We spend the entire afternoon at Elmwood with Gran. She may not remember me, but her memories of the glory days are still intact and she’s got stories to spare. A crowd gathers around her as she tells about the time she and several other fledgling stars in the early 1950s broke down on the interstate between shows and hitchhiked all the way from Tulsa to Tallahassee, trading songs for meals and lodgings; about the way Johnny looked at June backstage, long before they ever got together; about the aftermath of losing Patsy in a plane crash.

I glance over at Ryder every now and then to make sure he’s not bored, but he seems just as engaged as everyone else in the room as she tells story after story. There’s plenty of laughter and more than a few tears. Evidence of a life well lived.

Before it all fell apart.

In a way, I’m glad for the dementia. It’s stolen away the pain along with her memories. Of course I’m sad that she’s forgotten me… but I can’t be upset that she’s also erased quite a few years of suffering at the hands of my mother and father. All the legal battles and restraining orders… all the fights and lawyers and court rooms…

If Bethany Hayes has to forget any chapter of her colorful existence, I’m happy it’s the last one. The saddest one. The one that broke her heart.

And mine.

The hours fly by so fast, I hardly notice how late it’s gotten until the nurses start wheeling in dinner trays. I get to my feet, searching the room for Ryder, and see he’s on his cellphone in the corner. I’m not sure who he’s talking to but it looks like a tense discussion, judging by the stony expression on his face. Some of the light has faded from his eyes when he makes his way over to me, shoving his phone into his back pocket like it’s poisonous to the touch.

“Everything okay?”

“Just dealing with some band drama.”

Translation: Lacey drama.

He doesn’t elaborate and, much as I’d like to know what’s going on, it’s not exactly my place to push him for details. I glance down at my watch, startled to see it’s nearly six.

“Oh, jeez, I’ve monopolized your entire day. You probably need to get home.” I reach down and scoop my purse off the floor. “Let’s get going.”

His eyes are on Gran and her friends, clustered around the raised dinner table with their wheelchairs and walkers. The nurses set plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes down in front of them, and I feel my stomach growl. It’s been so long since I had a home-cooked meal, even beef puree and mushy peas sound heavenly.

“We can stay for a while longer, if you want,” he murmurs. “I’m not exactly in a rush to go back and deal with this Lacey shit, and I’ve got nowhere else to be. ”

“You’re telling me Ryder Woods has nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than hang out with me at a nursing home?”

He pretends to mull it over for a second, rubbing at his beard with a look of deep concentration. “Hmmm… Nope. Can’t think of a thing.”

I gasp. “I don’t think your street cred will ever recover from this blow.”

“Sweetheart, don’t you worry your pretty little head about my street cred. You play the guitar like I do, you can get away with murder.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Gran yells, shamelessly eavesdropping on our conversation.

Ryder’s head whips around to her. “What’s that, now?”

“How about a little entertainment with our meal?”

One of the nurses purses her lips. “It’s late, Mrs. Hayes. Nearly time for bed. Don’t you think—”

“I think we’re old, not dead. And if we’d like some music to make this slop you feed us more palatable, we should have it.” She winks at me. “Now, how about you convince that boyfriend of yours to play something for us, honey?”

“Oh, he’s not—” I start.

“I’ll play.” Ryder agrees, cutting me off. His eyes slide to mine. “But only if she sings with me.”

“What?” I blanche. “Me?”

“You.”

“You know I don’t play in public,” I hiss through a frozen smile.

“Tonight, you do.”

“Ryder!”

“Would you relax?” He puts his hand on the small of my back — giving me heart palpitations to contend with on top of the panic attack I’m experiencing — and leads me toward a pair of stools. His mouth drops to my ear and I shiver as his warm whisper hits my skin. “We aren’t in public. Half of these people won’t even remember we were here once we walk out that door. This is the perfect time to try it.”

“But—”

“Come on, chickenshit.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. For her.”

“But—”

“Felicity.” He sits me down on the stool. “What’s the worst that can happen? You freeze? You choke? You won’t. And even if you did… I’m right here with you. You aren’t doing this alone.”

I hesitate, wavering as our eyes lock. As much as I’m nervous… there’s a small part of me that wonders what it would be like. Singing in public. Singing with him.

What’s the worst that can happen?

You aren’t doing this alone.

Wrapping his words around my heart like a security blanket, I exhale sharply and give a tiny nod of acquiescence. “Fine. I’ll do it… for her.”

The flare of victory in his eyes makes my heart seize up. “Good. What are we singing?”

I slide a hand though my hair as I run through a mental checklist of Gran’s all-time favorites. The ones she used to play on her old turntable when I was too little to understand why the nice lady from social services said I couldn’t live at my house for a while. Those years — when we’d dance around her screened-in porch and she’d serenade me with all the classics — were the best of my childhood and the last of my innocence.

A brief, bright spot in the darkness.

The eye of the storm.

“Hey, Bethany,” I call, waiting for her to look up and meet my eyes. “Johnny and June or George and Tammy?”

“As if that’s even a question!” She snorts indelicately into her meatloaf. “Great balls of fire, girlie, who raised you?”

You did. I wish you remembered that, Gran.

I blink back tears and force a smile as I look over at Ryder. His eyes are simmering with sympathy.

