And I mean it. I want it. I wanther.
And we will stay in touch. For a while.
Until time zones and schedules and new people wedge themselves into the cracks we didn’t fill. Until daily check-ins become weekly texts, and weekly texts become nothing at all.
That’s the inevitable ending, isn’t it? How many times has long distance anything worked? How many times has Grayson or Gideon missed calling in for dinner because life got in the way?
I walk through the living room, switching off the lamp Lucy always leaves on, and head down the hall toward the back bedroom. Her door is open. It hasn’t been, not since she moved in. She always half-closes it behind her. Now it’s wide open. Like she’s already gone.
I stand in the doorway for a minute, hands in my pockets, staring at the space she made her own. The soft throw blanket draped over the bed. A stack of worn books on the nightstand. A pair of shoes peeking out from under the dresser.
I want to be happy for her. No, Iamhappy for her. But I’m so unbelievably sad for me. When I came to terms with the promotion Justin offered me, it felt like all the pieces were coming together. Like God realized how perfect Lucy and I were together and gave me the piece that would allow me to keep her.
But then he gave her the piece that would take her away.
Shaking my head, I head for my room and, for some reason I don’t fully understand, I go for the guitar. I pick it up carefully, brush off a faint layer of dust. Thestrings are dull, all of them at risk of snapping like the one jumping out like a question mark. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull open the small drawer in the nightstand where I still keep a handful of picks and the pack of strings I bought the other day.
It takes longer than it should to restring the thing. My fingers aren’t used to the finicky winding. I break the B string halfway through and have to start again. But eventually, I get them all on—tuned tight, notes clear and clean.
The guitar feels heavier than I remember. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m heavier.
I settle back on the bed and rest the body across my lap, the neck balanced in my hand. For a second, I just stare at it, unsure what to play. Every song I used to know has faded to background static. But my fingers move on instinct, pressing into the fretboard, finding a chord. Then another.
G major. D. E minor.
A slow progression builds, messy and disjointed at first. But with each pass, it smooths out. The rhythm settles. Something like a melody takes shape.
I don’t sing.
Never did. Not even when I played for Jadelyn. She used to joke that I sounded like a dying frog when I tried to harmonize. Lucy, on the other hand, would’ve laughed and made me do it anyway.
The thought tugs something deep in my chest.
I close my eyes and let the music carry me for a minute. The way it used to. Before life got loud. Beforethe weight of other people’s pain started sinking into my bones.
The song shifts, becomes one that feels like Lucy. All slow build and soft defiance. Bright notes layered over something steadier underneath.
I open my eyes and look around the room.
This is what it’s going to be, isn’t it?
Me. This guitar. Quiet nights and lonely rooms. A schedule I can control. A life I can live without always being called away.
A life I can live with Lucy after she’s done with the tour.
That’s what the admin job offers. Predictability. Structure. A chance to be the man someone could build a life with instead of the ghost who shows up at midnight, smelling like antiseptic and regret.
If I take the job—and I think I will—it’ll make things easier when Lucy comes back. If she comes back. I’ll be stable. Grounded. Maybe even ready for more.
Maybe she’ll be ready too.
I strum another chord, letting it ring out. It’s warm and steady. Familiar.
But it’s not enough.
Not even close.
I drop my hand, let the guitar settle silent against my leg. My breath stutters. I stare at the doorway, half-expecting her to walk in. She’d be laughing and joking. She’d pull me to my feet and kiss me, then urge me to play, smiling despite my rusty mistakes.
