Page 37 of The Song We Lost

The party is exactly what Dave promised. It’s not a room, it’s an ecosystem. VIP wristbands, velvet ropes, faces I’ve seen on billboards and award stages. Country royalty laughing like they’ve never cried in their lives. People who smell like money and power.

I should feel out of place, instead, I feel… hungry.

A producer shakes my hand and says my name like it matters. A writer I’ve admired for years claps my shoulder and tells me I’ve got something special. A woman in a glittering dress leans in and says, “You’re gonna be huge.”

Huge.

That word hits something deep inside me. Because Bailey is already huge, and I want to be huge beside her. Not behind her or held up by her.Beside.

Someone hands me another drink and laughs too loud. Another says Kacey’s name and she appears like she’s been summoned, her hand landing on my arm again, her body too close.

“You’re killing it,” she says, eyes bright. “They’re all talking about you.”

Talking about me.

My manager grins from across the room, like this is the moment he’s been building toward.

And I let myself float in it. Because it’s easier than going back to my hotel room and facing the fact that my wife is somewhereelse. It’s easier than admitting I chose this over her. Because if I keep moving, I don’t have to feel the weight of what I didn’t do.

I hear Noah again and I try to latch onto his voice, to the present.

“I...” I swallow. My mouth tastes like poison. “What day is it?”

Somewhere in the middle of the night, or maybe the end, or maybe the beginning again... my phone buzzes. At first it’s just one notification, but then it’s another. Then my screen lights up over and over, a relentless pulse. I squint at it like it’s too bright to look at.

A video of Bailey.My Bailey. She looks beautiful, but she always does.

My stomach drops so hard I think I might be sick.

I click it.

The audio loads and then her voice fills the space, warm, raw and achingly familiar. She’s on a small stage, string lights behind her, holding a guitar like it’s an extension of her body. People are quiet. Phones are out. Her eyes shine in a way that makes my chest ache.

She’s singing a love song.

Ourlove song.

The one she wrote forme.

The one she used to sing late at night when we were young and broke and stupidly sure the world couldn’t touch us.

Her voice is steady. But I can hear it, beneath the melody, beneath the lyrics. I can hear the pain, the hurt. My throat tightens, my hands shake and suddenly the room isn’t fun anymore.

Suddenly the lights feel like knives.

Suddenly the laughter sounds grotesque and then it’s like I’m underwater.

I take the drink.

I take the pill.

Because if I stop, I’ll feel her voice in my bones and I won’t survive it.

After that, time stops behaving.

It stretches and snaps.

It disappears entirely.