Because Dane and I can’t see each other as much as we’d like, I try to keep myself busy completing the chores I’ve put off, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy doing them any more. I sweep and power wash my front and back porches, pull the remainder of the weeds from the flower beds, and plant some bright blooms I hope I can keep alive.

When the day gets hot, I retreat inside to dust what furnishings I own and wash the loads of laundry I’ve let pile up. I’m in the laundry room when I think I hear pounding, muffled by the Bishop Briggs playlist that’s blaring away while I’m sorting the rest of my clothes. I’ve almost turned my full attention back to the washer when I hear it again, louder. What the hell? I swear I’ve had more uninvited visitors out here in the middle of nowhere than I’ve ever had in my life.

Dumping towels out of my lap when I stand, I pause my music and trot over to the door. My stomach does a few overzealous pirouettes when I consider that it might be Dane, here to surprise me again. When I peek out the side window, however, I’m stunned by the sight on my porch. Not because it’s whom I was hoping to see, but because it’s the very last person I ever expected to: my ex-husband.

The familiar, rangy silhouette is standing there on my Welcome mat, hands wedged into the pockets of slim-fit jeans, sleeves of tattoos peeking out from beneath his shirt. I didn’t expect my reaction to be so visceral. It feels like someone has ripped a Band-Aid off my half-healed heart.

Jenson hasn’t noticed me looking yet, so I have an unimpeded view of what I once thought my future looked like. Something on the ground has caught his attention, or else he’s just deep in thought, which isn’t a strange look on him. I have to close the curtain and take a breath until the stab of familiarity eases in my chest. When someone you once loved more than anyone, or anything, shows up on your doorstep, the heart sometimes skips past all the disappointment and loneliness and resurrects every good thing that person made you feel.

But why does he have to be here? And how the hell did he find me?

Then I recall everything I felt when I heard that song in Dane’s truck and my anger returns. So that’s why he’s here.

“Jenson. What a surprise,” I say frigidly when I finally open the door.

He looks up at me, milk-chocolate irises warming as his smile lines deepen in the corners. “Hi,” he says, and even with that one word, the gravelly quality of his voice that makes his music so unique is evident. We stand there for a few seconds, absorbing whatever feelings seeing each other has kicked up, the breeze stirring the strands of dark hair that have come loose from the low ponytail he has it pulled back in. Before him, I didn’t look twice at men with long hair and tattoos. But that all changed when he sat me down on those concrete alleyway steps and became the first person who I felt truly understood me. Or so I once thought.

“I never expected to see you here,” I say once I’ve finally found my voice.

“I know. That’s why I had to come, you see.”

Speaking in riddles again, as per usual. I tilt my head to the side, resting it against the doorframe with a huff. I don’t want to be toyed with, and Jenson knows exactly which buttons to push. Speaking cryptically when there are things that need to be aired out is a surefire way to rile me up.

Recognizing that, he shrugs almost apologetically. “There are plenty of walls you put up between us, and I didn’t want the phone to be another one of them.”

“You built a hell of a wall on your own with ‘Skyward,’ ” I retort.

“Raven, you know that’s not what that was—” he begins to say, but I cut him off. I can’t bear to hear his excuses.

“What were you thinking, Jenson?” My voice cracks, threatens to shatter, but I harness my emotion and plow forward. “When you drove to the studio and recorded that song, did you honestly think it was the right thing to do? When your producer said you had another hit single on your hands, you just went along with it, without questioning for one second that it might’ve been wrong?”

His forehead creases, and his mouth hangs agape. He didn’t expect such an outburst. I can practically see him circling like a bird around my words, trying to figure out the safest place to land. “Of course it wasn’t an easy decision. That song means something to me too.” 

“I had to hear it on the radio in front of—” I catch myself before I admit that I was with another man. I don’t want Jenson to write off my anger and hurt as embarrassment. “—strangers. And you didn’t even think to warn me!”

His expression is pained. He always wore his emotions better than the rest of us. “Raven,” he begins, and I prepare myself for one of his epic apology speeches as he reaches for both of my hands; a signature Jenson move. I let him have one. “I’m sorry for that. I am. I was wrong not to warn you, and I shoulder that blame one hundred percent.”

