“Drive safe,” she says.
“Bailey.”
She meets my eyes. There’s so much in them—fear, pride, everything I’ve ever wanted.
“Come back to me,” she says.
“I will.”
I kiss her once more, taste salt and coffee and the kind of goodbye that doesn’t end. Then I climb into the truck, start the engine, and watch her fade in the rearview mirror until she’s just a shadow against the rising sun.
The road stretches ahead, slick and empty. My chest aches like a bruise I can’t tape over. Somewhere behind me, the lighthouse beam cuts through the fog—steady, stubborn, waiting.
Chapter Twenty – Crew
The road to Nashville is a long breath you forget you were holding. Cornfields give way to billboards that promise you a new you if you just buy this, wear that, smile here. I keep the radio low—white-noise country about trucks that never break and women who always forgive—and let the miles stack like reps.
David calls somewhere past the state line. “Hotel’s booked. Suit steamed. Lines in your inbox.”
“I’m not reading lines.”
“Then you’ll wing it. You’re charming when you’re cornered.”
“Not anymore.”
Silence sharpens. “Don’t get precious on me, Crew. We need this. Sponsors need to see you’re pliable.”
I stare at the dotted white line and consider a hundred answers that would end this quicker and messier. “Sponsors need to see I’m a person.”
“You’re a product,” he snaps before he can make it sound like love. He swallows and tries again. “You’re a person when we win. We do this right, everybody eats.”
“Bailey isn’t everybody.”
“She’s… a bookstore,” he says, like the word can be filed under quaint. “She’ll be fine.”
“She’s the point,” I say, and hang up because growth is not letting a conversation finish carving you down to the old shape.
The next call is Laramie, my agent. “You going?”
“I am.”
“Good. Eyes open. No closed-door signatures. Record with your memory. Don’t give them a monologue. Make theminterrupt themselves. They’ll tell you everything they’re afraid of if you let the silence stand.”
“What do I do with the fear?”
“Whose? Theirs or yours?”
“Mine.”
She chuckles. “Put it in your pocket and bring it home. I’ll label it and file it with the rest.”
“Copy.”
“Crew?”
“Yeah.”
“Proud of you for walking in and not out.”
