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December 22

The big red barn goes dead silent in the wake of Paisley’s departure.

What the hell just happened? Did Paisley just dump me?

I scramble up out of my seat and race to the door to go after her, but the parking lot’s filled with families and onlookers when I get outside. Enough eyes are already trained on Paisley as she races toward the farmhouse, the last thing I want to do is bolt after her and draw more attention. Plus, it doesn’t seem right to force her to talk to me, when she clearly wants nothing to do with me right now. As much as I don’t like it, I need to give her some space.

Every misstep I made to get to this point runs through my mind as I head back to the Hideaway. It all started with me sending the wrong file. If I hadn’t done that, then none of this would have happened. Paisley and I would probably be celebrating the good news right now.

But sending the wrong file was just the inciting incident. Paisley probably could have forgiven me for that part of it. The real problem is how I handled everything that came after.

I push open the recording studio door and sink into a chair, letting my head flop back until it whacks against the headrest.

I should have cut Barry off immediately.

I should have insisted that “Worth the Wait” isn’t a duet.

I should have demanded to be heard.

Thinking on my feet has never been my strong suit, and talking with Barry always throws me off-kilter. I always feel like I’m a beat or two behind, rushing to process everything he throws at me so I can catch up. There was a lot to process on our last call, but even then, that’s just an excuse. I knew I needed to say something, but I didn’t try hard enough.

And then I just got it in my head that maybe “Worth the Wait” should be a duet. Paisley and I sound so good when we sing together. Our voices just meld together, her smooth, breathy sound complementing my rougher tenor.

I love singing with her. I love how it makes me feel when our voices harmonize. But I never should have pressed Paisley to sing with me on New Year’s Eve.

She’s right to feel let down and overlooked. I promised that I would support her and pay attention to her, and the first chance I got to prove it, I failed.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she thinks I was actively choosing my career over hers…over her. I’d probably be thinking the same thing if I were in her shoes. I wish I could try to explain, to say I’m sorry, to try to repair the damage, but Paisley deserves more than excuses and apologies and a cheap off-brand bandage.

She deserves better.

I can’t just say I want to be better for her. I actually have to be better. All I have to offer her right now are words, and words just won’t suffice. I have to do something meaningful to show her just how much she means to me and how sorry I truly am.

The wind whips up outside as I pull out my cell phone. I scroll to my last text message with Barry and start to type.

Today, 3:46 PM

Kash:

I know you’re traveling, but I need to talk with you.

Please call me when you land.

Or as soon as you can.

I set the phone down on the desk and watch it as if I could will it to ring. Which is dumb, because Barry’s on a flight and I have no idea where he’s going or how long it’ll be before he lands. I could sit here, staring at my phone all night, and he might not try calling me at all. I might as well do something constructive with my time while I wait.

December 23

When the clock in the studio ticks over to 9:00 a.m., I half expect Paisley to come bursting in to start another writing session. Somehow, the space seems hollow without her. There’s no pop of color on the wall next to the door, where she usually hangs her bright orange-and-red plaid coat. There’s no piping-hot cups of cocoa to scald my tongue. No laughter to sink into even the smallest crevices.

It’s lonely in here, where it’s just me and all my mistakes.

I rub my eyes and stare at the disaster in front of me. Much like it looked the other day, there are wrappers and cups strewn all over the desk. Somehow, one of my socks ended up hanging from the corner of the percussion cabinet. And there’s a damp spot on the stack of guitar tabs I was scribbling on that could either be from drool or tears. It was a long night and I had a lot of emotions to process.

The sky is a wintery gray, perfect for my current mood: cloudy with a side of melancholy. It’s the kind of day when you can’t really decide if sunglasses are beneficial or not. With my lack of sleep, it makes me squint, so I tug the curtains closed.

I grab my wayward sock, take a swig of what’s left of my cold and bitter coffee, and sweep the trash on the desk into the basket below. I only have a few hours until Granddad arrives, and I still have a lot to do before he gets here.