“We got everything switched between the cabin and the house, and tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. So we’re celebrating early.”
I take the proffered shot and knock it back, then use my tongue to lick the last drop.
“Damn, that tastes like that cinnamon candy,” I say, knocking on the counter for another.
“Red Hots,” Mac provides, coming in for a kiss and a pour.
Freddy and Mason have made dinner for us, and I sit down to a lovely steak and salad, grateful for the company and the distraction from the difficult day.
Before we start eating, Mac leans over, whispering in my ear, “Are you freaking out because we moved too quickly with switching places? We just thought it’d be nice to get it done, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
I shake my head, kissing her temple. “I’m thrilled to not have to worry about that. Just a rough day at the office. All the babies made it, but…it was a little too close.”
“I bet you’ve had some real bad days there,” she says, cupping my cheek.
“Oh, yeah,” Freddy says. “I’ve been there for some of those days. I’m sure it’s mostly great, but sometimes…” He trails off.
“Exactly.”
Everybody seems to make it their job to cheer me up and make me feel better, and I can’t say I hate it. It’s nice to be cared for like this in my home. The last time I felt like someone cared this much was when Dad was alive.
Mason and Freddy wander off to the cabin after a while, and Mac pulls me into her arms.
“Are you sureyou’renot freaking out, moving in here with me?” I ask, staring into her blue-green eyes.
She shakes her head. “Not at all. Not even a little.”
* * *
Livingwith someone will tell you pretty quickly if you’re compatible, and I’ve got to say, as Mac’s physical and mental therapies continue, I’m beginning to see more and more of what I’m guessing is her real personality, combined with her new normal.
She’s had a couple of crying jags and one particularly ugly outburst at my rocking chair, but that was resolved quickly, and neither my music star nor my rocking chair was injured in the exchange.
We’ve more or less finished the song too. I’m anxious about what that means, but she’s been working on a new song, saying there’s something about this place that feeds her muse.
She always looks soft when she says that, like maybe I’m her muse. I have to shove those thoughts down, though, because she will be returning to Nashville at some point. I’ve got to figure out how to take charge of these runaway feelings before they break my heart.
Probably too late for that.
Walking in from work after another long day with some frankly depressing results, I’m surprised by what I hear.
It’s a familiar song, one of my favorites: “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. Mac’s chords still aren’t sharp, but a helluva lot better than they were just a few weeks ago. Her voice, however, is strong and in tune. It’s a little rougher than I’m used to, but that’s not a bad thing, especially with this song.
I stand in the hallway, frozen, listening to her play in the sitting room. She still has a long way to go, but it’s encouraging to have proof she’s getting markedly better each week. I know it’s been difficult for her not to be able to pick up her guitar and sing and write the way she used to, and even though we’ve had fun writing these two songs together, I’m thrilled by this progress.
A tiny bit heartbroken but thrilled.
Unfreezing myself, I slowly make my way into the sitting room, and God, her face is beaming. She starts the second verse, and I come in on the harmony, smiling as her eyes fly open.
“Don’t stop. Let’s finish the song.”
Yes, it’s one of my favorite songs, and I’m super glad to hear her singing, but the reality is, I need a minute to catch up.
She begins to sing again, and I start my harmonies. We sound so good together, and when the song ends, she goes right into a familiar set of chords. Our first song, which she’s calling “Roots and Sky,” because it’s about a love that makes you feel grounded and free.
When she sings the chorus, her voice lifts the entire living room. God, she’s amazing. Fighting back tears, I add harmony, some of which we’ve talked about, some of which I’m improvising, and it’s like magic. My voice, decent in the mid-range, takes on a different quality when combined with hers.
When the last note rings out, she sets Old Faithful aside and jump-wobbles up, pulling me into a swirling, off-kilter hug, spinning me around the room.
