Chapter Ten
Ten
Later that night, the firelight flickered and played along the walls of Gunner’s living room.
Aubrey, weary from a long day, was happy that she had a night off tonight.
Cocooning herself in a large armchair near the dancing flames, she wrapped her knees close and watched as Gunner’s fingers moved deftly over his guitar strings.
The tune he played was raw and unrefined—simply him, free of performance or artifice; there was no audience, no spotlight, just his unguarded vulnerability.
The days seemed to pass quickly as Aubrey and Gunner made the most of their time together, balancing Aubrey’s shifts at the bar with Gunner’s volunteer work.
God, he was gorgeous.
When he paused to fix a tuning peg, her eye noticed a crinkled, yellowed piece of paper peeking out from his guitar case. “What’s this?” she murmured, reaching out tentatively.
Gunner shot a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant, his jaw tightened as an emotion flashed behind his eyes—a mixture of warning and plea that she couldn’t decipher.
“Just an old photo,” he replied quietly as his fingers grazed an accidental, lingering note that seemed laden with extra meaning.
With careful gentleness, Aubrey opened the picture and let her thumb trace its creases as if trying to ease the sting of old memories.
Though faded, the image clearly showed a young Gunner—maybe six or seven years old—sitting next to an older man whose kind eyes and weather-beaten face radiated warmth; they both held guitars and smiled.
“Is this your grandpa?” she asked softly, her touch along the edge of the photo delicately caressing what once was.
Gunner fell silent. He set his guitar aside and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as his eyes remained fixed on the shifting flames.
Finally, his voice emerged, rough yet measured: “Yeah. That was the summer he taught me to play.” He drew in a long, heavy breath before continuing, “He was the first person who ever made me feel like I was good at something. More than just…good—worthy.”
She sat quietly, letting the silence between them deepen.
“He used to say that music wasn’t about chasing perfection; it was about sharing your truth, even if it hurt,” Gunner went on, locking his eyes with hers and causing something to tighten painfully within her chest. “I stopped visiting him after I got signed. I kept promising myself I’d find the time, you know?
But I never did. And then he was gone.” His hands clenched into fists under the soft light, the slight tremor in his voice betraying deeper wounds that simple words couldn’t mend.
Without thinking, Aubrey slid off her chair and knelt beside him.
She reached out and took his hand, their fingers intertwining in a grasp that was both tender and conflicted.
The warmth of his skin reminded her vividly of what she longed for, yet it also stirred the fear of dismantling the walls she had so carefully erected.
As she gently rested her forehead against his thigh, she realized with painful clarity how deeply she cared for every flawed, scarred part of Gunner.
When she pulled back slightly, he began to strum his guitar again. Her gaze wandered back to the old photo, where genuine smiles and a palpable bond leaped from the sepia-toned memories. “Tell me more about him,” she urged softly.
For a long moment, Gunner’s fingers hovered uncertainly over the strings.
The pause was heavy with unspoken memories until he finally said, “He was more than just family to me. He taught me about life, about love and about the soul of music. When we played together, it was like we were speaking in a secret language meant only for us. His lessons weren’t solely about chords and melodies—they were about staying true to yourself, to the music and to the people you cherish.
” Each word painted a richer picture of the man Gunner hoped to become—a man forever tethered to his grandpa’s wisdom, yet haunted by the loss of that guiding spirit.
In the intermingling of past and present, Aubrey saw not only the acclaimed, mysterious artist but also a wounded soul still aching for healing.
She understood completely. She herself carried broken pieces of a soul she wasn’t sure would ever fully mend.
Eventually, Gunner let his fingers rest on the guitar, leaving a resonating note hanging in the air.
His eyes drifted back to the lively flames.
“When I was a kid, we’d sit on the porch together, watching the sunset.
He taught me the value of honest work—the kind that leaves your hands rough and your soul quietly satisfied. ” Gunner’s voice shimmered with memory.
Aubrey absorbed the details: the way his jaw tensed on certain words, how his broad shoulders seemed to curl inward, as if trying to contain the ache.
“Grandpa had this way of making things simple, you know?” he said.