“If it’s so easy to apologize, wouldn’t it have been just as easy to forewarn me? So I didn’t have to get sucker-punched by some of the hardest moments of my life when I least expected it?”

Jenson drops his gaze to our interlocked fingers. “I guess I thought that when our marriage ended, you didn’t care enough about the other stuff to be offended if it was released.”

I snatch my hand back as though I’ve been burned. “Didn’t care? You thought that I didn’t care?”

“That was the wrong choice of words.”

“You think? Not to mention that the ‘other stuff’ is not just stuff, Jenson, it was our unborn baby.”

“I know.” He sighs wearily. “I can’t . . . this is all difficult for me too. The only way I know how to process things is to write them down and sing the fuck out of them. Recording that song was something that felt . . . necessary. To heal. Like cutting off a piece of rotted flesh for the sake of the wound beneath. It was painful. Painful as hell. But I feel like I’ve finally put that part of my life to bed.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting tears. I didn’t expect this much emotion to arise just from listening to Jenson recount something we both suffered through. Not only do the lyrics of “Skyward” plainly portray, word for word, the heartbreak we experienced, the melody alone stirs up everything I felt throughout the mourning process. I clearly remember the denial, the bargaining. But, perhaps worst of all, was the acceptance. The feeling that by accepting my baby was gone, I was choosing to forget about her too.

As if he believes he’s the one to blame for my suddenly morose expression, Jenson reaches out like he’s going to touch my cheek, hesitates just inches away, and instead thumbs away the tear that’s escaped from my lashes. “I know it wasn’t the best way to go about it, but one of the things I pride myself on is my transparency with my listeners. You know that. I don’t keep secrets from them. I wanted to be honest. Give them some insight into the things I’ve been dealing with. My art is me, and I am my art, and I want my music to be an immersive experience. That’s what I was trying to give them when I released it.” His tone is pleading, like he’s begging me to understand. I do, partially. I know he needs his work in order to live—he breathes it, survives on it—but I still don’t fully understand why he would put me through this.

“But that song is not just about you, Jenson. It’s about you and me, and what we created. You might’ve written the lyrics, but we both lived through that song. On paper you may own the rights, but in truth you don’t.”

His eyes are downcast, his lips pressed into a tight line. When he looks up at me, I can tell he’s regretful. “You’re absolutely right, Raven. I can’t apologize enough for doing that to you. I never, ever, intended to hurt you.”

My shoulders slump, my hackles relaxing. “I know.” It is true. Even in our most heated moments, Jenson was never malicious.

“Just . . . the next time you decide to use anything like that for your music, do you mind giving me a heads-up first?”

For the first time since I ripped into him upon his arrival, he smiles. It’s hopeful. “Of course I don’t. I just thought you never wanted to speak to me again. I ruined everything, remember?”

I wince. I said that to him when I left him, and though the words were begging to be let out at the time, I don’t feel good about them.

The crunch of gravel at the end of my driveway startles me out of the tense moment. A white squad car with the word SHERIFF emblazoned on the side pulls in behind Jenson’s ancient Bronco, and Mike Branson steps out of it. Jenson looks at me and I blink back at him, shrugging. I’m just as confused as he is.

“Sheriff Branson, hi,” I call, not bothering to disguise the confusion in my voice.

He tips his hat, approaching my front steps. “Now, how many times am I gonna have to remind you to call me Mike?” He smiles as he teases me, like this is something we do all the time. It’s a farce. “We know each other better than that, don’t we, Raven? And you are . . .” He trails off as his eyes travel over Jenson.

“Jenson. You can call me Jenson.” Jenson leans over and gives him a friendly handshake, and although Mike accepts it with a nod, his clenched jaw flexes. He gives Jenson the barest grunt of acknowledgement.

“Sheriff Mike Branson,” he says in a deeper voice than usual before turning to me. “Everything going okay, Raven?”

“Yeah. All good.”

“That’s great to hear. I’m sure you’re both wondering why the Sheriff of Heronwood is here on your porch.”

