Page 121 of The Song We Lost

Jackson smirks. “That’s usually where the best ones happen.” He glances over at Rhett. “And we don’t know how long we have this guy before the internet realizes he disappeared.”

Rhett clears his throat suddenly. The sound cuts through the room. For a man who fills stadiums without blinking, he suddenly looks… almost sheepish.

“I uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I actually wrote something.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “For?”

Rhett looks directly at me. “For you.”

I blink. “You did?”

He nods once. “Yeah. For this album. If you want it.”

He shifts his weight like he’s suddenly aware of every person in the room.

“I love your voice,” he says. “And I thought… maybe we push you a little outside of your comfort zone.”

Jackson leans against the piano watching the exchange with quiet amusement.

Rhett continues, words coming faster now. “A little edgier than your usual stuff. Something playful but with grit.Something that could hit country and pop but maybe… rock too.”

Sadie gasps softly behind me and I laugh under my breath.

“You brought it with you?”

Rhett reaches into his bag and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. “Always.” He holds it out, with a tentative shrug. “I only write on paper.”

The page is worn at the folds, pencil marks scrawled across it in a messy hand. I take it and the lyrics jump off the page immediately. Sharp, flirty and bold. Nothing like the music everyone expects from me. My eyebrows lift slightly as I read.

It’s cheeky and confident.

A woman shedding something heavy and stepping into something reckless and alive.

I glance up at him. Rhett shrugs, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“Listen… I don’t want to pry.” He gestures vaguely. “And you don’t know me.” I wait, for I’m to continue and he does, “But if even half the shit the internet is saying is true…” he laughs, “…then Luke is a fucking idiot.” Sadie snorts and Rhett keeps going. “And you might want a song where you shed that old skin and have a little fun.”

The room is quiet. Jackson is watching me carefully now. I look back down at the page. The chorus is ridiculous in the best possible way. Old me would have never given this song a second look. I feel something small and electric spark in my chest.

“Are you going to sing it with me?” I ask.

Rhett’s head snaps up. “What?”

“The second verse,” I say, tapping the page. “It reads like a duet. Maybe even the whole song”

He blinks. “You want me on it?”

“If you’re offering me rock radio,” I reply, “you’re not getting away that easily.”

He laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d do that.”

He suddenly looks a little nervous. Which is funny. Because standing between Jackson Reed and Rhett Hayes, I’m the one who should feel like the small fish in the ocean. Instead they’re both watching me. Jackson finally claps his hands once. “Well,” he says. “Let’s make some noise.”

The first chord of ‘No Place I’d Rather Be’ fills the room.

Jackson stands beside me at the mic, guitar resting against his hip. “Ready?” he murmurs.

I nod. The words feel different now. Not like the first time they broke my heart. Or when Rhett first suggested them as a song. Not like the night the internet turned them into a war cry.