I twist her to face me. “For the next twenty-four hours,everythingis self-care. Give me your phone.”
She eyes me in the way only a person you’ve been best friends with for the better part of a decade would. She knows I’m going to turn it off before I even do.
I extend my arm toward her, palm flat, fingertips wriggling. “Give it.”
She snatches it from her purse, taps at the keyboard, and powers it off before handing it over.
“Good girl. T-shirt, then popcorn.” I take a step forward in line.
As the puppet I’ve made her, I twist her shoulders yet again to face the glorious display of pressed cotton tees with a dangerously good-looking man in a cowboy hat on the front. The corner of my mouth kicks up.
Rhett Dawson, you’re coming home with me tonight.
Forty-five minutes later we’re stuffed into the upper-level tier of the Bridgestone Arena listening to a cover of “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”
“Damn, he can sing!” Jules shouts, and knocks off the trucker hat she bought as a souvenir for Henry with her lasso arm. She’s breathless as she bends over to pick it up and wedges it in her folded seat.
I don’t even have to say it. Seeing her let loose is all theI told yousoI need.
“Yes. He. Can.” My eyes trace a path from his cowboy boots to that tight smolder he carries across his mouth. I know every other woman in this arena is probably doing the same thing, but deep down, it feels wrong to be gawking at someone who lost their fiancée six months ago. Ever since he walked out on this stage, I’ve found myself analyzing his every move because of it, the news report coming back to me…
Country music sensation, Rhett Dawson, loses the mother of his child in a fatal accident early Saturday morning. A fifty-five-year-old male driver operating a red sedan crossed the median and hit the female jogger at an intersection. According to authorities, the investigation determined that the driver suffered a medical emergency, lost consciousness at the wheel, and was pronounced dead at the scene. Emergency responders transported twenty-nine-year-old Eliza Blackwood to Nashville General Hospital with serious injuries. Medical professionals were unable to save her after less than twenty-four hours in the ICU. Both families are asking for privacy at this time as they grieve the loss of their loved ones.
The fact that he’s up there at all is a testament to what a strong person he must be. Unlike me. It’s taken twelve years to face the reality that I’ve been anything but strong when it comes to my husband. I knew the morning after we got married, when he said, “That’s what you want to do with your life?” to something I’d been dreaming of, that I made a big mistake.
We’d known each other for six weeks.Six weeks!At nineteen, that felt like a lifetime. So, when he popped the question, I said yes—dove headfirst into a life-altering decision, just like I always do.
I frown.
“Do I make bad judgment calls?” It sounds like it’s coming out of nowhere, but truthfully, it’s been on my mind the entire flight here. I’ve justbeen pushing it away.
“What? No! I’m sorry I wasn’t on board before but look at me now! I got my popcorn. You got your shirt. All is right in the world.”
I don’t believe her. “I do, don’t I. It’s okay, you can admit it. I won’t be mad.”
She stops dancing. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”
I stop dancing too, my mood nosediving. “I’m impulsive. That’s always been my problem.”
“Isthisa bad judgment call?” Jules waves her arm, showcasing the massive stadium with glittering lights we’re standing in.
“Notthis. Brian. The steady stream of jobs.” I drop into my chair, the weight of it all hitting me at once.
She maintains eye contact, worry sinking her eyebrows together as she feels around for the edge of her own seat and folds it open next to me.
“Okay… yeah. We can call Brian a mistake. He’s an idiot who never deserved you. But the jobs? Sum, we wouldn’t have met if you hadn’t worked at the nursing home when my grammy got sick.”
I cringe at the memory of sour-smelling bedpans. There wasn’t a single second I loved about being a CNA. I didn’t even give them notice. I just stopped showing up one day. She tugs on my arm when shame causes me to hide my face.
“And what about those priceless birth photos you took of Henry that I love so much? I wouldn’t have them if you hadn’t tried photography.”
I chuckle. “Triedbeing the key term. It lasted six months.”
Every client always wanted a posed photo. If I wanted to take pictures of statues I would have worked at a museum.
“No. It didn’t,” she argues, her voice slipping into a scolding tone. “You continued to use that talent with your blog and yourEtsy shop, even standing in that damn T-shirt line back there so you could document this night.”
She’s not wrong. That was one skill that transferred to several other creative outlets, none of which made all that much money though.Thathas always been the problem. Well,Brian’sproblem. He hated when I’d try new things and drop them if they didn’t work the way I hoped they would. He’s always called my life privileged, and he’s right.