“Johnny and June, of course,” I murmur.

He nods. “Ring of Fire?”

The lyrics tumble through my mind in a blur. The thought of standing here singing is bad enough; singing that song… with him… about burning up beneath my wild desire…

“Um.” I swallow. “I was thinking something a bit more lively — we could do Jackson. That’s a fun one.”

Thoughts swirl behind his eyes as he considers my suggestion. “Didn’t they do a cover of Bob Dylan’s It Ain’t Me Babe? Why don’t we do that one instead? I know the chords better.”

“Sure,” I agree on autopilot, too nervous to argue over song selection. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them beneath my thighs and focus on his foot as it starts tapping rhythmically against the hardwood floor, marking the tempo. The room goes silent as his fingers strum the first chord. I keep my eyes fixed on Gran’s face, to remind myself why I’m doing this. Her smile is wider than it’s been all day.

For her. I’m doing this for her.

Ryder comes in on the first verse, singing Johnny’s lines perfectly. Every woman in the audience, from the nurses to the octogenarians, melts as his deep, rasping voice rolls out through the air.

“I’m not the one you want, babe. I’m not the one you need…”

When he hits the chorus, I take a big gulp of oxygen and join in, adding my voice to his. He shoots me an encouraging grin as we start to sing in unison. At first, I’m worried I’ll sound like a mouse — my alto squeaking pitifully alongside his strong baritone. To my great surprise, the opposite happens. His voice somehow strengthens mine, propping it up on a platform for all to hear. My notes sound clearer, crisper than they ever have when I’m singing by myself in my small room above the The Nightingale.

“It ain’t me, babe,” we sing together, our voices in pitch-perfect harmony. “It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for.”

My eyes are locked on his. I can’t look away. There’s a current running between us, invisible threads knitting the air in an unbreakable tether as we sing about two lovers who couldn’t be more wrong for each other. I find myself leaning closer to him without any conscious thought. With every word that passes my lips, I’m pulled a little farther into his orbit, and I’m utterly powerless to stop it.

There’s a natural, undeniable chemistry in the way his deep tones round out my higher ones; how my sweetness tempers his rasp. It’s a whole far greater than the sum of its parts; a complementary pairing that betters us both. The realization is staggering, and I see the same surprise reflected in Ryder’s mismatched irises as he stares back at me.

It’s safe to say, neither of us was expecting this. Not by a long shot.

When my part is finished, I simply watch him as he croons the final verse alone.

“I’m not the one you want, babe,” he sings, never looking away from my eyes. “I’ll only let you down.”

Maybe it’s my imagination, maybe I’m just caught up in the song… but I’d swear on a stack of bibles, he’s trying to tell me something that has nothing to do with the lyrics. His fingers strum the final notes and silence descends. And… there’s a moment. Just one, aching, heartbreaking moment before the applause, before the cheers and whistles from our small crowd… before the magic shatters apart like glass…

I sway toward him…

He leans closer, the tiniest shade of distance…

My eyes are on his lips, his hand is on my knee… and those miles that usually separate us seem to dwindle down to nothing…

A moment.

One, gossamer, glittering moment, when it actually seems possible.

Him and me.

Together.

But then, the applause rings out like a gunshot, and abruptly we remember where we are. Who we are.

We both pull back at the same instant, eyes averted. And I notice, for the rest of our time at Elmwood, even as we walk Gran back to her room and say goodnight, he doesn’t meet my eyes again. Not even once.

* * *

The ride back to Nashville is eerily quiet.

After a day full of laughter and deep life discussions, it feels strange to retreat to our respective corners. Strange… but undeniably safer.

Ryder takes the back roads, cracking the windows to let in some of the night air. He lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke out the window so I don’t have to breathe it in. I bite my tongue to keep from telling him he should quit.

I’m not his girlfriend. It’s not my place to interfere in his life.

When we pull into the staff parking lot behind The Nightingale, it’s past eight and open mic night is in full swing. Before I’ve even climbed out of the van, I hear music rattling the walls. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep until the bar closes.

“Looks like my plans for an early night won’t be happening.” I smile tentatively.

He just nods, his expression empty.

“Anyway…” I swallow hard, staring down at my hands. “Thanks so much for today, Ryder. It was… It meant a lot to me. And to Gran. Even if she doesn’t know it…” I put my hand over my heart. “I know she felt it.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. A groan. It sounds almost… pained.

I glance up into his eyes, hoping he’s finally going to say something. Anything.

I had a great time too, Felicity.

Thank you for singing with me.

Let’s do this again sometime.

But he doesn’t say a word. He just stares straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have gone white, a muscle ticking rhythmically in his jaw.

I guess that means the night is officially over. That this — whatever this was between us — is over, too.

My eyes start to fill with mortifying tears, so I turn and grab my door handle before he notices.

“Anywho, thanks a bunch!” I call in a falsely bright voice, jumping onto the curb. “See you around, Ryder.”

The door slams behind me with chilling finality as I race for the back stairs, yanking my keys from my bag before I’ve reached the top step. I never look back as I fumble with the lock. Not once.

I close myself inside, hearing his engine roar like a wild beast as he drives off into the night. Sinking slowly to my knees, I curl into a ball of misery while music from downstairs rattles the floorboards beneath me.