“Truth,” I say, and smile because the truth scares him more than rage.
His jaw flexes. “You’re not stupid, Crew. You want to go back to your little lighthouse, fine. But this—” He gestures toward the empty stage. “This is what feeds the town that feeds you.”
“Bailey feeds herself.”
Harris laughs. “You really believe that shop can compete with a franchise check? You think love keeps the lights on?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Actually, it does.”
David clears his throat. “Let’s all take a breath—”
But I’m done breathing their air. “I’m finished.”
Harris tilts his head. “With what?”
“All of it. You, the sponsors, the act.” I pull the microphone badge from my lapel and set it on the table between us. “You can keep the script. I’m taking my voice.”
He watches me for a beat, calculating. “You walk out now, you’ll never play again.”
I think of Bailey, then wordlessly I turn, walking down the hall toward the exit. My footsteps echo—steady, deliberate. Behind me, Harris says something low to David. David doesn’t answer.
Outside, night has settled over Nashville. The parking lot gleams wet from a drizzle that didn’t earn the name rain. My truck waits where I left it. I open the door, slide behind the wheel, and sit in the dark for a long time.
The city buzzes around me—sirens, laughter, a billboard flashing my own face with the captionBack and Better.
I start the engine. The sound fills the cab, warm and rough, the only honest thing I’ve heard all day.
As I pull onto the highway, my phone lights up with missed calls, messages, notifications I don’t read. The skyline shrinks in the mirror.
Bailey’s lighthouse glows in my mind like it’s calling ships home.
The fury finally breaks, quiet and clean, leaving only purpose behind.
The next time they try to speak for me, they’ll have to find me first.
The city fades like a bruise under the rain.
One last flash of blue neon glows on the wet asphalt before the skyline disappears behind me completely, and I finally—finally—breathe.
Not the shallow, camera-ready kind. The real kind.
My knuckles ache where I’ve been gripping the steering wheel too tight. My pulse has slowed, but that restless hum under my ribs hasn’t. It’s not anger anymore. It’s something sharper. Purpose, maybe. Or the kind of calm that only comes after you’ve already decided what to lose.
The GPS voice tells me to stay on the interstate for 200 miles. I kill the sound and drive in silence.
Headlights slice through the dark. Every mile marker feels like another layer of noise falling away. Nashville, the press conference, Harris’s smug face—all of it shrinks in the rearview until it’s just me and the hum of tires on wet pavement.
The rain is steady now, a soft percussion against the windshield. It reminds me of nights on the farm, lying awake in the loft listening to storms roll across the fields. I used to count seconds between thunderclaps, pretending that meant control.
Tonight, I don’t need to count. I just drive.
Bailey’s name sits somewhere behind my sternum, steady and certain. I picture her behind the counter ofA Page in Time, sleeves pushed to her elbows, pencil tucked behind her ear.Probably pretending not to notice when her glasses slide down her nose. She never lets me push them back up for her, says she doesn’t need rescuing. She’s right.
But God, I miss the way she lets me try.
The highway stretches out, endless and wet, and my reflection in the window looks like a man I almost recognize. Not the quarterback. Not the brand. Just the guy who once handed a girl a tattered copy ofThe Outsidersand told her to keep it because she loved it more than he ever could.
Stay gold,she wrote inside the cover. Her handwriting is looping, stubborn, and beautiful.
