"Steph..." His voice went soft. "I miss you so much it's like missing a limb."
"I miss you too. But Lee? After this, no more missing. No more separation. We're going to be so sick of each other?—"
"Never. Never going to be sick of you."
"You say that now. Wait until I'm leaving hair in your shower drain and stealing all your shirts."
His chuckle was low and sweet through the phone. “You already do both those things."
"Then you know what you're signing up for."
"Can't wait."
After we hung up, I looked around the empty house one last time. Tomorrow, I'd fly to Texas. Tomorrow night I'd walk into Murphy's Pub with my guitar. Tomorrow I'd sing him the song I'd written, and watch his face when he realized I was home for good.
But tonight, I stood in this empty palace of someone else's dreams and felt nothing but gratitude. Grateful for the journey that had brought me here. Grateful for the success that had shown me what really mattered. Grateful for the boy who'd waited, the man who'd saved me, the love that had survived everything.
I picked up my two suitcases and my guitar—my entire life now portable, simple, real—and walked out without looking back.
Stevie Wilson had lived here, had conquered here, had nearly died here.
But Stephy was going home.
And tomorrow night, in a little bar in a little town in Texas, she was going to sing her truth to the only audience that mattered.
Chapter 23
Liam
"I'm not going to the damn bar."
I stood in my kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at my assembled family who'd apparently decided Thursday night was intervention night. They'd invaded my house like some sort of emotional SWAT team—Louisa holding a casserole like a weapon, Owen looking stern, Clay trying not to laugh, Wyatt studying me with those eyes that saw too much, and the girls all wore expressions of determined innocence.
"You are," Louisa said firmly, using the voice that had gotten four boys through childhood and could probably stop a charging bull. "It's Clay's birthday."
"Clay's birthday was three months ago."
"Belated birthday," Clay said, not even trying to make it convincing. He was leaning against my counter, eating my chips, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Besides," Maggie added, perched on my kitchen table like she owned it, "you've been moping around here for two weeks. You need to get out."
"I'm not moping.” I was moping. But how could I not when the other half of me was clear across the country?
"You growled at a fence post yesterday," Wyatt pointed out. "An actual growl. The horses are afraid of you."
"Caesar won't even crow when you're around," Sophia added. "And Caesar fears nothing."
"Even Poet won't come near you," Ivy said gently. "And she likes everyone."
That stung because it was true. Stephy's horse had been standing at the far end of the pasture for days, looking at me with what I swear was disappointment. Like I'd failed some sort of test by not bringing her person back.
"You haven't shaved in four days," Louisa observed, reaching up to touch my face. I jerked back. "You're not eating properly. I found three empty whiskey bottles in your trash."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Owen said, his tone suggesting this wasn't a request. "You're barely functioning. One beer, listen to some music, pretend to be human for an hour. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
