss was hard and messy and full of everything we'd lost. I felt it all the way down to my bones, the ache and the grief and the wanting.
God, I wanted him. I'd never stopped wanting him, even when I hated him, even when I was signing the divorce papers and telling myself I was done.
His mouth was warm and familiar, his hands gentle on my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones like I was something precious.
He kissed me like he was trying to memorize me, like he thought I'd disappear if he let go.
My fingers curled into his shirt, holding on, pulling him closer.
I felt the solid warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under my palms, and I let myself have this one moment. Just this one.
Then I pulled away.
I stepped back, putting space between us again.
My hands were shaking worse than before.
My whole body was shaking, my knees weak and my spine unsteady.
Boone's eyes were dark and wide, his chest heaving like he'd been running.
His hands hung in the air where I'd been, like he didn't know what to do with them now that I was gone.
"Carly—"
"I'm scared," I said. The words came out barely louder than a whisper.
"I'm scared this is temporary. I'm scared you'll go back to the way things were as soon as I let you in.
I'm scared I'll believe you and then wake up six months from now and realize nothing's actually changed.
That you're still checking your phone when I talk.
That your mother still treats me like I'm beneath you.
That Savannah still has more of your time than I do. "
His face crumpled. He didn't reach for me, didn't take a step closer. He just stood there, his hands hanging at his sides, looking at me like I was breaking his heart.
"I don't know how to prove it to you," he said quietly. "I don't know how to make you believe me. But I'm not going back, Carly. I can't. I know what it costs now. I know what I lost."
"I want to believe you." My voice broke. "God, Boone, I want to believe you so badly. But I don't know if I can. I don't know if I'm strong enough to survive losing you again."
He nodded slowly, like he'd expected that. Like he knew it was what he deserved.
"Okay," he said.
That was all. Just okay. He didn't argue. He didn't try to convince me. He didn't ask me to stay. He didn't ask me to give him another chance. He didn't ask me for anything. He just stood there, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, and let me go.
I turned and walked out of the bar before I could change my mind.
The door swung shut behind me, and I stood on the sidewalk in the cold, pressing my hands to my face and trying to breathe.
The night air bit at my skin, sharp and clean.
My whole body ached. My chest felt like it was caving in.
I could still taste him on my lips, still feel the warmth of his hands on my face.
We weren't married anymore. We'd signed the papers. It was over.
But God, I still wanted him.
I wanted him, and I didn't know if that was enough.