She’s cut off by the sound of Janice,thegossip queen of Wild Bluff, attempting to whisper. “It’s Matt’s now. Just cancelled the sale on Monday and everything. I’ve heard it from both Matt and…”
I can’t hear what she says next, but by the wide-eyed look Becca is giving me, we’ve both come to the same conclusion—she’s talking about Jaxon’s dad’s farm.
“…busy recording for the next few months, so he wanted to make sure everything was finalized since he won’t be back...”
A loud buzzing starts in my ears, and I’m vaguely aware of Becca talking to me.
My breath is gone.
My chest isn’t aching. It’s destroyed—blown into tiny fragments.
I smile and nod, not at all sure what I’m agreeing to or with, but it seems to pacify her.
Two hours later, as the wedding comes to a close, I smile and wave as Bryn and Jameson drive the quarter of a mile to their honeymoon suite in a decked-out golf cart. Despite the crampingin my cheeks and the gaping hole in the center of my heart, I laugh at all the right times. I gush with my mom about how perfect the night was. I joke with my dad about his dance moves during the father-daughter dance.
It’s not until I head to the cottage Jameson and Bryn rented out for the wedding party, Becca’s arm looped through my own, that I let the tears flow, wave after wave, as if my body is trying to fill the hole in my soul with them.
“Oh, Iz,” Kelsey says as I walk in and find her and Carter sitting on the couch.
She pulls me into her arms, hugging me tightly to her petite frame.
And I fall apart.
Again.
Chapter forty-seven
Jaxon
Everythingfeelshollow.Evenwith the smells of champagne and chlorine lingering from the afterparty.
Some record executive booked out a rooftop pool, filled it with floating speakers and branded cocktails, and called it a disruption of the country music standards. It was terrible, but I was there anyway. Because I was told I had to be.
Andre handed me a drink the second I stepped off the stage at the HMAs, and I’d let Annie lead me around. I smiled for the cameras. I took selfies. I laughed with people I barely knew. I took a picture with Henry and Hailey Moore—the beautiful singer turned friend who happened to win three awards this year—a photo I’m sure will be splashed across the internet with thinly veiled claims that we’re sleeping together.
But the whole time, I felt like I was acting out a role I forgot how to play. Like I was lip-syncing a song because I forgot how to sing.
Now, hours later, I’m barefoot in the studio at my house, sitting on a stool with my guitar across my lap, and I still can’t find the note that makes it all make sense.
Every chord is flat. Lifeless. Like it’s missing passion.
Like it’s missing her.
I stare at my hands. They’ve always known what to do. Even when I didn’t. But now, the calluses that used to feel like armor just feel like reminders of how far I’ve gone and how little I’ve brought with me.
I shift in the seat and lean over my notebook. There are half verses scribbled across the page. A bridge that almost works. A chorus that doesn’t land.
None of it sounds like her, so none of it sounds like me.
I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, trying to quiet the ache that’s lived there since I walked away from her.
God, her face. The way she looked at me.
But I’m not giving up, and from the sounds of it, neither is she.
The door opens behind me, and I flinch. Andre steps in, holding up his phone. His face is tight, like he’s not sure if he should show me whatever he’s holding.
I nod once, and he hands it to me.
