Tish disappears into the bathroom with her makeup bag, humming some pop song under her breath, but I stay rooted to the edge of the bed. The hotel room is quiet, but inside my chest, everything’s loud. My heartbeat. My thoughts. The echo of Sam’s voice in my memory.
I twist the hem of my shirt in my fingers, staring blankly at the floor. We’ve flown across the country. Slept in too many hotel beds. Waited outside venues in the rain. And he still doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that I’m here. That I’m carrying his child. That I never stopped loving him.
I press my palm to my belly, the faintest curve barely there, and whisper, “We’re gonna be okay. I promise.”
But even promises feel fragile in a city this big.
The air conditioner kicks on with a low hum, and something in me stirs. A flicker of defiance. Of hope.
I stand slowly and walk to the closet where my pink dress hangs. The one I picked out weeks ago, knowing somehow, this night would come. It’s soft, with fluttery cap sleeves and a swingy skirt that hits just above the knee. It makes me feel strong. Seen.
And then, the boots. White leather with tiny stitched blue flowers along the sides. The boots that make me think of Wyoming. Of rain. Of lightning in Sam’s eyes. Of the girl I was when I first stepped onto that ranch. But these aren’t cheap knockoffs. No, they’re the real thing.
I slip into the dress. Zip it up with trembling fingers. Then pull the boots on and smooth my hands down the skirt.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the ghost of a girl who sobbed into her pillow every night. I see someone who’s still standing. Still fighting.
Tish comes out of the bathroom and stops.
“Ready?”
I take a deep breath, my reflection nodding back at me.
“Yeah,” I say, voice steady. “Let’s go.
The car ride to the venue is quiet at first. The city flies past in blurs of color and light, but I hardly see any of it. I keep one hand pressed against my stomach, grounding myself. Tish steals glances at me now and then, like she’s worried I might bolt. But I won’t.
When we pull up to the venue, the sheer scale of it takes my breath away. The marquee glows in soft amber light against the dusky sky:Sam Stone — Coming Home: Final Tour Stop.
I swallow around the lump forming in my throat.
The crowd is massive. People are gathered in clusters, cowboy hats and rhinestones glinting like stars. A line snakes around the building. The buzz in the air is palpable and feels magical.
Tish turns to me as we step out of the car.
“You good?” she asks, slipping her phone into her bag.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I’m here.”
“That’s what matters.”
We walk toward the entrance, weaving through fans laughing and sipping overpriced drinks. I clutch my ticket so tightly it wrinkles. My boots click softly on the pavement. Every step closer to the doors makes my heart beat harder.
Inside, the venue hums with anticipation. The lights arelow. The stage is massive, wrapped in velvet curtains and flanked by glowing sconces shaped like lanterns. It looks like something out of a dream.
I find my seat. Front row center.
I don’t even remember breathing as I sit down. I just lower into the seat like my knees might give out. Tish finds her spot a few rows back and blows me a kiss with both hands.
This is it.
No storm. No distance. No security guard or back exit.
Just me and the last night of a tour born from heartbreak.
The lights dim slowly. A hush spreads through the crowd like a reverent wave.
And then Sam steps onto the stage.
