The streets are buzzing with life, full to the brim with Fourth of July revelers dressed in red white and blue, making their way down toward the river for the festivities. It’s gorgeous outside — a perfect summer day. Music fills the air from all sides as I walk through the lively Sobro district beneath the burning mid-afternoon sunshine. Every now and then, a bottle rocket shoots off into the sky with a piercing whistle, a precursor to the official display that’ll illuminate the city in a matter of hours.

Not that I’ll be here to see it.

There’s so much going on around me, my senses fail to pick up on the car creeping slowly along the curb until I’m well past the crowds, moving away from downtown. At first, I think I’m just being paranoid. But when I increase my pace and hear the engine rev in response, I know it’s real. Someone’s following me, a spider slinking toward the fly in its web.

He’s here.

In my mind, I can already picture the fury on my father’s face when he grabs me in that iron grip. Panic begins to course through my veins. There’s no one to call out to for help on this vacant side street, nowhere to turn except empty businesses, all closed in honor of the holiday. I’m totally isolated.

Bracing myself to start sprinting, I cast a quick glance back over my shoulder. My body goes slack as relief washes over me. Instead of the rusty green pickup truck I was expecting… I see a familiar late model sedan with a platinum blonde sitting in the front seat. She waves jauntily through the windshield when I spot her.

“Carly!” I scowl as she pulls to a stop beside me. “What the hell! You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry, judging by the grin on her face.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “Just out for a drive.”

My brows lift skeptically.

“Okay, so I figured you might need a ride. When I got to The Nightingale, Isaac told me you’d already left for the bus terminal. I’ve been driving around looking for you for, like, twenty minutes.” She shakes her head. “Come on, throw your stuff in the trunk before you melt.”

“But—”

“Don’t fight with me.”

It’s about ninety degrees outside. I’ve already sweat through my sundress, and I’m not even halfway through my walk. With a resigned grumble, I toss my guitar in the back, then fold myself into her passenger seat. The cool air from her AC vents feels like heaven. I close my eyes and breathe deep as she starts driving.

“Thanks,” I murmur after a few minutes, when I no longer feel like I might suffer heat stroke.

“You might not want to thank me just yet.” Her voice has a mischievous edge.

“Carly…” My eyes open and I see we’re nowhere near the bus terminal. Instead, we’ve circled back toward the river. “Where are we?”

“Don’t be mad!” she exclaims, pulling into a space in front of an unfamiliar brick apartment building and shutting off the engine. “Just hear me out.”

I blow out a breath. “You have about thirty seconds to explain. Then I’m walking.”

“You’re staying with me for a few days.” She uses her best no-nonsense voice — the one she employs to manage flighty musicians who want to change their set times at the last minute. I must say, it’s pretty effective.

“Carly—”

She cuts me off. “No. This isn’t a discussion. I’ve decided.”

“It’s not your decision to make. It’s mine!”

“Two words.” She holds up two fingers. “Spirit. Guide.”

I sigh deeply. “I appreciate you looking out for me, but we already talked about this last night—”

“Yep. And then I went home, slept on it, and realized how batshit crazy you are if you think I’m going to support you taking off to god only knows where with nothing but a few weeks of tip money and the crappiest fake ID known to man.”

“But—”

“No buts. I already checked with my roommate and she doesn’t mind you crashing on our couch for a few days, while we figure out a plan. Most of the time, she sleeps at her boyfriend’s place anyway.”

“A plan?” I ask weakly.

She nods. “Yes. It’s this crazy thing people do where they talk out options, weigh pros and cons, and lean on their friends for advice, instead of jumping into action like a spooked horse… You should try it sometime.”

“You don’t understand.” I pull in a breath. “During my shift the other night, a call came in for me. It was my father.”

“From the look on your face, I’m guessing he wasn’t just calling to check in.”

“Let’s just say, I didn’t leave home under great circumstances, all right? And if he knows where I work…”

“You think he’s going to come after you.”

I nod.

Her hand lands on mine and squeezes. “Oh, honey.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Honestly. But… now you get it, right? Now you see why I need to run?”

“I get it. But I still don’t think running is the answer. How is that going to solve anything?”

“You don’t know my father,” I mutter darkly.

