12
AVERY
I’m halfway through my third beer, full of some of the best barbecue I’ve had in a long time, and ignoring the hay prickling the back of my bare thighs when Georgia—Grayson’s mom—cuts across the paddock.
A soft smile lights up her face, forming lines around her eyes. I watch her, really taking in every aspect of her that I’ve not yet cataloged away. She looks just like Gracie, but her loose, wavy dark brown hair is streaked with silver.
The past few hours have flown by, filled with laughter and conversation with people curious about my return but too polite to ask outright. Each time somebody tries to bring it up without actually bringing it up, they get the same rehearsed lines I told my parents when I decided to come home. I missed home and am well overdue for a visit.
“Avery, are you ready to sing for us, honey?” she asks when she gets close, not a single sign of pressure in her gaze.
In this moment, I know I could say no and that she’ll tell me it’s okay, even if she doesn’t fully understand why. Instead, I find myself handing Gracie my beer and nodding as I stand. It’s just a stage, another performance, something I’ve done countless times since I first started singing.
I bend to pick up my guitar case, blowing out a breath as I straighten. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say in a sing-song tone.
With a smile on my face that I’m certain doesn’t reach my eyes, I follow Georgia as she weaves her way toward the stage where the band has been playing all afternoon.
Within a matter of minutes, I’m standing there, my hands shaking as I adjust the mic stand and exhale a heavy breath. The sound of the crowd is a dull murmur, like my head is submerged, and I can’t quite hear what’s happening around me. I don’t even know which song to sing.
An image of myself in the camper I rented when I first moved to Nashville fills my mind, the melody of a song I wrote in the midst of my heartache hot on its heels. I shake my head, closing my eyes for a moment. There isn’t a chance in hell of me singing that song. No, I’m playing my biggest hit.
Picking up the guitar, I throw the strap over my head and strum a chord. The crowd falls quiet, all eyes turning to me. Even though my mind is lining up the song I’ve sung a thousand times before—the one that landed me my very first CMA—my fingers play the wrong chords. The memory of my loneliness trickles to the forefront of my mind as I strum the guitar. I’ve never sung this song before; nobody knows it but me.
My throat feels too tight to swallow, but I force the words out as I speak into the mic, the soft melody flowing from my guitar. “Afternoon, everyone. I hope you’re enjoying the BBQ and ready to spend some dollars on top-quality cattle. I won’t keep you from business for long, but I promised Georgia I’d sing a song, and who am I to tell her no?”
The crowd chuckles, and I feel myself loosen up ever so slightly. A few people pull out their phones, training them on me, and I force my smile wider, just like I’ve been trained to. “I’m so glad to be back home, and I want to give a special thanks to the Wildes for having me here today.”
I glance at the band behind me, shaking my head to tell them they don’t need to join in. They won’t know this one anyway. With my eyes closed, I sing the song I wrote over a decade ago for the boy who had my heart.
I left the porch light burning, like maybe you’d come and find me. Crossed the county line with goodbye burning in my rearview.
I feel his gaze on me, intense and demanding. He calls to me like the Montana mountains, and I’m powerless to resist. Dragging my eyes open, I scan the now silent crowd searching for him.
Grayson’s standing on the other side of the paddock, near the main barn, his arms folded over his chest. His expression is unreadable, and I can feel the tension rolling off of him, but I don’t let that stop me. I keep going, keep singing my truth.
Now I’m singing under city lights, still seeing your truck in every taillight.
My fingers strum the strings of the guitar like it’s second nature. The melody flowing freely like this is a song I’ve sung repeatedly, when in fact I haven’t.
Yeah, I walked away, that’s true, but I don’t remember you asking me to stay. Now we’re under the same sky but looking at different stars.
I let the last note fade, my eyes still locked on him, waiting for some sort of reaction. To know that he’s heard me. The silence that follows doesn’t last long—just a breath, maybe two—but it’s enough to make it feel like the world stopped spinning and it was just the two of us left.
Then he turns.
The applause finally reaches me, sharp and glaring on my senses. I stand there, numb, as Grayson walks away, kicking up a trail of dust behind him as he storms toward one of the smaller barns.
I’ve played in empty bars, sung to drunk strangers and silence, but nothing has ever gutted me like watching him walk away. Was this how he felt when I left? The question lingers in my mind, even as my eyes sting at his obvious rejection. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t him leaving.
Gracie rushes the stage, throwing her arms around me and pulling me back to reality. She says something I don’t quite catch, but her excitement is palpable. My eyes are still locked on the path he took, my mind waiting for my feet to catch up and chase after him.
“Well, Ave, is it gonna be on the new album?” Gracie gushes as she pulls me out of her embrace, her eyes wide and searching.
I drag my focus away from where Grayson disappeared to, giving her a soft smile. “No, that’s an old one and not on any albums.”
Gracie pouts, pushing out her bottom lip. “Boo, you should put it on one. Maybe a hidden tracks kinda thing, you know?”
“Maybe,” I reply distractedly, my mind on Grayson and the look on his face that I couldn’t quite make out.
