It wasn’t a question.
I hesitated before admitting, “I do.”
Dad let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, I’ll be honest, I was surprised to find out my daughter was dating someone I’d never met, but after seeing you two at your concert a few weeks ago…”
“What?” I asked.
“I recognized that look,” he said, his voice softer. “The way he watched you when you weren’t looking. It’s the same way I used to look at your mom.”
I glanced away—not because I didn’t want to believe him, but because I did, and that terrified me. “Dad?—”
My mom thankfully interrupted. “But you’re afraid?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “It just…doesn’t make sense. He’s retiring after the season. He’s going back to Oregon. My whole life is here. My career, my people, everything I’ve worked for. I don’t see how any of it adds up long-term.”
Mom reached across the table, her hand warm and steady over mine. “Ellie, I say this with love—but Harold? He was a boy, and he never saw you for who you are. I didn’t say anything then because I didn’t want to meddle, but from the one time we met Sawyer…I knew. That man cares about you in a way Harold never even came close to. Don’t walk away from that just because you’re unsure where it’ll lead.”
Dad nodded. “You’ve been chasing this dream with tunnel vision for a long time. It’s okay to widen your view or for the dream to change altogether.”
The words lingered long after he’d said them. I did want something real—Sawyer and a life that didn’t keep carving me into smaller, shinier pieces. Wanting that and believing I could have it—those were two different things.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ellie
After my parents left,I told myself I’d clean up the kitchen table, sort through the stack of half-finished lyrics, maybe answer some emails or revise set lists.
Instead, I drifted from room to room, like a stranger in a house that didn’t quite feel like mine anymore. We were on a short break before the last leg of the tour, and for once, I had a few days at home. My real home, the one I'd fought for, decorated, poured pieces of myself into over the years. I’d always loved San Francisco, but now, the silence here echoed.
I was curled up on the couch in leggings and an oversized hoodie, halfway through a true crime doc I’d already seen twice, when my phone dinged.
Rachel
What are you doing tonight?
Couch. Blanket. Possibly a murder show. You?
Change of plans. You’re going out with me.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are. You need a night out. You’re starting to sound like a grandma.
I’ve got us into a new bar downtown. It’s supposed to be hot. Like, rooftop views and tattooed bartenders hot.
Girl, my social battery is in the negative
Pretty please? For me?
Ugh, fine.
Hehe, good. I’m on the way to your house.
I’ll be there in ten.
I stared at the phone for a second, then tossed it onto the cushion beside me and sighed.
When I wasn’t traveling or performing, I spent the last couple of weeks in my own head—spinning circles around my career, my feelings, and that damn journal I couldn’t stop researching, even when I came up empty every time. When I wasn’t obsessing over the journal, I was obsessing over the man who owned the house it came from, with his stupid big muscles and that stupid, annoyingly handsome face.
