The final chord ofCharlielingers in the air, his voice echoing through every cell in my body long after the stage lights dim, and he disappears into the darkness. I sit frozen as the crowd cheers and stands. Some are wiping tears. Others are screaming for an encore.
But I don’t move. I can’t.
Because he just sang my name like it was a promise and now he’s disappearing backstage like I never existed.
Tish touches my arm. “You have to go.”
I nod, my legs shaking as I rise. “Stay here. I’m going to try.”
She grips my wrist. “Charlotte. Good luck.”
I make my way through the sea of bodies, heart pounding. My palms are damp. My throat is dry. I move with purpose toward the side hall marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” A burly man in a black T-shirt with Sam’s face on itstands in front of the backstage entrance, arms crossed, earpiece in place.
“Hi,” I say, breathless. “I just need a second with Sam. I mean—Sam Stone. I was with him before at his ranch in Wyoming, and?—”
“No backstage access without credentials,” the man says flatly.
“I know, I know. But I’m not a fan. I mean—I am—but not like that.” I laugh nervously. “We were together. He—he wrote that last song about me.”
His brow lifts. “Right.”
“I swear. My name is Charlotte. Charlie. I just need to talk to him. Please.”
The guard’s expression doesn’t change.
“No access. No exceptions.”
“Can you just tell him I’m here? That I’m waiting?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t pass messages. If he wanted to meet someone, he’d have it on the list.”
My heart sinks.
I stand there, staring at the steel door behind him like it might magically open. Like he might appear.
But the door doesn’t budge. And neither does the man guarding it.
I step back, throat tight, eyes burning.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
I turn around and walk away before the tears fall again.
Tish is waiting just outside the venue, clutching my purse and her own tightly against her chest. One look at my face and she knows.
“No?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t even know I was there.”
She opens her arms, and I fall into them.
“Maybe he’ll see the letter,” I whisper. “Maybe there’s still time.”
But in my chest, something cracks. Because I was so close I could feel his voice in my bones, but it wasn’t close enough.
We leave Nashville the next morning, catching a short two-hour flight to Oklahoma City.
The second we step outside the airport, Tish groans. “Oh my god. This heat is criminal.”
