Page 64 of The Song We Lost

I take more pills.

Drink more.

Sleep less.

Kacey shows up uninvited one night, smelling like tequila. She doesn’t knock. Just slips inside my room like she belongs there. I am sitting in a chair looking out the window of some hotel room in a city I don't remember. She moves across the room and directly to me. Her hand lands on my shoulder and she tries to climb into my lap.

I shove her back.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

She laughs like I’m being dramatic. “Relax. Everyone knows you’re single now.”

I see red.

“I’m not single,” I snap, jumping up. “She’s still my wife.”

Kacey’s smile sharpens. “Is that why she’s everywhere with anyone who isn’t you?”

I step toward her, fury shaking my hands. “Get out.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, everyone acts like Bailey’s so fucking perfect. She’s not. She just...”

“Get out,” I roar.

She freezes, then scoffs. “You never acted married before. Why bother now?”

Something in me snaps, I am physically vibrating.

“I have never touched you, never cheated on my wife.”

She rolls her eyes and tosses her hair over her shoulder, “Whatever, maybe not.. But everyone thinks it… even her. You spent all your time with me, chose me over her time and time again. What did you think it was leading to?”

I feel like I can’t breathe, I stumble until I get to the door and open it grinding out. “Leave, and don’t come near me again.”

She hesitates, then smirks. “Good luck chasing someone who’s already moved on.”

The door slams behind her.

I tell Dave to keep her away from me, and for once he doesn’t argue.

When we are back in Nashville I finally go to the house and I notice immediately that her things are gone. The kitchen feels wrong without her filling the space with her voice. Bailey used to sing some of her favourite songs when she would cook for us. I move through the house that now feels like a glaring reminder of all my mistakes. I find her ring on the dresser. Just sitting there, like it doesn’t mean anything.

I fucking lose it.

I smash a chair into the wall. Sweep everything off the counters. Kick over stools. Rip open drawers like she might be hiding in one of them. I scream until my throat is raw. Then I sit on the floor with the ring in my palm and cry like something inside me died.

I don’t remember leaving, but I wake up in a hotel room I don’t remember getting, with a hangover and another headline.

Bailey this.

Jackson that.

Smiling. Singing. Thriving.

I track her schedule obsessively. Know what city she’s in before she makes the news. Watch clips on mute. Read comments until my vision blurs.

She looks free and I am drowning.