Bailey
. . .
Iwake up in the Nashville house alone, sunlight creeping in through floor-to-ceiling windows that were meant to feel luxurious and instead feel hollow. The sheets on the other side of the bed are cold, untouched. Empty. Our house was never supposed to feel like this.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city just outside our gated property. Cars. Sirens. Life continuing on without me. Without us.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad down the hallway, barefoot on polished floors that still don’t feel like home. Nothing here does. Not the expensive furniture. Not the framed photos that feel more like set dressing than moments in time. It all feels like a waste, like a lie.
I don't want polished marble. I... I miss uneven wooden floors, wood stoves, and home.
I miss him.
But I have been alone in this marriage for too long.
I asked Rachel to look into divorce lawyers last night.
Someone I could trust to represent me and be discreet...
quiet. I didn’t tell her I was sure. I’m not.
I just told her I was tired. Tired of feeling alone in a marriage meant for two people.
Tired of waiting for a version of my husband who only seems to exist in apologies.
But that’s the thing, apologies without follow-through start to feel like rehearsals instead of remorse.
I make a whole pot of coffee I won't drink on my own out of habit and sit at the kitchen island, opening my laptop because I need something to make me feel good again.
The plans are already pulled up.
The dream.
I smile thinking of the maps, blueprints, budgets and photos.
I scroll slowly, my chest tightening as I take it all in.
I’d tried to get Luke involved. God, I tried.
I sent him sketches, voice notes, articles, and ideas.
Late-night messages about apple varieties, soil quality, and how the old barns could be salvaged instead of torn down.
He never responded.
I even tried to get his manager to bring it to his attention, but Dave just brushed it off, saying, "That’s future stuff, Bailey. Focus on what’s in front of you."
What was in front of me was silence. So I stopped waiting, I told myself it was easier this way.
That if I didn’t need him to choose it, I wouldn’t have to watch him walk away from it.
And I created the 'Family Dream' chat for us all to collaborate on our ideas and for them to send me anything to look over when I couldn't go home and see it in person.
It really solidified with a call from Rose, Luke's mom, her voice breathless with excitement. “There’s a property,” she said. “It already has an orchard, Bailey. Old trees, but strong. And barns. You should see it. It has enough land for everything we ever talked about and maybe even more.”
I couldn't find time in my schedule to make it home to check out the property, so instead, I jumped right in and bought it. I bought it through a family trust, with every name included.
I worked with a lawyer back home in Hawthorne Ridge.
Rachel helped me set up separate accounts for the event space, the cider business, the recording studio, and the part of the property for our homes.
Each of us would have a home on the compound, one for Rose and Thomas, even though they fought me on it, they wanted to pay their own way.
One for Sadie and Cole, one for Noah and one for Luke and me.
Our homes were set far enough back to be private, close enough to walk to the orchard at sunset, with space to expand, if we ever needed it.
If.
I scroll through the photos now and see all the work that has been done. The orchard is cleared of debris, with new saplings planted; apples, pears, cherries. Wildflowers were seeded between the rows and in some open fields, with bee boxes set up along the edges.
A text from Thomas promises his first batch of cider will be ready for Sadie and Cole's wedding, which they plan to hold in one of the old barns on our property. I smile thinking about it, my sister deserves all the happiness this world has to offer, and Cole is perfect for her.
I continue scrolling through pictures of barn beams exposed and cleaned, old wood given new life. The ground dug out where the houses will go, and the frame of Rose and Thomas’s place that is already taking shape. I approve another invoice, adjust the budget and run numbers in my head.
How much longer do I need to work like this? Tour like this? Be this version of myself to make all of our dreams come true?
If it’s just me?
If our house ends up being my house.
The front door slams open, and I jump in my seat.
“Bailey!” Luke’s voice echoes through the house, loud and frantic. I don’t move. I stay where I am, sitting at the island, hands resting on either side of my laptop, heart pounding like it doesn’t know whether to break or mend.
His footsteps come fast, heavy and familiar. And then he’s there in front of me.
