Page 117 of The Song We Lost

She points dramatically. “You have to play Broken Roads.”

Jackson chuckles. “Yes ma’am.”

He shifts his guitar and plays it without hesitation. Noah adds ridiculous harmony halfway through the chorus. Cole quietly strums along beside him. The music drifts out over the property.

Old songs follow.

New ones too.

Sadie requests another one of Jackson’s top songs. He interacts with her like he’s known her his whole life. Encourages her to sing along.

For a while…

Everything else fades. Sadie is laughing. Cole’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. Noah arguing about chord progressions. Jackson sitting beside the fire like he’s been here all his life.

Luke’s absence sits somewhere at the edge of the light.

Still there.

Still real.

But tonight…

Right now…

I am not letting it weigh me down.

And for the first time since Cole called me… For the first time in a long time.

I let myself feel something close to peace.

chapter 27

bailey

. . .

The construction noise has become background music. Constant hammering, a saw whining somewhere down the slope and the steady thud of boots on wood as the framing crew works on the last of the houses near the ridge.

It should bother me. But after the last few days, the sound feels almost comforting. Like life refusing to pause.

I told them it could wait, but Thomas said it was important that the final two houses be built. If framing and drywall could be done before it got too cold, we had a chance of getting the interior done during the quieter winter months.

Our… My house, and Noah's. I didn’t want to think too hard on what living in a house we had dreamed up when we were just teens alone would be like.

So I threw myself into finishing out my contract. We’ve spent the past three days writing. Three days filling notebooks and voice memos and half-recorded guitar tracks inside the new studio Noah and Cole built for me. Three days of music spilling out of a room that used to exist only in my head. Now the place is alive.

Jackson’s friends just arrived. Two producers and a sound engineer who apparently swore more secrecy oaths to Rachel than the CIA probably requires. They’re leaning against a black SUV now, laughing about the ridiculous travel logistics Rachel forced them through.

“I’ve never taken three different flights to end up in the same place,” one of them, Gary, says.

“That’s because you’ve never worked with Rachel,” Jackson replies dryly.

Rachel lifts a brow. “Privacy matters to her.”

The engineer, Cory, grins. “You switched planes twice.”

“Exactly.” She deadpans.