“Thank you.”
“Where were you in your life when you wrote that song?”
I inhale slowly. “I was in love,” I say. “And terrified, because I finally knew how much I wanted to keep building a life with her. I wrote the song as a confession. It was my way of saying I was ready. To bring life into our home, to make a family, and to take the love we had and watch it grow into something bigger than either of us. It was my promise, folded into music. We just never got that chance.”
“After Rosie passed, you stepped away from the spotlight. Fans have wondered where you’ve been.” His words sound flat and overly rehearsed.
It’s the question I knew was coming. The one my agent warned me about. I clear my throat. “I needed to… breathe,” I share.
“So where have you been?” he presses gently.
“With Tea—” The syllable forms in my mouth and slides off my tongue before my brain catches up. I cough lightly to cover my slip and adjust the radio mic clipped to my shirt. “Living a different life in Montana.”
The audience hums approvingly at that. Rustic redemption. A man retreating to wide skies and horses to find himself again. They eat that narrative up.
The host smiles. “Montana. That’s a far cry from Nashville.”
“It is.”
“What were you doing out there?”
I think about sunrises over open pastures. The weight of a shovel in my hands. The way Ranger’s hooves drum across the pasture. The sound of Teagan laughing when Knox says something stupid.Which is often.The way she looks up at me, with her head on my chest and her body nuzzled against mine.
“Healing,” I state simply.
The host nods, clearly pleased with that word. He keeps talking—about the upcoming tour, fan expectations, and how inspiring it is that I’ve “found my way back.” The words are nothing more than muffled background noise, my attention entirely on the wildfire racing through my thoughts on horseback, her blonde mane blowing behind her.
“Easton?” the host prompts lightly. “You’ve said this tour is about honoring your past while stepping into a new chapter. What does that new chapter look like?”
I glance at the audience, a sea of expectant faces. This is the moment. Time for the polished, safe answer the label’s marketing team has been beating into me. “It looks like gratitude,” I start automatically. “Like stepping back into the music with?—”
The words die in my throat, because it’s a lie. This isn’t my new chapter. It’s my old one, resurrected. And she isn’t in it.
The host is still smiling, waiting for me to continue.
“I love her,” I say suddenly. The words are out before I can filter them.
The host blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Iloveher,” I repeat, louder. I don’t even fully register that I’ve reached for the mic clipped to my shirt until it’s in my hand. My heart is hammering so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
“Easton—” the host starts, but I’m already shaking my head to stop him.
“This—” I gesture vaguely around us. “I don’t want it without her.” The audience murmurs as I pull the mic free completely, the wire trailing uselessly from my hand. “I’m sorry,” I blurt, though I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to.
The host tries to recover. “Is there someone special you’d like to tell us about?”
“No.” I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to me. “I have somewhere to be.” I drop the mic on the table between us and walk off stage as chaos ensues behind me.
“What are you doing?” my agent shouts as I pass the curtain. “What the hell was that? You just walked out of a nationally televised interview.”
“I know.” The grin spreading across my face grows unapologetically. I’m not even remotely sorry.
“You’re throwing away a comeback most people would kill for,” he says finally, his brows furrowing with anger.
“Maybe.”
“Andfor what?”
