Luke
. . .
Bailey doesn’t answer any of my calls. I am half tempted to have Noah try, but I think a part of me knows exactly what that will reveal.
So instead I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s busy.
She’s flying. She’s asleep. A thousand reasonable explanations line up neatly in my head, each one softer than the truth pressing against my ribs.
I call again and it goes straight to voicemail.
The fog from my hangover is slowly being replaced by panic, as I stare at my phone as if it might explain itself. This has never happened before.
She’s been angry at me. Hurt. Exhausted. But she’s always answered. Always given me something to work with, a fight, a sigh, a clipped Luke, not right now.
Something.
This silence is new. It crawls under my skin and leaves me with an oily, ugly feeling.
I pace the hotel room, dragging a hand through my hair, replaying everything over and over like there’s a version where I made a different choice. One where I got on the plane, kept my promise and showed up for my wife.
“You gonna sit down?” Noah asks from the bed, arms crossed, watching me carve a path into the carpet.
“She’s not answering,” I snap, then immediately regret the edge in my voice.
Noah doesn’t react. “Yeah. I noticed... What did you expect?”
I stop pacing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says carefully, “maybe she’s done pretending everything’s fine.”
Something sharp twists in my chest.
“She’s not done,” I say too fast. “She just needs space.”
Noah watches me for a long second. Then he asks the one question he shouldn’t. “Do you even love her anymore?”
The room goes still. It's like I can feel my heart in my throat. “What the hell did you just say?” I bite out, heat flaring hard and fast. “Don’t ever say that.”
“I’m asking because...”
“She’s my wife,” I cut in. My hands are shaking now. “She’s my only. There has never been anyone else. There will never be anyone else. Don't you dare question that. Do not ever ask me that again.”
The words come out raw, unfiltered, because the thought alone feels like a betrayal.
Images slam into me all at once, uninvited.
Bailey at sixteen, barefoot in the dirt behind the trailers, singing like the world couldn’t touch her. She was always so shy about her voice, even though everyone knew she was made for more. She was like starlight or straight sunshine.
The night we lost our virginity, awkward, laughing, terrified, sacred in the way only firsts can be.
I had known from the moment I laid eyes on her when we were just kids that she was special, that she was the one. My friends never understood it growing up; they always told me I needed to play the field. But I knew. I knew that she was my future; she was my reason for breathing.
The night we packed my truck and left for Nashville, everything we owned rattling in the back. She cried, saying goodbye to everyone, and I promised her it wasn't for ever, just for now.
One of the first shows we performed. Bailey was terrified. But then she closed her eyes and let go. When the music stopped and the crowd erupted Bailey opened her eyes, and her smile was blinding. The crowd knew exactly what I did.
The way we used to write together, bodies pressed close on the floor, chasing melodies until morning. Making music together always felt natural, beautiful, like it was what we were born to do together.
How we would lie tangled in each other talking about having a houseful of kids someday. Her laugh tangled in a house full of noise. Growing old side by side. Raising our kids surrounded by our families and so much love.
I blink back the stinging in my eyes; there has only ever been her. Doesn't Noah understand I am doing this for her, for us... our families. My anger cracks, replaced by something colder and sharper.
“Don’t ask me that,” I say again, quieter now. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
Noah exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Then why does it feel like you’re already gone? That you are constantly choosing everything and everyone over her.”
I turn away, jaw locked. I don’t trust myself to answer without breaking something.
What Noah doesn’t understand, what I don’t know how to explain, is that loving Bailey has never been the hard part. It’s standing next to her while she outgrows me. It’s watching her become everything we dreamed of and wondering if there’s still room for me in it.
I try Bailey again and again, and go straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
My hands shake, and panic threads through me now, winding tight. I scroll through our messages, hating myself.
How the fuck did we get here?
I do the thing I never do. I call Rachel.
She answers on the second ring. “Luke.”
“Is she...” I stop and swallow hard. “Is Bailey okay?”
There’s a pause, not long, just enough to feel deliberate. Rachel doesn't answer the question; instead, she says evenly. “She’s at the Nashville house. She’ll be there for two days before she heads out to prepare for the tour.”
The house.
Relief hits first and then comes the dread.
How did I forget about her tour? When did we get to the point where I have no idea where my wife is? And how bad is it that she is willingly going to our house alone?
To Bailey, Nashville has never been home. Not really. Home is the small town back in Alberta, dirt roads, familiar faces, both our families within shouting distance. The Nashville house was always temporary to her. A tool. A means to an end.
The end being going back.
I hang up and stare at the wall. The house had been my idea. Big, expensive, with room for hosting, room for family, room for what I told myself was the future. She’d wanted smaller, quieter, something that felt like us.
“It’s just for now,” she’d said. “Until we can go home. Right?”
I’d promised her we would. I keep making promises...
I close my eyes, and my mind drifts before I can stop it.
A campfire under a wide, ink-black sky. Bailey is curled into my side like that's where she belongs. Her guitar balanced against her knee, humming while she tuned it.
Sadie, Cole and Noah were sitting across from us, trading jokes.
My dad was passing around mason jars of cider, proud even though it was still rough, still experimental. My mom was talking about apple trees as if they were already planted.
We’d talked about it like it was inevitable.
An orchard, with rows of fruit trees stretching toward the horizon. A barn big enough for weddings, shows, and community gatherings. A recording space tucked off to the side where Bailey and I could write the way we used to, no clocks, no agents, no management, no pressure.
Something for everyone. Something that meant we’d never have to leave each other again.
Then another night slams into me, like my mind is trying to show me all the ways I keep lying without trying, all the ways I am failing.
She hadn't wanted to sign the contract without me.
She had been scouted early, and they only wanted her.
She was willing to turn it down and wait for us to get picked up together.
But I told her she couldn't turn it down; it was our dream. Our chance. I promised that I would be with her every step of the way. Bailey’s voice had been soft but sure when she said it.
“Ok, Luke. I will sign. I will do this. So our families can have everything they ever dreamed of. So we can go back home.”
The memory drops away, leaving my chest tight and aching. I thought I’d catch up. That if she could do it, so could I... and I'd be right behind her.
I didn’t know how fast she’d run or how slow I’d feel standing still.
“I can’t lose her,” I say suddenly, the words tearing out of me.
Noah looks up from his phone. He’s on a call with our parents now. I can hear them in the background; he's nodding and smiling widely. I catch fragments, Bailey’s name, a property, excitement, and plans for the future. He tries to call me over, but I wave him off.
Not now. I can’t hear this right now.
He hesitates, then turns away, lowering his voice. I don’t register what he’s saying. I can’t.
I scroll through my calendar instead, fingers shaking as I count the days. I have the time, I can make the time.
“I’m going home,” I say.
Noah ends the call and looks at me carefully. “You sure?”
“I have to,” I say. “I’ll make it right.”
I don’t know what that looks like yet. I just know I can’t stand here pretending everything’s fine while the one thing that’s ever mattered to me slips away.
I don’t think about how many times I’ve said that before.
I don’t let myself count them.
I pack up as quickly as I can, asking Noah to let me know where to meet the band.
As I head for the door, one thought pulses loud and clear in my head:
I can still fix this.