“Careful there,” Joe warns as he slides a fresh napkin across the counter. “Just made that batch. Still pretty hot.” His attention shifts to new customers before I can respond, leaving me alone with a scalded mouth and racing thoughts.
A flash of an expensive coat catches my eye, and I recognize its owner immediately. Daisy, the band’s agent, stands partially turned away from the crowd, her perfectly manicured hand pressing her phone closer to her ear.
“No, listen,” she says, voice carrying barely contained excitement. “The timing is perfect. We’ve got momentum from the Christmas show. You should see the crowd here tonight.” Her free hand gestures despite the fact that the person she’s talking to can’t see the movement. “Nikko has worked his magic on them.”
My fingers tighten around the paper cup, heat seeping through the cardboard. But the cider doesn’t burn as much asher next words do. “You know how it is, he could never be idle. Six months max before we start recording.” She laughs at whatever response comes through the phone. “Trust me, I know my boys.”
The cider turns bitter on my tongue as implications sink in. Six months. Recording. Words that carry promises about to be broken. A future I’ve barely allowed myself to imagine is crumbling before it can fully form. Because Bastian swore he was staying this time. He promised me the farm and his family come first now.
“The label will be thrilled,” Daisy continues, oblivious to the way her casual conversation is shattering my world into sharp-edged pieces. “Nikko’s already got a preliminary tour schedule worked out.”
Of course he does. Nikko’s efficiency is legendary. After all, his efforts combined with Finn’s have made this year’s Christmas Festival a success. But the knowledge that he’s been plotting this while we’ve all believed Bastian’s promises about staying burns like acid in my throat.
“No, they’re all on board,” Daisy assures whoever she’s talking to, the confidence clear in her tone.
The festival continues around me as I stand frozen with my cooling cider. Laughter and music mix with the scent of pine and cinnamon, creating a holiday atmosphere that feels like a joke now.
Because I know the truth now. I understand with a clarity that burns like winter wind against exposed skin. No matter what promises Bastian’s made, no matter how sincere his intentions might be, Sebastian Hall will always choose performing over everything else. Over farm, over family.
Over me.
I don’t know how much time has passed while I’m deep in my thoughts, but I notice a shift in the music. Hall of Fame hasa particular sound they’ve honed over the years. I’d recognize it anywhere.
“Hey, you disappeared,” Bastian says as he slides into the space beside me. His face glows with post-performance energy, a slight sheen of sweat still visible at his temples. When his hand brushes mine, his touch feels like a brand against skin that’s suddenly too sensitive.
“I needed a drink,” I manage, my words coming out steadier than I feel.
His smile shows no sign of guilt or hesitation, no indication that he’s planning to shatter everything he’s promised. The realization makes something twist sharply inside me.
“Come on,” he says, his fingers lacing with mine. “Let’s watch from a better spot. These guys are incredible live.”
His enthusiasm appears genuine. How does he manage to compartmentalize so effectively?
The crowd shifts to accommodate us as he guides me closer to the stage, his hand steady against my lower back in a way that used to feel comforting, but now it makes me want to curl up and disappear. We end up near the sound booth where I was before. Finn is no longer here.
“Watch their drummer,” Bastian says, leaning close enough that his breath stirs the hair near my ear. “She’s amazing.”
When the song ends, the lead singer launches into a speech about the importance of community and connection, but all I can focus on is the weight of Bastian’s presence beside me. The way his body moves unconsciously to the music in a rhythm he probably doesn’t even realize he’s matching. Because music is his natural habitat, not quiet mornings in a barn or stolen moments between farm chores.
My head begins pounding in earnest as minutes stretch endlessly before me. Each song blends into the next, creating a soundtrack to thoughts that won’t stop circling—six months,recording, tour plans already being made. The pressure builds behind my eyes until the lights blur into meaningless patterns.
“You okay?” Bastian asks suddenly, concern clear in his voice as he studies my face. His hand finds my cheek. “You look pale.”
“Just a headache,” I tell him. “I think I’m going to head home.”
“I’ll come with you,” he offers immediately because, of course, he does. Because he’s still playing the role of devoted partner perfectly, even while planning his escape from promises he’s made. “I can have Nikko handle?—”
“No,” I cut him off sharper than intended, drawing a slight frown that I force myself to ignore. “Stay. Enjoy the show.” My voice softens slightly as I add, “Spend time with your friends.”
“You sure?” His concern appears genuine, making everything hurt worse somehow. Because he probably does care, probably means every sweet word and gentle touch. Just not enough to choose this life over the call of the spotlight that’s already drawing him away.
“I’m sure,” I manage, already pulling away. “Just need some sleep.” The excuse sounds weak even to my ears, but he accepts it with a nod.
“Text me when you get home safe?” he asks, hand reaching for mine one last time. I let him capture my fingers briefly, then I pull away, turning toward the exit before he can see the truth written across my face.
The crowd parts around me as I move with a single-minded determination toward the festival’s edge, the music following me home. My vision blurs slightly as I finally cross the threshold into my house, allowing the first tears to fall.
31
