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Originally, the plan was for him to drive up here to get me on Christmas Eve morning, before my parents’ flight is scheduled to land at Nashville International Airport. I figured I could introduce him to Paisley and maybe even pick out a live tree for the four of us to decorate (instead of the fake tree he got after Granny passed). But now that the demo is done, and Paisley and I are…whatever we are…there’s no point in staying here another night.

By the time I lock up the studio and head to the apartment side of the building, it’s nearly three. I’m hungry, tired, and in sore need of a shower. Plus, I can’t stop thinking about Paisley and how badly I messed everything up.

I take the stairs up to the bedroom two at a time and pull my empty suitcase out of the closet. I set aside a fresh outfit and then toss in clothes, not bothering to separate the clean ones from the dirty ones. I hate doing laundry, but Granddad hates when people are late, and I was in the studio longer than I’d planned.

I rush through a shower, barely towel-drying my hair, and then dump my toiletries on top of the clothes and zip my suitcase shut. I double-check that I haven’t left anything behind. Well, nothing besides my heart. That’s been Paisley’s since that day I found her singing my song up in the loft. It’s hard to believe it was only a few weeks ago, given everything that we’ve shared in the time in between.

I knew leaving Paisley and Hidden Acres would be hard when the moment came, but under the present circumstances, it’s brutal. Before, I was worried about the whens, not the ifs.

When will I be back at Hidden Acres?

When will I get to see her again?

When will I get up enough courage to tell Paisley how I really feel about her?

Now it seems the ifs are all I have left to cling to.

Headlights shine through the windows, and there’s the familiar sound of gravel crunching under car tires. I hoist my bag off the bed and grab my guitar case, neither of which is nearly as heavy as the gaping hole in my chest.

The evening air is cool and smells like snow. Patchy, thin gray clouds are scattered over the cobalt-blue sky. My boots are heavy as I make my way down the front steps of the Hideaway, probably for the very last time.

Granddad pops the trunk from the front seat of his silver Lexus, and I toss my luggage in.

“Hey, sport,” he says when I slide into the passenger seat. Warm air blasts from the vents, and the pale dashboard light highlights the wrinkles in his face.

“Thanks for coming to get me on such short notice,” I say, since I’d only called him this morning.

“I’m glad you called,” he says. “I could use some help getting everything ready before your parents arrive tomorrow.”

Granddad shifts the car into gear and steers us to the lane that leads back to the main road. We pass families carrying handsaws in one direction and families carrying back cut trees in the other. White Christmas lights cast a soft glow over the shed and the barns. Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder of Paisley.

The corral where she harnessed Dunder and Blixem.

The loft of the big red barn where we shared our first kiss.

The grove where we picked praying mantis egg sacs off the trees.

My chest aches as my mind flips through the memories.

“Do you mind stopping by the farmhouse?” I ask. “I need to drop off the key and check out.”

Granddad pulls up in front of the farmhouse. The porch is decked out with evergreen garlands, giant wreaths, and fluffy red bows dusted with a fine layer of snow.

It looks so inviting. So festive. I know I have to leave for Nashville, but I really don’t want to.

I pause with my fingers on the door handle and take a deep breath.

“You okay?” Granddad asks.

I shrug and pull open the door. Cool air sweeps over my skin as I step out. “I screwed up and I don’t know how to make it right,” I say, ducking down to talk, with one hand on the roof and the other on top of the door. “I’ll tell you about it on the drive.”

Granddad nods. He grabs his phone and pulls up the navigation app. “We’re going to want to make a stop at Carson’s for a milkshake on the way home, then,” he says, tapping on the screen.

I shut the door and climb the stairs that lead to the massive porch. I consider knocking, but everyone’s probably out working on the farm, given how busy it is. Cars trickle up and down the driveway and the sound of laughter and chatter carries over from the courtyard near the gift shop.

There’s a pull-down through-the-wall drop box next to the door, with a hand-painted slate sign hanging above it:

Hidden acres & the Hideaway