The grass-lined track diverts me away from logic and leads me to ruin. But I’ve already self-destructed. May as well completely detonate.
Ignoring the bumpy terrain, I continue the drive up for another five minutes until finally I reach what was once my favorite part of my family’s property.
The headlights cut across the clearing, and there it is, nestled into the hillside, looking out over the headwaters of Black River—the house I built forher. A wraparound porch, white paneling turned silver in the moonlight, the swing swaying gently in the night breeze. My heart aches just looking at it. Every board, every nail, every inch of this house was carved out ofthe hopes I had for our future. One I never got to give her.
I park the truck, but leave the engine running for a moment, the steady hum grounding me. Or maybe it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I don’t know why I came here. I could’ve gone home. Could’ve drowned myself in a bottle behind a locked bedroom door. But this place has haunted me for three years, and tonight, I guess I want to return the favor.
I step out into the quiet, the bourbon bottle heavy in my hand. As I walk up the steps, the porch groans beneath my boots. It’s been a few months since I’ve been here, as evidenced by the dust that clings to the windows. My hand settles on the doorknob, and my eyes close briefly.What are you doing, Rhett?
Ignoring the shattering of my already broken heart, I push forward. The front door sticks before giving way with a low creak, and then I’m inside.
The air smells like wasted potential and the ghosts of my past. Once again, I’m fighting off memories of Noah Lane.
In a desperate attempt to calm my racing pulse, I draw in a deep breath and peer around the vacant space. The house was never finished. There are still a few rooms with exposed wires that require attention and need to be drywalled. It wouldn’t take much to turn it into a home, but all the plans I had for this place were left in limbowhen she jetted off to LA and never returned. I hung on far longer than I should have, working on this place right up until the moment I heard she was engaged to someone else. For so long, I hoped one day she’d change her mind and come back to me. Only she never did.
As I swallow the regret that sours my stomach, my feet carry me up the stairs and down the hallway like I’m retracing steps I never got to take. My thumb runs along the door frame before I enter one of the few rooms in this house that I’ve completed.
Her studio.
I flick open the lid of the bottle of Jim Beam, and the cap flies off, landing somewhere on the carpeted floor. My eyes drink in the space as I raise the bottle to my lips, washing down the bitter taste of another life—one where she fucking stayed. My chest cracks wider with every mouthful, the burn doing nothing to help ease the devastation that’s burrowed inside my veins.
Everywhere I look, I see her. I can’t escape.She’s like black mold growing on my soul, impossible to get rid of.
Four vintage guitars decorate one of the walls, next to a framed photo that’s frozen in time. It captures Noah on stage at Boozin’ Boots, arms raised, mid-note beneath the spotlight.
My legs give out, and I drop into the studio chair, then brace my elbows on my knees. The bottle dangles from my grip as I stare at the desk in front of me. A state-of-the-art soundboard, fully equipped with a console and mic—one I saved all my summer wages to pay for.
Suddenly, my pap’s voice echoes in my mind, his deep gruff laugh accompanying his statement. “There are only two things a man breaks his back to pay for, boy. Titties and tires. Find yourself a good set of both, and the payout is worth every cent.”Yeah, Pap… look where that got me.
Raising the bottle to my lips, I take another swig, savoring the burn as it hits the back of my throat.
My fingers drift toward the setlist hanging next to me. Her first real gig at Boozin’ Boots. She’d shoved the thing into my hands that night, still breathless and flushed, and said, “Frame it, so we remember where it all started when I make it.”
She made it, all right. Then fucking hightailed it. She traded a home on a hill for a house in the Hills. Sold the dream we had for fame. Only from where I’m sitting, I’m the one paying the price.
Anger rages through my body, rattling my bones. Before I can stop myself, I’m tearing that stupid reminder off the wall. A roar ruptures from my chest as I send it flying across the room and it crashes to the floor. A spiderweb of glass blooms across her messy handwriting.
To my muse,
You’ll always be the reason behind every lyric.
I love you now. I’ll love you always.
Until the last note.
Your Starlet,
Noah Lane x
My lips are back on the bourbon bottle, and I swallow it down like it’s medicine. Like it’ll erase her from my mind. But it doesn’t.
The red Martin guitar on the wall catches my attention. Rage simmers in my gut like coiled wire. I walk to it slowly, reverently, like I’m approaching an altar. Then, I tear it fucking down and swing.
It hits the edge of the console with a crack that echoes through my chest. Splinters fly. Strings whip through the air. I swing again—harder this time—until the neck snaps clean and the body folds in on itself.
And then, I lose it. One by one, I pull each guitar down before averting my attention to the mic stand. Then the framed photos. I move like I’m possessed. My vision tunnels, blood roaring in my ears. Her face is everywhere. Her voice is still in my head. That goddamn kiss is still on my fucking lips.
After three years of holding the fuck on, I slipped. And Ilikedit.