He doesn’t want me to call him sheriff, but it seems he wants to remind me of his title every chance he gets. Jenson just looks back and forth between us, a pleasant expression on his face. He must not detect the greasy vibe I get from Mike yet.

“A little. There’s not an escaped convict in my backyard, is there?”

The sheriff’s laugh is a little too loud and rushed to be genuine. “Ahh, no, but it’s funny you should say that. You’ve been here long enough—you know about my open-door policy—so I’m sure you’ve come to realize how tight-knit this community is. It’s easy to recognize something that’s out of place, so to speak.” He pauses for effect, and I nod to show him I’m having no trouble keeping up. “And it’s only in the best interest of the community I’ve sworn to protect that I check up on something that’s out of place.”

When my eyebrow raises, he juts a thumb over his shoulder toward Jenson’s tan Bronco. “Unfamiliar vehicle. Try as I might, I just couldn’t place it.”

So we’ve arrived at the reason for this visit: the sheriff hiking his leg on territory he thinks is his.

“That would be Jenson’s truck, Sheriff. My ex-husband. No need to be alarmed.”

The sheriff laughs again and shakes his head, scuffing his boot on the slats of my porch. “Oh, wow, do I feel foolish.”

“It’s an honest mistake,” Jenson says smoothly. He has a trustworthy face, but right now the sheriff can’t seem to take his eyes off all the tattoos. Mike regards him thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

“Come to think of it, you do look familiar. You on TV or something?”

“I play music,” Jenson answers. Despite everything, he is humble. He would never voluntarily admit to his success.

“Right, right. I think it’s the tattoos. Maybe the hair.” I sense the undercut, but Jenson just shrugs humbly, his hands back in the front pockets of his jeans. “You plannin’ on sticking around for long?”

“No, unfortunately. Just checking in on Raven.”

“Probably for the best—the whole town would have a riot. You’d be the talk of Heronwood for weeks instead of our new gal, here.”

Jenson glances at me. “Yeah, probably for the best. Duty calls. I’m sure you know how that is.”

“I do, I do. Speaking of, I’d better get going. You’d be surprised how little time it takes for shit to hit the fan around here.”

“Well, I trust you won’t let that happen, officer.” Jenson winks at him. Mike narrows his eyes at the dig, but he doesn’t correct him.

“Make no mistake, Jenson, we look after our own.” He looks pointedly at me. “If you need any more assistance with your legal matter, Raven, feel free to stop by my office again. Have a pleasant day, you two.”

“You as well,” Jenson calls at his back for the both of us. When the sheriff pulls out of the drive and hammers on the gas, I gesture for Jenson to come inside.

“Come on. I don’t think I can stand any more unannounced guests.” I close the door firmly behind him.

“So,” Jenson says when we reach the kitchen. “The sheriff.”

“He likes to check up on things.”

“Friendly, too.” His tone is teasing, but suggestive.

“I know where this is going, and no, I’m not screwing the sheriff. Nor do I plan to. No matter how hard I try to keep the people of this town out of my business, they find a way in. They’re like termites. Or cockroaches.”

Jenson sighs, gripping the countertop and looking around at my spare furnishings. “You sure you’re doing okay out here, Rae?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Why everyone insinuates I moved to a war zone instead of small-town Tennessee is beyond me. I don’t mention the fact that I’m kind of seeing a drug lord’s son.

“I’m fine. I’m good.”

His tone softens further. “I know you are,” he says.

“How did you find out where I lived, anyway?”

“You’re not a hard person to find.”

I set the glass I’m filling with lemonade down on the counter harder than I meant to. The clink echoes throughout the house. “I could’ve been almost anywhere. Come on, who told you?”

“Serena,” Jenson finally answers.

My face heats, an automated response when it comes to her. “Naturally.”

I consider calling her and reminding her for the millionth time to stay the hell out of my business. Being two years older, she always thought she knew what was best for me. I slide Jenson one of the glasses without asking whether he wants it. He takes a long sip before setting it back down, batting it between his hands on the counter.

“You always made the best lemonade,” he remarks.

“Like my granny did.” I take a sip of my own before his grim expression reminds me where we left our conversation. “Look, about what I said that day, about you ruining everything . . . I was upset then, and I didn’t mean that. We had our issues, but I never wanted our marriage to end, Jenson. And I probably won’t ever look back on it without being sad that it had to.”