God.
He looks good, tired, but still breathtaking to me in a way I don't know if I will ever describe properly. His dark hair is wild and messy, like he's been pulling on it. His dark blue eyes are wild. He looks a little wrecked, like he ran straight here without thinking it through.
When was the last time we were in the same room? In the same city?
He drops his bags like they don’t matter and crosses the space between us quicker than I thought possible.
“Bailey,” he says again, softer now, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he says my name too loud.
I just stare at him. I am feeling too much right now, and I don't know if I trust my words.
He cups my face, forehead pressing to mine, breathing me in like oxygen. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I fucked up. I know I did. I’m here now. I’m going to fix it. I should have been there. I should have told you. I watched you do that alone.... and I.... ”
The words are far too familiar, so I pull away and get off the stool, putting it between us, my elbow bumps my laptop, Luke stops short when he sees the screen, blueprints, maps, numbers layered over images of land that doesn’t look anything like Nashville.
He squints. “What’s that?”
I don’t answer right away. Because this, this right here, is the part where things usually fall apart. Where I talk, and he nods, and nothing actually changes. Or I talk, and he gets frustrated, and we fight.
“Bailey?” He steps closer, glancing from the screen to my face. “What is all this?”
I close the laptop slowly, like I’m putting something fragile away. “It’s the compound,” I say. “The orchard. The property back home.”
His brow furrows. “You mean the idea?”
“It’s not an idea anymore.”
That gets his attention.
He drags a hand through his hair, already overwhelmed. “Okay. Maybe we don’t do this right now. I just got here. Can we...” He gestures vaguely between us. “Can we not jump straight into… everything?”
Everything. That word hangs between us like a warning.
“You didn’t come here to talk?” I ask quietly.
What did he expect?
What did I expect?
He exhales, frustration flickering across his face before guilt replaces it. “That’s not what I meant. I just... Bailey, I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I hate that I did. I never meant for it to get this bad.”
I laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You never mean to. That’s the problem. But here we are.”
He steps closer, “I am trying to make something of myself. For us. For our families.”
“I know,” I say. And God, I do. That’s what makes it hurt.
“I just need one shot,” he continues. “One chance to prove I can do this on my own.”
“And where does that leave me?” I ask.
Waiting again. Always waiting.
He opens his mouth and then closes it. The silence stretches.
“I was sitting right here last night alone after the award show, while other people were celebrating my success, while people were speculating about my life… about you,” I say, pressing my palm to the island.
“I was sitting here alone, trying to figure out if this is what marriage is supposed to feel like. Trying to figure out how it all went wrong with us.”
His face crumples, “I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “I can’t.”
“You already are,” I whisper.
Something in him snaps then, not anger, but fear.
I see it play out in his eyes. He closes the distance between us, hands cupping my face like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
“I love you,” he says urgently. “I love you so much it scares the hell out of me. It has only ever been you, Bailey. I have loved you my whole life.... I... I don’t know how we got so off track, but I swear to you, I’m trying. I am going to try.”
I search his eyes for something solid. Something new, but all I see is familiarity. All I hear are the same words.
“I asked Rachel about divorce lawyers,” I say, the words tasting bitter and unreal. “I didn’t call one. I just… needed to know what my options were.”
He goes still, and for a moment, he looks like the boy I fell in love with so many years ago.
“You were going to leave me?”
“I was trying to figure out how much longer I could keep feeling like this,” I say. “I cannot keep living like this, Luke.”
He pulls me into his chest before I can step back, holding me too tight, like pressure might fuse us together again.
“No,” he says, voice breaking. “No, don’t do that. Don’t give up on us. Not now. Not when I’m finally on my way. I know it, Bailey. You have to give me more time, another chance, please, Sunshine.”
His use of my childhood nickname brings tears to my eyes, and then his mouth finds mine before I can respond.
The kiss is frantic. Messy. All teeth and breath and need.
It feels less like desire and more like survival.
