I should answer. I should be honest.
“No.”
Another beat.
Then, finally, I admit, “I feel bad for him, though. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and stop him. Give him a pat on the back and tell him he doesn’t need anyone else to validate him. He doesn’t need anyone else’s vision. The music is enough.” My voice cracks. “He’senough.”
Lou’s lips press together. “If I could go back in time, I think I’d hug Little Patty.”
A laugh huffs out of me before I can stop it.
“He wouldn’t have known what to do with a girl like you. He was just a skinny little dope, too obsessed with music to know there’s more to life.”
Lou gasps in mock offense. “There’s more to life than music?” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “I feel personally attacked.”
The moment of levity is a gift, cutting through the weight of the conversation like sunlight through storm clouds. I chuckle with her, relief loosening the tension in my chest.
When she looks back at me with that smile—warm, teasing, just for me—I don’t think. I just move.
I fuse my lips to hers, sinking into the kiss as the Ferris wheel keeps turning, carrying us through the night.
We stay like that until the ride slows, the wheel stopping to let us off.
And even then, I don’t want to let go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOU
Patty and I can’t go back to the hotel until we’re good and tired—we kissed, and there’s only one bed. As much as I appreciate him acknowledging that kissin’ is the only thing happening tonight, what is there to do in a hotel room with only one bed?
Watch the Weather Channel and cuddle?
That actually sounds nice.
But instead, we’ve decided to walk the streets of Branson, and when we hear live music piping out of Silver Spur Music Hall, we turn toward it—only to be immediately met with people who look like, well, other people.
That’s right.
We’ve walked into a cover band bar.
I look around, laughing, as an entire group of women dressed as Winona Williams strolls by. One of them looks me over and then snorts.
“Your makeup is trash,” she says. “Winona’s eyeliner is always denim blue, not black.”
Patty wraps his arms around me, and I laugh against him. When I push back, I see a bit of lipstick has rubbed off on his white T-shirt. I pretend to wipe it off, but let’s be honest—lipstick doesn’t wipe off.
It’s an excuse to feel his chest, and I ain’t as ashamed of it as I should be.
Or at all.
The bar is well-worn honky-tonk. String lights dangle from the ceiling, directing attention toward the small stage, where a tribute band is performingIslands in the Stream.
We order burgers and onion rings and eat while we watch the house band, me singing along while Patty shakes his head, but laughs.
Then, the emcee takes the mic. “All right, y’all. You know what time it is! Open mic!”
I gasp.
