15. Bailey #2
Today's date is a dull ache in my chest.
Jackson’s voice booms through the stage speakers. The crowd is enormous. The roar is physical.
“I’ve got a special guest tonight,” He says, and even backstage I feel the energy shift. “And we’ve got an announcement.”
My pulse roars in my ears. Rachel’s hand touches the middle of my back, steadying.
Then Jackson says my name. “Come on out, Bailey.”
I step out onto the stage, and the light hits me first, and then the roar of the crowd comes at me like a wave.
My smile locks into place, as the crowd loses their minds.
For a second, I can’t breathe, because the sound is so loud and my pain has been forced to be so quiet, and the contrast is almost obscene.
Jackson steps toward me, warm and confident, and leans into the mic.
“There she is! Everyone give her a warm welcome!”
My smile stays in place like a shield.
He turns slightly, lowering his voice to me alone. “You got this,” he murmurs.
I nod and he turns back to the crowd.
“A little birdie told me it’s your birthday.”
The crowd erupts again, singing, cheering, chanting my name like their love can drown out my loss.
My stomach flips, and my throat tightens, but I swallow my pain like it’s a skill I’ve perfected.
I feel the mask settle fully on my face.
And then Jackson looks at me, eyes steady, he’s offering me control.
I lift the mic and say the line.
The one Luke will hear.
The one the internet will replay.
“There’s no place I’d rather be.”
The words taste like ash. They make me feel sick because I’m not petty by nature. I’m not cruel. I’m not here to hurt anyone. But I also think... just for a flicker of a second...
If he’s watching, he should know what that means. How it feels…
He tossed me aside. He threw away seven years of marriage and a lifetime of friendship, family, love. And he didn’t even call.
So yes, I say it.
Let him hear it.
Let him feel even a fraction of what I have felt.
Then something in my chest lifts, not because I’m okay, but because I finally stop trying to protect him from consequences.
Jackson grins, and the band hits the first chord, and I sing. It's not careful or small...
I sing like a woman who has spent years dimming herself to fit beside a man who kept needing her to shrink.
No more.
The crowd is singing back at me, and I feel power and pain in the same breath.
I feel distance from my old self. I feel…
release. And when Jackson harmonizes with me, it doesn’t feel like a replacement.
It feels like collaboration, like respect.
Like someone standing beside me without needing me to disappear.
When the song ends, the roar is deafening.
Jackson pulls me into a quick side-hug, then he leans close. “You good?” he asks again.
I nod, because I am still standing, and right now that’s all I have.
The party is industry-heavy, with bright smiles, expensive perfume, laughter that doesn’t reach eyes, and everyone hunting for opportunity like its prey. I usually avoid parties like these.
Rachel stops me just before we enter, her hand is light on my elbow.
Her voice is low. “They served him,” she says.
My body stills, a strange, heavy sense of finality overwhelming me.
I blink once.
“Okay,” I say.
Rachel watches my face. “We can leave.”
I shake my head.
“I can’t,” I say quietly. “I need to do this.”
Rachel nods once, understanding that this isn’t ambition. It’s survival.
Jackson is at my side as we enter the room. He feels oddly like a barrier made of calm. The buzz shifts the second people see us. Heads turn as conversations pause. And then they come, industry stars, producers, writers, label execs, other artists.
Jackson does something subtle and brilliant: he introduces me before anyone can define me.
And then when someone asks how I got so lucky to score a deal to work with Jackson, he jumps in and says, “I am the lucky one. I get to be the first artist to collaborate with her. I’ve been wanting to work with her for five years.
I saw her sing in a bar in Nashville right before she got signed, and I have been after my team to make something happen. ”
What...
I swallow hard.
Five years...
Five years I spent trying to keep Luke from feeling threatened.
Five years I spent turning down opportunities because his love demanded sacrifice.
Jackson continues, his voice casual but the message deliberate. “She’s not just the voice you hear on the radio. She’s an incredible writer. She’s got grit and heart. She’s the reason half your favourite songs sound like they’ve lived through something.”
People laugh and lean in; they listen to him intently. And I realize something with a strange, cold clarity: He’s lifting me up.
Without taking anything from me.
Without making it about himself.
It’s so different it almost hurts.
Rhett, an artist with a platinum grin, claps his hands and says, “We should make the next country anthem. 'No place I’d rather be'.”
Everyone laughs and I smile politely. Inside, something twists. That line means something different to me than it ever will to them. But I keep moving. Keep smiling.
As the night goes on I start to relax, but then I see Dave... Luke’s manager. My stomach drops like I’ve swallowed a stone. If Dave is here, does that mean Luke is too?
Jackson notices immediately. His hand brushes my back protectively, as he says something quietly to one of his security guards, who shifts position without drawing attention.
Rachel steps closer, her presence steady.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “We’re covered.”
I nod like I can breathe, but then I see Kacey. She approaches with that bright, eager energy of someone who wants the spotlight so badly she’ll climb anything to get there.
“Bailey!” she says, like we’re friends. “Oh my God. That was amazing. I’ve been dying to see you again.”
I keep my smile polite, but I am not sure my tone matches.
“Hi,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my bare ring finger, and then away fast, like she knows what it means and wants to pretend she doesn’t.
Megan, another artist, asks, “You know each other?”
My smile doesn’t change.
“She’s… friends with Luke,” I say.
It’s a simple sentence, but it lands like a grenade. Kacey’s smile falters for half a beat. Then she brightens again, scrambling. “Yeah! We’re touring... Well, we were, you know...”
Jackson’s hand touches the small of my back, a clear signal.
“Bailey,” he says smoothly, cutting in without cutting her down, “I want you to meet someone.”
He guides me away before I have to be cruel. Before I become someone I don’t want to be. As we move, I overhear a voice behind us:
“I can’t believe Luke fell for that trash.”
Another voice answers: “Kacey’ll attach herself to any male country singer who can improve her career. No shame.”
My stomach churns. I know they’re defending me. But I don’t want it. I don’t want the ugliness. I don’t want to hear anyone tearing another woman apart because my husband couldn’t keep his promises.
I keep walking, keep smiling, and then I feel it.
That prickle at the base of my neck. That instinct that says: he’s here.
I turn without meaning to, and I lock eyes with Luke across the room.
He looks wrecked. Not just hungover. Not just tired. Wrecked in the way a person looks when they’ve been hollowed out and are still trying to stand upright.
His eyes are wild, angry... desperate. And for one split second, I see the boy I used to know underneath it all. Then it’s gone, buried under whatever he’s become.