“He’d work sunrise to sundown, and no matter how busted up his hands got, he’d still find time to make up stories or whistle old hymns.
I think he believed if you just kept moving, kept doing, nothing bad could get too close. ”
But there was more, something swirling just beneath the gentleness—a storm brewing in Gunner’s faraway gaze.
“Then came Nashville,” he continued, each word dragged through bitterness. “The music started out like the best high I’d ever known. I thought I’d finally found a way to honor him. I wanted to make him proud, like maybe he’d hear my song on the radio and know it was me.”
He laughed, sharp and self-deprecating. “But somewhere along the line, it stopped being about music. Or him. Or even me. The spotlight turned everything urgent and desperate, and suddenly I didn’t know who the hell I was without it.
I got lost.” The line of his mouth hardened, his eyes distant.
“I traded my roots for painkillers and a badge—a badge that said ‘Famous,’ even if I couldn’t look in the mirror anymore. ”
Aubrey’s hand hovered for a moment before she let it rest quietly on his knee. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t force comfort, just offered warmth and presence. The gesture made Gunner shiver, and some small, battered part of Aubrey’s heart shivered, too. She understood wanting to run or escape pain.
He looked down at her hand, then at her.
For a second, the old Gunner flickered back—a boyish, crooked grin, a flash of what might be hope.
“I used to think if I just played the songs loud enough, numbed the pain down deep enough, I could somehow find myself again. But demons don’t run.
They wait. And eventually, you gotta face ’em. Otherwise, you’re done.”
Aubrey nodded. “You’re not the only one who ever tried to run,” she said, her voice steady. “But you didn’t fail. You’re here.”
He reached for her hand, enveloping it in both of his. His touch was warm, rough with calluses, and for a blinding second Aubrey could see the boy he’d been, sitting on a porch with an old man, learning about the world one story at a time.
“Remembering him used to hurt,” he said, so softly she almost missed it. “But now it doesn’t. I stay sober. I’m a better man for many reasons, and he’s a big part of that.”
She traced her thumb along the side of his hand, memorizing the landscape of his scars and veins. “He’d be so proud of you,” she whispered.
For a long moment, the world shrank to just them—and his sweet stare on her that drank her in.
“I think you’re right about that,” he eventually replied quietly.
Aubrey wanted to say more—wanted to tell him how her own ghosts still rattled chains, how the city lights of Atlanta haunted her even when she slept, how much it meant to be seen in this place, at this hour, by someone who understood the way pain could double as fuel.
But the words tangled up inside her. Instead, she looked into his strong stare that had overcome so much, searching for a reflection of her own longing for finding her place in this world again.
Gunner offered it, unguarded, holding her gaze. “Thank you,” he said, voice raw. “For listening. For sitting with me while I lay it all out.”
“That’s what friends do,” she replied, surprised by how true it felt.
He turned her hand over and pressed his lips, chapped and earnest, to the inside of her wrist. The simplicity of the gesture—intimate, not desperate—made Aubrey’s pulse stutter.
“Friends, huh?” he teased, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to let her know he’d noticed the tremor in her hand, the catch in her breath. “You sure about that?”
She almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “More than friends then?”
He squeezed her hand with a gentleness that reverberated down to her bones. “Definitely more.” He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from Aubrey’s face. “Wanna know something?” he asked, his voice lighter, but no less sincere.
She tilted her face to meet his. “What’s that?”
“I think you’re the first person I’ve let see me in years. Like, really see me. Not just the cowboy, or the singer, or the mess I made in Nashville.” He studied her, earnest to the core. “I missed that. I missed being a whole person.”
Aubrey felt her heart squeeze, tight and aching. “Me too,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think I left half of myself back in Atlanta. Feels like it’s still there, waiting for me to return. But the other half—she’s here, trying to figure out what it means to be whole again.”
He touched her cheek, gentle and reverent. “Then maybe we can help each other. If you want.”
The offer was as terrifying as it was beautiful. Aubrey wanted to accept, wanted to believe she could build something honest from the wreckage of her old life. But fear clawed at her, as it always did when so many things had gone wrong before.
She hesitated, and Gunner saw it. “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s okay. No pressure. Just… I like sitting here with you. That’s all.”