Page 71 of The Song We Lost

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “Did you reach the dream?”

I don’t hesitate. “Our families did.”

That feels like the truest answer I’ve ever given. I pull my phone out and show him pictures of the property. The orchards. The rebuilt barns. The houses tucked into the land like they belong there. I’ve never shown this to anyone outside my inner circle.

His eyebrows lift. “You built all that?”

“We did,” I say. “Together. At first.”

He studies the photos, then looks back at me. “You ever think you’d be happy just… staying there?”

I smile. “Sometimes I think I’d love being a music teacher. Or scaling back and writing from a home studio. Or running home and disappearing from this whole scene.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, Bailey. You were born to shine. That doesn’t mean you can’t go home. But it does mean you don’t disappear.”

The words settle into me.

Jackson hesitates for a moment, then asks quietly, “Washeyour dream?”

I don’t answer. I just give a small, sad smile. A slight nod.

I wipe the solo stray tear that fell and clear my throat. “What about you? Are you living yours?”

His grin is immediate. “Yeah. This is it. Always has been. The music. The fans. Nothing else ever mattered as much.”

There’s no ego in it. Just the truth.

The conversation shifts naturally after that, schedules, writing windows, how we’ll carve out time on the bus. He pitches an idea that’s been circling us both for weeks now.

“Let’s reclaim it,” he says. “‘No Place I’d Rather Be.’ Make it an anthem. Not about romance. About being right here. With the fans. With the music.”

I feel something spark, as we talk about bringing other artists in. Making it communal. Big. Fun. For the fans.

And then the tour keeps moving. Stage lights. Crowds roaring, as Jackson stepped out beside me night after night like it was always meant to be this way. Harmonies sliding into place. Me singing louder than I ever have without checking myself first.

One night, the bus is full. Other artists piled in, guitars out, cases open. Laughter bouncing off the walls. Brandy is perched in the corner, filming everything, unprompted, catching magicwithout trying to control it. She is so excited, I swear I see her happy clap.

We writeNo Place I’d Rather Beright there. On the bus. In one night. It’s messy and electric and perfect. I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.

With Rachel and Brandy’s encouragement, I start doing short live videos. Talking to fans. Letting myself enjoy it. The interaction. The gratitude. The joy.

And somewhere between cities, between songs, between nights where the music carries me instead of the other way around, I start asking myself a question I’ve never allowed before.

Ifthatdream is gone…

If that future isn’t written anymore…

What doIwant now?

One night, I video call Sadie and Cole. They walk me through the property, showing me how fall is already creeping in. Leaves are just starting to turn. Noah’s in the background, pretending not to listen. Sadie’s glowing.

“You look happy,” she says softly. “I know you. I know you haven’t had time to process everything. But… you look like you again.”

Jackson leans into frame, grinning. “Hi, family.”

Sadie fan-girls immediately and I laugh. Really laugh.

The bus hums. The road stretches on. The music embraces me. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something I owe anyone. It feels like something I get to choose.