“I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back,” I tell her gently. “I might have to go away for a while.”

“On a trip? How exciting!”

I nod. “Maybe I’ll write to you. Would you like that?”

“That’s sweet, honey.” She smiles like you would at a stranger in a grocery store, reaching out to pat my hand. “But don’t you worry about me. I’m sure my daughter will be by to visit soon.”

I flinch at the mention of my mother. I know Gran is adrift in time — that, in her mind, her daughter is still eighteen years old, a hopeful young woman in love with a man she thought she could change.

“My youngest. She’s pregnant, did I tell you that?” Gran beams. “I’m going to be a grandmother.”

“Congratulations.” My throat is tight. “That’s wonderful.”

“I hope it’s a girl. I think a granddaughter would be perfect, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I croak out. “So perfect.”

I glance out the window and brush a tear away from my cheek.

“Though, I don’t know how I feel about being called Grandma.” Her nose scrunches. “I was thinking I’ll be a Mamaw or a Gran instead.”

“Gran,” I tell her in a choked voice. “Definitely go with Gran.”

“Are you all right, honey?”

“Oh, yes. I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that. The truth is, I haven’t been fine since that phone rang last night.

“Will you play with me?” she asks hopefully, gesturing to the piano.

“I’d be honored.”

We sit together in the early morning sunshine, playing Patsy and Etta, Dolly and Loretta. I try to keep my expression empty of the anxiety creeping through my veins like poison, but I can’t help feeling that at any moment my composure is going to snap.

I hate that I have to say goodbye to Gran, not knowing when I’ll be able to come back here to see her. I don’t have any choice, though.

He knows where I am.

I’m not sure how — I didn’t tell a soul I was coming here… Except Devyn. My cousin was the one who suggested I seek out a job at The Nightingale. She promised not to mention my Nashville plans to anyone, but if she slipped up and told her mother, it’s only a short skip and a jump between sisters to my mother. And then to him.

Last I heard, my parents weren’t on speaking terms with anyone in the family. Those bloodlines turned bitter a few years back, during the fight to control the esteemed Bethany Hayes estate. The minute Gran received her diagnoses, my relatives’ dreams of fat royalty checks became their sole focus — regardless of how many branches they had to chop off our family tree to get them. They started coming out of the woodwork, cousins and ex-uncles I never even knew I had, all claiming to love Gran more than life itself, all more than eager to be the one to manage her affairs, now that she’s no longer able.

Vultures, the lot of them.

Our family tree looked more like a stump than anything by the time the judge passed down his ruling, leaving Gran’s medical decisions to my aunt. I was relieved; Kim is the least vicious of the circling birds of prey. Despite much contest, the courts also honored Gran’s existing will and froze all her remaining assets in a trust until her death. Who’ll get the money when that day comes remains a mystery, but for now at least, I’m glad Gran is protected.

My mother was stunned to be cut out of the decisions regarding Gran’s care, but I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. The stories Aunt Kim told in court about the things that went on in my parents’ home were more than enough to sway the judge’s decision definitely in her direction. No law official in his right mind would cede control of a multi-million dollar estate to a pair of addicts with a record of domestic violence incidents longer than the Bible upon which they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I don’t blame Aunt Kim for grabbing her daughter and high-tailing it out of Nashville the minute the court sessions ended. If they’d stayed, there’s a good chance my father would’ve tracked them down and expressed his displeasure the only way he knows how.

With violent rage.

No one with any sense at all would want that man to know where to find them.

Which is why I’m here, saying goodbye to the only family that’s ever been there for me. I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice. If he knows where I’m working, it’s only a matter of time before he knows where I’m living. Before he makes his way here and tries to yank me back home to that life in Hawkins.

I’ll die before I go back there.

I’ll die if I go back there.

“You know, my mom was a singer, too,” I murmur when we’ve finished playing.

“That’s not surprising — you’ve got a lovely voice, honey.” Gran smiles softly. “Had to come from somewhere, I reckon.”

From you, Gran.

“She used to sing your songs to me when I was really little,” I tell her, trailing my fingertip lightly across the surface of they keys. “It’s one of my first memories.”

“How sweet, dear.”

“Do you think…” I trail off. “Do you think you’d sing one for me?”

“Oh, I don’t do my own songs anymore. It’s not the same. My voice isn’t what is used to be.”