“But you and me are like oil and water, baby. Pour us together and we can mingle, but never mix.” It’s a sad thought, but he says it with a wry grin and the twang I used to want to wrap myself around.

“I guess we were just too in love to see it in the beginning.” I sniff, redirecting my focus to the tartness of the lemons on my tongue.

His gaze seems to hone in on me. “I know that look. What’s on your mind? No harm in telling me now.”

I massage the place on my throat that’s aching from the tears I refuse to shed. Is it guilt I’m feeling? Regret? Sadness? I can’t separate one from the other.

“I . . .” God, this is so difficult to say. But I told Dane, so Jenson deserves to know, too. “I can’t help but wonder if I abandoned you when you needed me most. Marriage is supposed to endure sickness and health. Till death do us part, right? I made a vow to love you unconditionally, yet I was the one to place conditions on us. ‘Through sickness and health,’ unless one of our sicknesses is alcohol? ‘Till death do us part,’ until one of us makes a mistake? I just . . .” I can’t even finish. For one, I feel like I’m rambling. Months of unspoken fears fight tooth and nail to crawl up my throat and escape.

“Raven, I . . .” His mouth opens and closes, like what I’ve said is too unexpected to process. “If anything, I abandoned you. I chose alcohol all the times I was supposed to choose you instead. It was almost like cheating, in a way. I was worried you’d think I was weak if I told you what was going on inside my head, that I was struggling, so I turned to the bottle for company. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for losing you, but I do know I’ll always wonder what the outcome would’ve been if I’d done something different. But you leaving was like a billboard slapping me in the face, telling me to get my life on track, or else keep losing the people I love. I don’t think the decision you made was easy, but it had to be done. And you had the strength to do it. You might’ve even saved my life.”

His words hit me like a bucket of cold water. Icy truth. I won’t ever think of myself as a savior. Even now, what he’s saying is having a tough time penetrating the curtain I’ve drawn between me and him. But simple relief that he doesn’t harbor ill feelings toward me slips underneath it.

“I’m all right, Rae. Really. This has been the hardest year of my life, but I don’t regret feeling the things I felt for you. We were great, you and me. But we weren’t healthy. And I’m figuring out that that is what’s most important.” He spins the ring on his thumb, an old habit of his. “Which reminds me that I didn’t come here only to talk about ‘Skyward’ and make you sad. I also wanted you to know that I’m taking a break from music for a while. I’m enrolling in a program to get myself back on track.”

I had almost forgotten about that detail in the midst of everything else. I make a sound in the back of my throat that could mean a variety of things. He seems sincere, but I learned a long time ago not to put too much hope in fickle promises.

“I know what you’re thinking. Hell, it’s the same thing everyone else is; my mom, my grandfather, my friends. They know the old me never could stick with anything but drinking.”

“They would be correct,” I say, but my voice falters.

“I know. And I never did anything to prove y’all wrong. But it’s time now. I can feel it. I’m more motivated to put this thing behind me than I’ve ever been.”

I can’t deny the sting that statement incites. It travels deep into my chest and injects hurt into my heart. I guess the prospect of having a child wasn’t enough of a motivator for him. I guess I wasn’t either.

“I have nothing, Rae. I destroyed everything good in my life. Maybe I was always meant to find my motivation, my drive, where there was nothing else: rock bottom.”

I swallow my bitterness. It’s not easy. “So is it one of those fancy resorts that packs your schedule with stargazing, and nature hikes and shit so you don’t even have time to miss the booze?”

“No. Nothing like that. It’s a local place out in the woods, but it’s more therapy-based. Peeling back the layers of the past to identify the psychological sources of the issue.”

I take a long drink to gather my thoughts. There’s no way to know what he’ll do once he discovers those sources, or if he’ll utilize the tools he learns from the program, but I suppose it’s unfair for me to assume he won’t. He has lost just about everything. He deserves to find it again.

“I’m glad to hear that. How did you find out about the place?”

