“If I meet your family, and she starts asking questions about where I went and who I was with . . .”
“Tell her the truth. That you had dinner with friends.”
“Are we friends?”
The question carries weight, implication. I consider it seriously, thinking about the easy intimacy of our recording sessions, the way she trusts me with her music even when she won’t trust me with anything else.
“I hope we’re more than that,” I say honestly. “But if friends is where you’re comfortable starting, then we’re friends.”
She nods slowly, like she’s making a decision that scares her. “Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at five. It’s a forty-minute drive to the ranch.”
“I can drive myself.”
“You could. But then I’d spend the whole night wondering if you’d bolt halfway through dinner.”
“I might bolt anyway.”
“At least if we drive together, I can try to talk you out of it. And if you decide to bolt during dinner, Levi has a couple horses.I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you saddled one up and took it to the city.”
A real smile breaks across her face, the first genuine one I’ve seen in days. She paused for a long time, and I swear I could see the wheels turning in her head.
“If I go, what should I expect?”
“Chaos. Laughter. Levi grilling steaks that are too big for human consumption. Stormy asking inappropriate questions about our relationship status. Willow playing guitar until someone makes her stop. Zara watching everything like she’s taking notes for later interrogation.”
“Sounds overwhelming.”
“It is. But it’s also . . .” I search for the right word. “Home. Family. They’re why I’m here and not sitting in some bar, nursing my wounds in Los Angeles or . . .” I shrug.
“Sunday,” she says again, like she’s testing the word.
“Sunday.”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Five o’clock.”
Sunday arrives gray and humid, the kind of Tennessee afternoon that promises storms later. I pull up outside The Songbird at exactly five o’clock, palms sweating against the steering wheel like I’m seventeen again and picking up my first date.
The venue sits dark and quiet. I’m reaching for my phone to text Rye when she appears from the side entrance, locking the door behind her.
She’s wearing a sundress the color of faded denim, hair loose around her shoulders instead of the practical ponytail she wears at work. She looks nervous and beautiful and like she’s already regretting this decision.
“You’re early,” she says, walking toward the car.
“Actually, I’m exactly on time. You’re ready early.”
“Second thoughts?”
“Third and fourth thoughts. But I’m here.”
