“And she loves you?”
His mouth curves slightly, and he jests, “She’s named all our kids, remember?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“She’s told me she’s in this with me. That’s enough for now.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe you kept this from me this whole time.”
“You’ve been busy, torching your own love life.” I know the jab is a joke, but it lands anyway. His tone softens, and he asks, “How are you really doing?”
“Honestly, I miss him. And I’m angry at myself.”
He tilts his head. “For what?”
“For not seeing it… And letting him leave.” I stare at the white line racing along the road and ask quietly, “You think he’s ever coming back?”
Knox ponders for a minute before responding, “Yeah.”
The certainty in his voice surprises me. “Why?”
“Because I saw the way he looked at you.”
The lights on set are blinding. They aren’t warm and inviting, just hot and relentless. Even if they were inviting, I wouldn’t want to be here.I’ve always hated this promo stuff that comes with the business.The stage manager counts down with her fingers from the wings, and I roll my shoulders, forcing something like confidence into my spine.
Three.
Two.
One.
The applause sign flashes, and the house band hits a bright, brassy riff. I walk out on cue, smiling like I remember how.
The host—polished, charismatic, and with teeth far too white to be real—stands to shake my hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, he’s back. Please welcome Easton Shaw!”
Back.The word echoes through my ears, louder than the applause.
I shake his hand, nod at the crowd, and take a seat. The chair feels smaller than I remember. Or maybe after all those months of ranch work, I just don’t fit in it anymore.
We exchange pleasantries and make the typical late-night television small talk. I answer on autopilot, the version of me that knows how to navigate this world sliding into place like an old jacket. It still fits, until the conversation shifts to my “highly anticipated comeback.”
“So,” the host says, leaning forward with the kind of curiosity that reads friendly but hunts for blood, “your upcoming tour is selling out arenas. The comeback everyone’s been waiting for. How does it feel to be stepping back into that spotlight?”
I smile. Tilt my head slightly. “It’s… surreal,” I say. “But I’m so grateful."
What it feels is loud. Hollow. Like stepping into a house that used to be yours and realizing someone replaced all the furniture.
He nods enthusiastically. “And one of the songs fans are especially excited about is ‘Build This Life With You.’ It’s already climbing the streaming charts. That song registered with a lot of people when it was first released.”
“Yes,” I say carefully, the figurative jacket suddenly a few sizes too small. “It did.”
“You wrote that for your late wife, Rosie, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer, surprised at myself that my voice doesn’t shake. “I did.”
He softens immediately. The audience quiets in that collective way crowds do when grief is brought into the room.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he offers gently.
