"I'm your uncle, which is worse. Now get your boots on."
"Since when do you all care about open mic night?" I asked, suspicious now. They were being weird, even for them. Maggie kept checking her phone and grinning. Ivy was practically bouncing on her toes. And Louisa had that look she got right before Christmas morning.
"Since you turned into a hermit," Sophia said. "Come on, Liam. Steph wouldn't want you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself."
That was a low blow, using her name. It had been two weeks since she'd left for LA. Two weeks of nightly phone calls that weren't enough, of sleeping in sheets that still smelled like her lavender shampoo, of waking up reaching for someone whowasn't there. Two weeks of her promising "soon" and me trying not to beg her to define what that meant.
The house felt wrong without her. Too quiet. Too empty. Even though she'd only officially lived here for a short time, her absence was everywhere—in the coffee mug she'd claimed as hers sitting clean in the cupboard, in the space in the closet where her clothes had been, in the notebook she'd left on the nightstand with songs I couldn't bring myself to read.
"Fine," I snapped. "One hour. One beer. Then I'm leaving."
"Deal," Louisa said quickly, and something passed between her and Maggie that I was too irritated to analyze.
Twenty minutes later, I was driving a truck full of Blackwoods toward town, feeling like a hostage in my own vehicle.
Murphy's Pub was packed, which was unusual for a Thursday. The parking lot was full, and I had to park two blocks away. As we walked up, I could see through the windows that half the town seemed to be there.
"What the fuck?" I muttered. "Did someone die? Is this a wake?"
"Popular night," Clay said, his hand on my back, steering me toward the door. "Look, they have that beer you like."
Inside, heads turned when we walked in. Mrs. Henderson from the post office waved enthusiastically. Tim from the hardware store raised his beer in salute. Even the sheriff was there, off duty, grinning like an idiot.
"Okay, what's going on?" I demanded as they hustled me to a table near the stage—front row, center. The best seats in the house that were mysteriously empty in a packed bar.
"Nothing," they said in unison, which was suspicious as hell.
"Nothing my ass. You're all terrible liars."
"Just drink your beer," Owen said, pushing a glass at me. It was already poured, waiting. They'd planned this down to the drink order.
The local band was finishing up—Tim's brother and his bluegrass quartet, who played every Thursday like clockwork. They were good, but I wasn't in the mood for music. I was in the mood for my empty house and another whiskey and maybe staring at my phone waiting for it to ring, even though I knew she wouldn't call until eight.
"Thank y'all for listening," Tim's brother said into the microphone. "Now we've got a special treat tonight. A new artist, you might say, though some of you might recognize her. Let's give a warm Copper Creek welcome to Stephanie Wilson."
My heart stopped.
The lights dimmed for the next performer, and I turned to the stage, every cell in my body suddenly electric.
A single guitar strum filled the silence. I knew that sound. Knew those hands. Knew before she even opened her mouth?—
“Hi, y’all. I’m Stephanie. I promised a certain cowboy I wouldn’t cause trouble—but… here I am. I wrote him a song, and he doesn’t know I’m about to sing it in front of all of you. So…this is for you, Lee. Hope you’re ready, baby.”
When the spotlight found her, it felt like a punch to the chest. She stood there in a yellow sundress that skimmed over her curves, the fabric catching on the breeze from the speakers, making her look alive in a way that stole my breath. The color sharpened her eyes until they were all I could see.
And she had them locked on me.
The bar had gone silent, everyone watching, waiting. Someone—probably Mrs. Henderson—let out a little "aww."
She started to play, and her voice filled the room—not the polished Stevie Wilson voice from her albums, but Stephy's real voice, raw and honest and slightly nervous.
"Morning coffee on the porch
Watching sunrise paint you gold
Your hands tell stories of the earth
Mine were lost until you showed me home"
