Page 6 of The Song We Lost

She did it; she won every award she was up for tonight. And the worst part wasn’t that she was winning without me, it was that she was surviving without me.

I’d always told myself she needed me the way I needed her.

Watching her like this, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

I am watching her achieve something that most artists will only ever dream of, and she's breaking down inside... and I’m not there. And it's all my fault.

Guilt flares hot and sharp, but I shove it down. This matters too. Ithasto matter. I didn’t claw my way out of nothing just to live in her shadow forever.

Once I make it, once I’m undeniable, her equal, everything will balance out. She’ll understand then. She’ll see this wasn’t about choosing something over her.

It was about choosing myself,myway,mypath.

This is about choosing the success that I need to build our dream.

That’s what I tell myself as I finally open her voicemail.

“Hey,” she says softly. “It’s me.” Her voice is steady, but the strain is unmistakable. “I don't know where you are,” she continues. “I guess maybe you are running late or the plane was delayed... but...” She sounds so small, "they’re about to take me down to the venue.”

My stomach drops. I did this to her.

“They keep asking if you’re walking the carpet with me. If you’ll be sitting front row. I keep telling them yes. That you’ll be here. That you wouldn’t miss this.”

I close my eyes as she continues, “I’m opening the show,” she whispers. “They want me on stage first. I am up for Female Vocalist of the Year. Can you believe that?” A hollow laugh slips out, and it guts me. “I just… I don’t want to do it alone.”

Silence.

“I miss you,” she adds. “And I know that sounds stupid, because we’re married and you’re supposed to be my person, but lately it feels like I’m reaching for you and you’re already gone.”

The words have the impact of a fist to the chest.

“Please,” she says. “Just call me when you get this.”

A breath and then, “I love you.”

The voicemail ends and I sink onto a road case, phone still pressed to my ear. The audio from the live stream kicks in, and Bailey thanks her team. She thanks her fans, she thanks everyone, but me. And I don't even blame her.

She shouldn’t have to beg.

I pull my phone down and watch as the camera cuts to the audience in the front row.

My seat, but it's not empty, it's occupied.

Jackson Reed stands as Bailey makes her way back to her seat. He sits beside her, dark suit clean-cut over cowboy boots,hat resting on his knee. He leans in to say something. She smiles politely, and I just know the internet will love that.

They replay her opening the show, winning single of the year, and people are already speculating she will win even more awards next year, cementing her as Country Music Royalty. People are asking why I am not there with my wife and if there is a reason he is sitting beside her instead of me.

Noah exhales slowly beside me. “Jesus, Luke.”

I don’t look away, I watch every moment I can, I listen to all the commentary, the rumours and assumptions.

“You keep telling yourself it’s just one night,” he says quietly. “One more show. One more opportunity.”

I swallow hard, feeling bile rise, so I chug the rest of my beer and crush the can, letting it fall to the ground beside me.

“She’ll forgive me,” I say. “She always does.”

Noah’s voice is steady, but something is breaking under it. “Yeah,” he says. “Until she doesn’t.”