When I finally zip the suitcase shut, there’s a lump in my throat the size of Wyoming.
Tomorrow, I fly to Nashville.
Tomorrow, I find Sam Stone.
Tomorrow, I try to win him and our future back.
No matter what.
27
The next morning, our plane touches down in Nashville just after noon. The moment the wheels hit the tarmac, my stomach lurches with a combination of nerves and first-trimester nausea churning through me like a storm. Tish, ever the rock, squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go until we’re safely off the plane.
“Breathe, babe. You’ve got this.”
Nashville in June is a humid dream. Sunlight filters through a haze that clings to your skin like a second layer. But I barely notice the heat. Not when every cell in my body is buzzing with one thought.
He’s here.
Sam’s here.
We check into our hotel downtown, just a few blocks from Broadway, the honky-tonk heartbeat of the city. The venue he’s playing tonight is one of the older ones that’s a restored theatre with vintage red velvet seats and gold accents, chosen intentionally for the intimate setting of his farewell tour.
I can’t stop thinking about it. That I’ll be in the same room as him. Breathing the same air.
Will he see me? Will he care?
The afternoon passes in a blur of prep. Tish puts on music while we get ready, curling her hair and talking through outfit options. I barely speak. My mind’s too far ahead, already at the show and already searching for him in the shadows of the stage.
I pull on a pair of dark denim jeans and a rhinestone-studded tank top that clings just right to my curves. The sparkles catch the light every time I move, and I don’t miss the approving look Tish gives me when I step out of the bathroom.
“You look like heartbreak in cowboy boots,” she says. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I give a shaky smile and check my reflection one last time.
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Because tonight isn’t just a concert. It’s the first step back toward the life I want.
The air is warm, thick with honeysuckle and heat, the kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel electric. Nashville breathes around us, its heartbeat strung across guitar strings and broken promises. As we step out of the rideshare, Broadway is alive. Neon signs blink and buzz overhead, casting pink and blue reflections across the pavement. Music spills from every bar, every window, every corner of this city built on heartbreak and harmony.
But none of it matters.
Because my entire world is hanging above the venue door.
Sam Stone. His face, his name, his crooked smile printed large on a tour banner. My breath catches as I take it in.That smile used to be mine. Those eyes—half-hidden under the brim of his cowboy hat—used to see right through me. A flutter starts deep in my chest, rippling outward until my whole body hums.
There’s already a line outside. Tish and I take our place, and my heart pounds. When the doors open, we file in and find our seats. Third row center, close enough that I’ll be able to see the stitching on his jeans. Close enough to remember how it felt when he touched me.
Inside, the lights are low and moody. The air buzzes with anticipation, like something holy is about to happen. I can barely breathe.
And then the stage lights flare.
And Sam walks out.
My heart stops.
He’s real. Alive and right in front of me. Taller than I remembered. Still wearing the same flannel that used to end up crumpled on the floor of his bedroom. His guitar is slung low, his hat tipped just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes. But even from here, I can see the wear in his expression. The weight in his shoulders. He looks older. Tired. Like the months have been hard on him, too.