I kiss him back because I miss him. Because my body remembers how much I love him.
Because part of me still believes that if we can touch enough, maybe we won’t have to talk, we won't be over.
He lifts me, carrying me toward the couch like he’s done a hundred times before, like this is muscle memory etched into both of us. My legs wrap around his waist without thinking, my forehead pressed to his as if staying this close might keep everything else from crashing in.
His hands are shaking. I feel it when he sets me down, feel it in the way he touches me like he’s relearning the shape of me, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t memorize every inch he will forget.
His mouth trails along my jaw, my neck, my shoulder, and he keeps whispering my name under his breath like it’s a prayer.
“Bailey,” he murmurs, over and over. “God, Bailey. I missed you, this.”
I clutch at his shirt, fingers digging in, anchoring myself to him. To this moment. To the version of us that still exists when we’re this close.
We don’t undress so much as fall apart. Fabric is pulled too hard, buttons fly, and knees knock into the edge of the couch. It’s clumsy and rushed and desperate in a way that makes my chest ache. Like if we slow down, we’ll have to talk again. Like if we stop touching, the truth will catch up.
He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally remembered how to breathe. I kiss him back just as hard because my body remembers how to move with his, how to meet him in this without thinking. This isn’t about want, It’s about fear.
He presses his forehead to mine, breath unsteady. “Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t give up on us.”
My heart cracks open at the sound of it, but also… how dare he make this sound like it is me giving up. I try to pull away.
“Luke…” I start, but he kisses me again, swallowing the words before they can turn into something final.
He’s over me now, our bodies lined up like they were always meant to be, and for a split second it feels like the world narrows down to just this, heat, breath, skin.
There’s no careful buildup, no teasing. It’s almost as clumsy as our first time, all urgency and instinct and emotion spilling everywhere. Somehow, that feels right.
It feels like an apology.
It feels like coming home.
But home shouldn’t feel this fragile.
It...
It feels like pretending this one moment can stitch us back together.
He moves like he’s barely holding on, like he’s afraid this might be the last time, and I meet him there, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in, grounding us both.
When he comes undone with me, it’s fast and intense and overwhelming, like he’s been carrying this weight in his body for too long.
For a few heartbeats afterward, there’s nothing but us, tangled together on the couch, skin slick, breaths slowly finding their rhythm again.
The house is still too quiet.
He shifts, pulling me closer, his arm heavy across my waist like he’s afraid I might slip away if he loosens his grip. His thumb traces slow, absent circles against my hip.
“God,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I missed you. I missed us.”
I close my eyes and a memory slips in uninvited.
It had been a week since we had seen each other.
On my first tour, he had some gigs he said were too important to skip.
To make it up to me, Luke drove eight hours straight just to sleep beside me.
He was so tired by the time he got to me that he crashed.
We slept, holding each other close, and then he was gone the next morning.
I want to believe him, I really do. But it is so hard; we have drifted so far from each other. It is not about loving him, I don't think I can exist without that being true. I will always love him. But is it better for me to be on my own, instead of alone in a marriage?
But am I really going to walk away from him?
“We don’t have a lot of time,” I say, softer now.
“I know,” he says, kissing my shoulder. “But let’s take what we have. Just us. No pressure. No plans.”
He pulls away to grab us some wine. The laptop wakes again. He turns, and his dark blue eyes lock onto mine.
"Let’s not worry about the future and what-ifs right now. We’ve got time. I promise to look at all of this with you next time we are home, ok. We can plan it all out together.”
It already is planned out... more than planned out.
I nod anyway. Because he’s here.
Because I still love him.
Because hope is a hard habit to break.
Because I am not ready for our love story to be over.
We spend a day and a half wrapped up in each other, cooking, laughing, making love, pretending the silence hasn’t been growing between us for years. When it’s time for him to leave, we make a plan. He’ll join me for part of the tour. He’ll show up more and meet me halfway in everything.
We’ll really be together again, with that thought hope returns and I let myself believe it.
Believe in us.
One more time.