“People were in line in front and behind me, but no one noticed me falling apart. I remember thinking, ‘Sabrina was right. My voice really doesn’t matter.’ No one cared that it was her voice violating my song. When I was breaking, no one saw or cared.”
He scratches his temple, then rubs it hard as if he can erase the memory.
“The lyrics hadn’t changed. Well, not entirely. She left out the fourth verse, the one I nearly didn’t write downbecause it felt too frightening to share. Opening myself to ridicule and rejection.”
“I know this is hard, Beau. Take your time.” Resting my head on his upper arm, I keep listening, sensing that he’s getting to an even more significant truth.
“But she kept the rest of my song the same. My sound, my truth, the emotional fingerprint of the song. She recycled it for her spotlight. But it was stillme.Still everything I’d poured out when I didn’t know how else to hold the longing I couldn’t explain yet. She only erased my name, not my soul.”
My breath catches, not loud, but enough. I step closer instinctively, putting my arm around his waist.
Here. I’m here. I try to communicate without words, letting him keep going.
“The betrayal? Yep. That hurt. But the worst part? Realizing I started to believe that maybe the words only mattered when someone else sang them. That my voice wasn’t enough.”
His thumb strokes the guitar pick again, absently.
“So I stopped. Performing. Writing. Singing and playing even for fun in front of anyone. Because if no one saw it, no one could take it. Hiding wasn’t safer. It just felt like the punishment I deserved.”
“No,” I whisper, barely.
“Leaving my musical career behind became the price I thought I had to pay for trusting the wrong person with my inner being. I felt complicit in the loss of my song. Foolish, naive.”
He lets out a long sigh in which I sense a little relief, maybe even a sense of lightening, having told me all this. But there’s more.
“I did call her, afterward. Asked her why. She said itwas bigger than both of us now. That the song needed a platform. That my name didn’t matter, only the message. And when I pushed back, she told me I was being dramatic. That I was imagining the slight. That I should be grateful it was getting heard at all. Like I should thank her for stealing it.”
My fingers twitch with the urge to throw something. Anger floods my gut. I feel like…like…pinching her. A low guttural rumble escapes from my throat instead. Protective.
“It wasn’t just a song to me. It was so much more. It was everything. I think part of me was writing it about her at the time. I wanted it to be about her. But deep down…I knew it wasn’t. I was writing for something I didn’t know existed yet. And after I met you—after I really saw you—then I knew.”
I reach for his hand again and trace my thumb across the back of it, needing to anchor myself to the truth of what he’s saying. He lets out a slow breath but doesn’t look away.
“It was never about Sabrina. I tried to make it fit her because she was there, and I thought love meant writing for the person you’re with. But the words didn’t belong to her. They belonged to the woman I hadn’t met yet. To the love I didn’t understand until you walked in.”
“Did you ever think about fighting for it?” I ask, softly.
His brow creases. “I did. For about a minute. And then the shame crept in. I couldn’t even play it while I was by myself for a long time. It felt poisoned. I kept wondering if I’d made it all up. If maybe it really was hers all along. That’s how fast doubt worked in me because someone I thought I loved rewrote the story without me.”
He shakes his head slightly. “I didn’t want to let music go forever, not really. But it took you coming into my life toremind me of what it could feel like to be understood—not just by someone, but with someone.”
I nod slowly, heart full, and shift a little closer so our arms touch.
“Being with you didn’t erase the past, but it made me want to pick up my guitar again. Completely for me this time—and for you. Not to prove something or track down something I lost.”
He breathes out. “This all happened far enough away that Sweetpines didn’t know. I lived in Nashville at the time. Where all singer-songwriters go to chase dreams, right? Once I left Northern Chords, I left that part of me behind, and didn’t want anyone else to know about it.
“Cal Rivers.” He chuckles. “Tess helped me keep my story stashed away. I didn’t want to risk someone loving only the idea of me, or the past I came from. I hoped someone might fall for who I am now, still carrying those scars, yes, but not living in them anymore. Just moving forward.”
I nod again.
“You didn’t have to tell me all that,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, steady but glistening with unshed tears. “I did need to, though. Because you’re the first person who’s looked at present day me and seen something worth staying for.”
My throat catches. I swallow. And then I say what’s been building in my chest since the day he first looked at me as though I wasn’t too much.
“I love who you are now. Not because of your past. Not despite it. Because you let me see all of it.”
