Sam guides me to a booth near the window, and I slide in next to him. Phern and Liam veer toward the bar, already arguing about what kind of beer counts as “real beer.”
Sam watches them for a beat, then leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the top behind me.
“You always this good at shopping?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You made that look easy.”
“I can’t remember the last time I found everything I needed that easily.” I pause. “Thank you.”
His expression softens, and something unspoken passes between us. A promise that doesn’t need to be said out loud.
A man appears and drops off two menus with a grunt.
Sam nods at him, then turns back to me. “So. Drink first, or food?”
“I could eat,” I admit. “But maybe a drink will take the edge off.”
“Edge?” He lifts a brow. “You nervous?”
“About going back to the real world?” I glance out the window at the quiet street beyond. “Terrified.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” And then, softer, “You don’t have to figure it all out today.”
I look back at him. “No?”
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together like it’s second nature. “No. You just have to be here. With me. Right now.”
For the first time since the satellite phone rang, I let myself believe that might actually be enough.
We each order a drink. Sam goes straight for whiskey neat, like he’s chasing something familiar. I pick something fruity and strong, a neon pink concoction with a sugared rim and a slice of pineapple skewered through a cherry.
“You’d drink that on a beach,” he murmurs with a smirk, watching the bartender slide it across the table to me.
“That’s kind of the point,” I grin, taking a sip. “It tastes like a vacation.”
He lifts his glass in salute, and we drink in silence for a moment, the low hum of the bar filling the space between us.
Then I ask, softly, “Why haven’t you written anything since your divorce?”
He stills.
For a moment, he just stares into his whiskey like the answer might hide in the bottom of the glass. Then he grimaces, the movement tugging tight at the corner of his mouth.
“Long story,” he says, voice rough. “Sure you want to hear it?”
“Of course I do.”
He exhales slowly, dragging his fingers through his hair before beginning.
“Gwen and I… we were high school sweethearts. Met at fifteen, said ‘I love you’ at sixteen, lost our virginity in the back of a pickup at seventeen. Marriage just felt like the next logical step.”
He pauses, takes a slow sip.
“When I got my record deal, we packed up and moved to Nashville like we were living in a damn country song. Didn’t look back.”
“But real life’s not that simple,” I say gently.
“No, it’s not.” He chuckles, but there’s no joy in it. “Neither of us knew what life on the road would really look like. I was always gone. She resented that. I resented that she resented it. And instead of talking we just let the space grow.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
