I nod. “Yeah. From a town so small it barely registers on a map.”
“Ah, one of those.” She chuckles. “I know that life.”
“Really?”
“Born and raised in a three-church, two-bar county in east Tennessee,” she says, tossing her towel over her shoulder. “My family practically threw a funeral when I moved here.”
That makes me laugh, but it also sort of…breaks something loose inside me.
“What changed?”
She shrugs. “I did what I had to do. Kept showing up. Kept singing. Kept being the kind of woman I could respect—even when no one else did.”
“But didn’t it hurt? Losing that connection?”
“Oh, it did. But then something weird happened.” She leans in slightly, like she’s letting me in on a secret. “They got used to it. Eventually, they even started bragging about me. My mama tells people I’m thecrazy singerin the family like it’s a badge of honor now.”
I blink, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yup. But here’s the thing.” Her eyes meet mine. “That moment you stop trying to make everyone else comfortable? That’s the moment yougrow into yourself.And ironically? That’s the moment they start respecting you, too.”
I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until I finally let it go. Her words settle deep, somewhere under my ribs.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “I needed to hear that.”
She winks. “Yeah. I figured. You got something on your mind?”
“Yeah. It’s this guy…”
Her smile shifts—less performer, more woman-to-woman now. “What about him?”
“It’s just…good. Too good.”
She tilts her head. “So what’s the catch?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, arms folding protectively across my chest. “I keep looking for one. Because how could it be real, right? He’s sexy. Like,unreasonablysexy. Funny, smart, thoughtful…he listens. He remembers the tiniest details. He looks at me like I matter. Like I’m art. And the sex?” I glance around like the word might get me kicked out. “Don’t even get me started.”
She laughs, nodding like she knowsexactlywhat I mean. “So you’re scared.”
“Petrified,” I admit. “I’ve never trusted my own judgment, and this guy? He lied to me. About who he was. He was—heis—the son of the man my dad hates. The manIwas raised to hate. And I told myself it was just a summer thing. Friends with benefits. A hot phase to move on from.”
“But now it doesn’t feel like a phase.”
“No. Now it feels like the whole damn blueprint,” I say softly, eyes stinging.
She nods, her expression turning more serious. “Let me ask you something. Does he make you feel seen?”
“Yes.”
“Safe?”
I nod.
“Does he challenge you to be more honest?”
I think about our last fight. About him calling me out, not in anger, but out ofcare.“Yeah. He does.”
She grins. “Then don’t run from that just because it’s unfamiliar. Sometimes the things that scare the shit out of us are the ones worth keeping.”