“Your voice is perfect. And it… it would mean the world to me.”

She stares into my eyes, searching them. There’s no recognition there, just compassion for a stranger who’s begging for a favor.

“Name your tune, honey.” She smiles, her bright red lipstick flawless as always. “Just this once.”

And so we sit there together on our last day. I play my guitar as she sings, her voice thready and thin as it fills the air.

“Saw you in the crowd the other day…”

I try not to cry… but I can’t help the tears that slide out as she hits the chorus.

“Sure it’s sad but it isn’t complicated…

You’re my only memory that never faded…”

It’s more than a little heartbreaking that her greatest hit of all time is about never forgetting… when she can’t remember the past twenty years. Can’t remember me.

“You’re my only memory that never faded…”

A cruel twist of fate. Irony at its finest.

Like falling in love the night you say goodbye.

Like finding a home, only to have to leave it.

Tears slide freely down my cheeks as I walk out to the lobby, where Carly’s waiting to drive me back to The Nightingale for our shift.

Another farewell.

Another broken heart.

Another fresh start.

I don’t know how many more of these I can take. I’m not sure how much more I can bend before I shatter to pieces.

* * *

“You can’t just leave.”

“I don’t have a choice, Carly.”

Her eyes are are wide with confusion as we sit on my steps, the July air still warm despite the late hour. Our shift ended a few minutes ago.

My last shift.

I can hardly believe it.

“Can you at least explain why you’re leaving? When you’ll be back?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. I’m not even sure where I’m going, yet.”

“Maybe if you told me what was going on, I could help.” Her gaze sweeps over my face. “Maybe we could figure it out, so you don’t have to bolt.”

“My past is starting to catch up with me, Carly. It’s as simple as that. I have to start moving again before it does.”

“I didn’t peg you for an outlaw on the run.” She laughs, but there’s a sad edge to it. “What’d you do? Rob a bank?”

I force a grin. “That would make a much better story.”

“Have you told Isaac you’re leaving, yet?”

“He wasn’t here tonight, so I’m going to swing by tomorrow afternoon to see him, then catch the evening bus out of town.”

“Tomorrow’s the Fourth! At least stay for the fireworks.”

A pang of regret jolts through my system. I’ve been looking forward to the festival since I first heard about it. Carly and I were planning to go together to watch the music by the river with a few of her college friends.

“I wish I could come,” I murmur. “Trust me… I don’t want to leave. Nashville has been the closest thing to a real home that I’ve ever had. Your friendship has been a huge part of that.”

“Stop, you’re going to make me cry. And this mascara costs thirty bucks a tube.”

“That’s highway robbery.”

“Tell me about it.” We both laugh through our tears. When she speaks again, her voice cracks with emotion. “So… this is goodbye?”

“I guess so,” I murmur, blinking away tears. “Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do a thing.”

“For showing me the ropes here. For always cheering me up. For being my spirit guide.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, Felicity. I’m your friend.” Digging around in her purse, she yanks out a pen, scrawls a series of numbers on a gum wrapper, and extends it out to me. “I know you don’t do the cellphone thing, so we have to go old school. This is my number. You ever need help, call. I’m there. No questions asked.”

My fingers close around the wrapper. My heart twists painfully. “Carly…”

“And, for the record,” she adds, trying not to cry. “I think I’d make an excellent getaway driver in a bank heist. Sure, my sedan tops out at about fifty miles per hour… but I know all the best shortcuts through the city.”

This time, I don’t have to force a grin. The one that spreads across my face is entirely real.

* * *

It doesn’t take long to pack the following morning. I don’t have much. My guitar, my clothes, the few possessions I’ve accumulated since I first got here, and the fat envelope of bills beneath my loose floorboard. I tuck a some twenties into my bra, just in case — my spirit guide would be so proud — and shove the rest of my money down to the depths of my backpack for safe keeping. In the process, I accidentally knock my songwriting notebook to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, I go still when my eyes catch on an unfamiliar scribble of ink on the last page. Strange, it doesn’t look like my handwriting…

My heart lurches to a stop. I forgot all about Ryder’s letter — the one he said he left the night he dropped off my guitar. Trembling from head to toe, I pull the notebook into my lap and start to read.

It’s not a letter at all.

It’s a song.

A song he wrote for me.