What I mean to ask is who recommended it. The fire was a highly publicized event that partially tarnished his “good guy” reputation, although me subsequently filing for divorce offset some of that bad light. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that a publicist called him up to pitch the program as a way to scrub his image.

“It came highly recommended from a fellow artist I’ve run into a few times on the road. He had all but ruined his marriage with both drugs and alcohol, but he made a comeback on the scene, and as far as I know, he and his wife are doing great. We ended up talking about everything late one night while the crew was celebrating after a show, and he urged me to give them a try.”

I can see it in his eyes, and he can see it in mine: what if he’d “tried” that program sooner? But I have to forget that thought. Nobody can live off of what ifs. It’s not sustainable.

When he takes a sip of his drink, I notice an unfamiliar symbol on his right hand—black ink scrawled on the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. “You got a new tattoo,” I say as an effort to curb my rising emotions.

“I got two.” He holds up his left hand, and I see there’s a similar one in the same exact place.

“What do they mean?”

He clenches his left fist atop the counter so the skin stretches. “The past.” Then he does the same to his right and says, “The future.”

Ah. If he got those during the divorce, I’m sure there’s an explanation that involves me ruining both.

“I carry my past with me like an old scar. Only, instead of a reminder of all the pain I went through to get it, it’s a reminder of the lessons I’ve learned on the journey; one of them being to keep my eyes trained ahead, in the right direction”—he wiggles the fingers on his right hand—“the future.”

“Of course,” I say. It’s almost poetic, and it’s one hundred percent Jenson King.

Pushing off from the bar, he goes to the sink to rinse out his glass. His back is to me when he says, “There’s something softer about you, you know.”

That gives me pause. “Softer?”

“Yeah.” He turns, resting his hip against the counter and studying me. “It’s only there for a moment, maybe when you’re not busy fighting it, but it’s there. It looks good on you.”

My cheeks warm. “Must be something in the water.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Even though you don’t owe me a damn thing?” I raise my eyebrows expectantly. “Don’t fight it.”

I blink at him. He knows me better than anyone, has witnessed countless downfalls and triumphs. Up till now, I’ve kept a protective barrier between me and the world following my stint as a hell-raising teenager. I gave my parents stress-induced anxiety and grief back then. They couldn’t know that the wall I put up was more for their sake than mine. Maybe now, softer isn’t the worst thing to be. I nod subtly, but it’s enough.

“I should go.” Though he says it gently, it’s abrupt, breaking up whatever nostalgic cloud I’ve allowed myself to get caught up in.

I nod again.

“Thank you for hearing me out. There was just no way for me to adequately express my apology over the phone.”

“I know. You’re Jenson King.”

One side of his mouth pulls up into a half smile. “And don’t give Serena too hard of a time. She thought it would be good for you to hear someone else admitting to their mistakes for once.”

That’s a surprise, though I wouldn’t be shocked if he made up that explanation for her benefit on the way over here. They always had a weird connection, the meddler and the artist. I just roll my eyes and walk him out, propping the door open with my hip.

Jenson walks to the doorway, but he doesn’t pass all the way through. Instead, he turns his mahogany gaze on me. “I don’t want to cross a line here, but I want you to know that I still love you, Raven. Maybe not in the ‘in love’ kind of way, but in the ‘I would still do anything for you if you needed me’ way. Nothing will change that.”

That statement sends relief flooding through my capillaries. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear it, to be verbally forgiven.

“I know, Jenson, and I hope you take care of yourself. You deserve it.”

Almost as easily as old times, but with an ocean of mistakes between us, he wraps me in his arms and I give in, conforming to all that is familiar in the middle of a place that is still so strange. Squeezing my hands before releasing them, he hops off my front porch, then he’s climbing into his monster of a vehicle and pulling off down the highway.

As the sound of his exhaust fades in the distance, I turn to go back inside. I almost miss the sense of peace that has settled over me so naturally it feels like I’ve slipped into a warm pool on a hot summer day. I didn’t expect that conversation to end like it did, with forgiveness I didn’t think I deserved and closure I never knew I needed. I thought my life was just fine without those things. But I’m learning that in life, like with any good book, it’s better to turn all the pages of a chapter before beginning a new one.