He took my hand, laced our fingers together. “I talked to Decker, Faith, and David last night. Had a whole band meeting about the future.”
My stomach dropped. “Cole.”
“Let me finish.” He squeezed my hand. “Faith got a job offer. Backup singer and keys for The Sullivan Brothers. They’re ahuge country act, arena tours, the whole thing. She’s been wanting something like this for years.”
“That’s great for her.”
“It is. She’s leaving the band after we finish this album cycle. She called me yesterday, completely freaking out. Happy freaking out. And you know what she said?”
“What?”
“That she was worried about abandoning the band right when things are taking off. I told her she was being an idiot. This is her dream and she should take it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. And then she told me I was being an idiot, too.” His voice cracked. “That I’ve been running myself into the ground trying to do everything. Be everywhere. Make everyone happy. Live this life the label wants while also trying to keep you.”
“Cole…”
“She asked me what I actually want. Not what the label wants. Not what’s expected. What I want.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “And I realized I couldn’t answer. Because I’ve been so busy doing what I’m supposed to do that I forgot to ask myself if I even want it anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
He stood, paced to the window. “The label had us doing radio interviews at six AM, shows at night, driving through the night to the next city. We’d play, pack up, drive, repeat. I wasn’t making music anymore, Autumn. I was a product on a conveyor belt.”
My chest tightened.
“I realized last week that I haven’t written a song in two months. Not because I’m too busy. I could find time, but because I don’t feel anything except exhausted. Numb. Like the thing I used to love the most in the world had been turned into a job I resented.”
“Oh Cole.”
“What I need you to understand is this isn’t about choosing between you and music. It’s about the fact that what the label wants—constant touring, endless promotion, being everywhere all the time—is not why I got into music.”
“Why did you get into it?”
“To create and connect with people. To write songs that matter.” He turned back to me. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. What if instead of touring constantly, we did something different? Intimate shows. Local venues, places where people actually want to hear the music instead of just consuming content.”
“Like house concerts?”
“Kind of. Decker and I have been calling them Porch Sessions. Small crowds, fifty people max. Some of the money goes to charities like your rescue and other local organizations. We’d still make albums, still do some traveling for studio time. But our home base would be here. In Asheville.”
My heart stuttered. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“I talked to David about it. About what it would look like if I based myself here. Did regional shows instead of constant touring. Built a local following while still releasing music.”
“What did he say?”
“He wasn’t thrilled. We’d have to fulfill our current contract, but after that he couldn’t stop me. He said it’s unconventional and most artists at my level don’t do it that way. But if anyone can make it work, it’s me.” Cole crossed back to me, knelt in front of me, and took both my hands. “And Decker’s in. He’s been wanting to settle down anyway. Turns out he’s pretty serious about Brynn. He’s as burnt out as I am.”
“What about the label? Your contract?”
“The contract was only for one album. David wanted to see how it performed before committing to more. It went platinum,so he wants to re-sign us. But this time, I’m negotiating on my terms. Regional focus. Limited touring. Creative control.”
“And he agreed?”
“He didn’t say no, and he knows if he pushes too hard, we’ll walk. There are other labels. Other ways to make music.” Cole’s jaw set. “I’m done letting someone else dictate my life.”
I couldn’t breathe. This was everything I’d wanted but had been too afraid to ask for.