“If he’s as determined to find you as you make it sound, that only reinforces my point.” She leans in, words emphatic. “He’ll never stop chasing; you’ll never stop running. That’s no way to live.”

“What would you have me do, Carly?” My eyes are smarting with tears. “Just let him find me? Let him drag me back to that house I grew up in? I can’t go back there. I spent my childhood counting the days till I turned eighteen, when I thought I’d be free of him.” I laugh brokenly. “I’m finally eighteen, but I’m still just as trapped as I was before.”

“No. You’re not.” Her hand clutches mine tight. “You’re an adult. If you ask for help, you aren’t going to get shoved into some foster home or wrung through the CPS system. Those days are gone. That fucker comes after you again? You call the damn police and have him arrested. You hire a lawyer and get a restraining order. You enroll in a self-defense classes so you can protect yourself, no matter what happens. You take back your life, babe. Don’t let him run it. Don’t live in fear anymore.”

“I’m scared,” I admit softly.

“I know. Trust me, I do. I’ve got my own slew of reasons for starting over in Nashville.” Her eyes are sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “People like your dad use that to their advantage. Seeing you running scared, on the ropes, terrified… that’s like fuel to them.”

I nod. “I know. But I don’t know how to shut that fear down. I hear his voice and I just… panic.”

“Abusers only get a fraction of their power from physical intimidation. Most of their influence comes from the fear they inspire without ever lifting a finger. If you refuse to be afraid… you take away a lot of their power over you.”

“How, though? How do you stop being afraid? You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not. It’s the hardest thing in the world, to have strength instead of fear.” Her voice drops lower. “Maybe there’s no stopping it. Not entirely. Maybe there’s only finding small ways to overcome it.” She looks at me and smiles softly. “A solid night’s sleep and a home-cooked meal is probably a good place to start.”

“You’re a pretty great spirit guide, you know,” I say after a while.

“I know,” she echoes, petting my hair.

* * *

We put on country music and dance around Carly’s kitchen, laughing as we cook fried chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes. The last time I can remember making something that didn’t come from a can or a box, I was seven years old, living with Gran while my parents completed a six-month court-appointed stint in rehab. After a particularly bad Oxy-spiral, they forgot to pick me up from school one Friday. I spent a weekend living with Miss Potts, my first grade teacher, while the authorities paid a visit to my parents and found them unresponsive on the living room floor.

Not exactly my fondest childhood memory.

Also not an isolated incident.

As Carly and I sit down to eat, our conversation is continually punctuated by loud shouts from the street and happy bursts of laughter from people making their way toward the festival. It’s in full swing, now. We can hear strains of whatever band is playing even from this distance.

Our eyes meet as we carry our empty plates over to the sink. She doesn’t say a word, but her thoughts are plain as day on her face: she wants to be out there, enjoying the night with the rest of the city.

“Fine,” I murmur, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

“We don’t have to, if you’d rather stay here. Really.”

“I know. But you’re right.” I shrug. “I can’t stop living my life. Then he wins.”

Her grin is a mile wide. “The fireworks don’t go off for another hour or so. If we hurry, we can still make it in time to see a couple of the bands on the stage at Riverfront Park. Grab that blanket, we can sit on it if we find a spot! ”

I grab the navy wool blanket off the couch, Carly grabs her keys, and then, we’re off.

It’s still warm outside, though the sun is beginning to sink toward the horizon as dusk approaches. The crowd grows denser the closer we get to the river. Boats at anchor dot the water’s surface, lit up festively with multicolored lights strung along their bows. Thousands of people have staked out spots on the grass, marking their territory with coolers and picnic blankets in anticipation of the firework show.

There’s a kind of exhilarating energy coming off the city in waves tonight. Everyone is in high sprits to celebrate America’s birthday, from teetering toddlers to grandparents in wheelchairs. I find myself smiling at everything and everyone, caught up with the flow of the crowd as we head toward the Shelby Street pedestrian bridge that spans the river. Carly links her arm with mine so we don’t lose each other in the fray.

It’s the first time I’ve felt happy since Ryder left.