Not just lyrics, but a whole page of musical notes to accompany them. A fully executed melody with chord progressions and key changes. This is not the fruit of a single night’s labor. This must’ve taken him days to complete. Weeks, even.

There’s a title at the top, scrawled in his messy handwriting.

A GIRL NAMED FELICITY

The page blurs before my eyes — I have to stop three separate times to get myself under control before I finally make it through reading the entire thing. And when I do, for the first time since he walked out of my life, a bit of the gaping hole on the left side of my chest where my heart used to reside seems to stitch itself back together.

I can’t regret giving a piece of myself to the man who wrote these words, even though he’s gone. This song is the most romantic gesture I’ve ever received. The only way it could possibly be better is if he was here, standing before me, singing it in person.

Part of me wants to pull out my guitar and pluck out the tones, to weave his lyrics into a spell in the air around me… but this song — his song — isn’t meant to be played while choking back tears. And there are too many memories in this room already. Of his mouth and his hands… his wolfish smile in the dark and his mismatched eyes, burning into mine in the faint light of morning.

I stroke my fingertips reverently against the page, tracing his sloping script like it’s part of him. There’s no signature except for a single lopsided R scribbled in the bottom corner. I read through the lyrics one more time before I force myself to stop. With a final, reverent caress of my fingers on the page, I force myself to close the book and put it away in my backpack.

I’ve got goodbyes to say and a bus to catch.

* * *

I find Isaac where I first met him — behind the bar, polishing glasses with a white rag in the semi-darkness. He turns when he hears the door from the break room swing inward, watching me step through in silence. His brows lift when he sees the guitar case in my hand and the bag slung over my shoulder.

“Should’ve stuck with my gut,” he grunts. “Never hire singers. They always abandon ship without any damn notice.”

“I’m sorry, Isaac. I honestly hate to leave. Especially after all you’ve done for me.”

“Ah, hell, can’t exactly say I’m surprised. You showed up here using a fake name, underage, with no place to stay and a certain fondness for being paid under the table in all cash…” He shrugs. “I knew there was a pretty good chance you’d skip out one day without leaving a forwarding address.”

I blink. “You knew all that, and you hired me anyway?”

He grunts again.

“But… why?”

“For you grandmother,” he admits gruffly.

My eyes bug out of my head. “You know Gran?”

“Bethany Hayes isn’t the kind of woman you forget meeting, even after forty years.” Isaac’s lips twist. “How’s she doing? Last I heard, she was over at the Elmwood…”

“She’s not the same. She’ll never be the same.” My eyes sting. “But she still sings.”

“I’m glad. Your grandmother was one of the first real stars to ever agree to perform here, way back when I first opened this place. She dragged all her famous friends along, too. Really helped put me on the map.” His eyes flare with unexpected warmth. “Figured I owed her one. Probably more than one.”

“After everything you’ve done for me, I think she’d agree you’re even, at this point.” My head tilts as a thought occurs to me. “How did you know I was her granddaughter?”

“Put it together as soon as you mentioned your cousin Devyn. Plus…” His lips turn up in a rare smile. “Have you ever seen a picture of your grandmother when she was around your age? You’re the spitting image of her.”

“Really?”

He nods and walks over to the register. I watch in silence as he pulls out a short stack of bills and extends them toward me. When I make no move to take them, he sighs. “Come on, I don’t got all day.”

“I’m not taking any money from you, Isaac.”

“Don’t be high and mighty. Doesn’t suit you.”

“But—”

“This is standard severance. You earned it. You’re a good waitress and a hard worker. Take it before I change my damn mind.”

My fingers close around the bills. I hate accepting charity, but between bus fare and at least one night in a motel, I need the money more than I’d like to admit.

“Thank you, Isaac,” I whisper in a thick voice. “For the job, for the room, for everything. I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“Ah hell.” He rubs the back of his neck, which is rapidly turning red. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

He gives me his sternest look. “You be careful, kid. It’s a mad world out there. And if you ever find yourself back in Nashville… you’ve got a job waiting for you here. Hope you know that.”

I leave the same way I arrived, months ago — just a girl with a guitar, cut adrift once again. Only this time, I’m leaving behind a life I built for myself. A life I’ve grown to love. I’m so distracted by my misery, I don’t even realize I’m being followed as I make my way toward the bus terminal beneath the burning midday sunshine.