I can’t help wishing he were here. I would’ve loved to see him play for a crowd of this magnitude. Then again, I’m sure he’ll soon be playing at much bigger venues with Lacey, out in Los Angeles and all over the world. My smile wavers a bit, at the thought.

Carly tried to pry details from me earlier, but I wasn’t in a sharing mood. Those memories I made with Ryder are precious to me. Something to be guarded closely beside my heart, not tossed around as casual dinner conversation.

He’s still mine.

Even though he’s not.

“This is insane!” I yell to Carly as we approach one of the stages, taking in the scope of the crowd.

“Way better than hiding in my apartment, right?”

So, so right.

At least twenty thousand people are crushed in on the terraced lawn that leads down to the river, watching the group onstage. I recognize them from a set they played at The Nightingale two weeks ago. The lead singer has a voice like silk, and she plays her fiddle so fast it makes me dizzy if I watch too long.

Initially, I figure we’ll be stuck in the very back row since we got here so late. I should know by now not to doubt Carly. She walks straight up to one of the guys working sound check, gives him a flirty kiss on the cheek, and somehow manages to snag us a spot at the very front, in the roped-off VIP pit section.

“He’s terrible in bed, but the perks are undeniable,” she informs me lowly, winking as her beau ushers us past the velvet ropes. We’re so close to the front of the stage, I have to crane my neck back to keep the performers in sight. We find a small patch of grass to spread out our blanket. Tucking my sundress around my thighs, I kick off my sandals and let the grass tickle my toes as the sun slinks lower and lower on the horizon. It’s almost fully dark. Just over an hour until the fireworks start.

Carly wanders to the makeshift bar a few dozen yards away to grab herself a beer while I reserve our spot. There’s a brief lull in the music between bands. I watch roadies dressed in all black moving equipment around the stage and wonder absently who’s playing next, the last opening act before the headliner takes the stage.

The lights go dark, singling the start of their set, and the crowd lets out a cheer. I squint, trying to make out the musicians’ faces, but I can’t see a thing except the vague shape of a drum set. There’s a sudden blast of sound from all sides as the first guitar riff the pours out the massive speakers. It’s so loud it shakes the earth under my feet, but that’s not the reason I find my breath catching inside my throat, my body going still.

“Hey.”

One word.

It strikes me like a bolt of lightning — zipping along my nerve endings, lighting me up from the inside out. Even before the stage lights illuminate to bring him into view, I know the man standing there is going to take my breath away.

“Nashville… I have to tell you, you guys look amazing tonight!” he yells into the mic as the lights come up.

The crowd cheers and whistles their appreciation, but I find I can’t make a single sound. My throat is lodged with something. I’m pretty sure it’s my heart.

“We’re so excited to be out here, celebrating the Fourth of July with y’all!” He gives his best grin, the one that makes the girls go crazy. The one that makes me go crazy. “I’m Ryder, that’s Aiden on bass, Lincoln on drums… and we’re here to give America an unforgettable birthday. Think you can help us with that? Make some noise if you’re ready, Nashville!”

The response is thunderous.

I wait breathlessly for the moment those incredible blue-brown eyes sweep this direction, for Ryder to spot me in the crowd… but I’m a single, silent drop in a sea of screaming people. Invisible amongst the masses.

The boys launch into a rollicking version of ‘Hard Luck.’ It used to be one of Lacey’s songs, but she’s nowhere to be seen, tonight. I sit transfixed, never looking away from Ryder as he owns the stage. He’s so natural up there, captivating the crowd with seemingly no effort at all. I can see the way their calls and cheers energize him, the way his eyes light up and his limbs loosen as the song unfurls. He’s just as confident in front of thousands as he is playing his guitar for a group of dementia patients at a nursing home.

I’m struck by the same thought I had the first night I watched him perform: Ryder Woods was born to be a star.

So… why is he back here? My heart is pounding. What — who — did he come back for?

“Holy shit!” Carly hisses, plopping down beside me on the blanket. She hands me a bottled water as she sips her beer. “Is that…”

“Yup.”

“I thought he left…”

“As did I.”

“But now he’s back…”

“So it would seem.”

“Is this good news or bad news?”

My eyes cut to her. I swallow hard. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well… fuck.”

“Fudge indeed, Carly. Fudge indeed.”