And of course, she starts singing.
Her voice is soft at first, just a murmur over the quiet hum of the bus, but it pulls me in like a riptide. I can’t move. Can’t blink.
She leans into the melody, her fingers effortlessly plucking the strings, her brows drawing together like the song is pulling something out of her—something deep. And then she closes her eyes.
That does it.
The sight of her—stocking feet, curled into the leather couch, lost in the music—does me in. The golden morning light sneaksthrough the cracked blinds, slipping over the curve of her shoulder, catching in the waves of her hair. But it’s not the light that keeps me there.
It’sher.
The way she tilts her chin ever so slightly when she reaches for a higher note. The way her fingers move with absentminded precision, like the guitar is just an extension of her. Like this moment, this song, is the only thing that exists.
When the last note lingers in the air, she exhales, like she’s just surfaced from somewhere far away. And then her eyes flutter open, locking onto mine.
She looks almost nervous. Self-conscious.
“How long have you been watching?”
“The whole time.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Any notes?”
“Not one,” I say, wishing I could lie. “It was perfect.”
Her smile cuts through me like a laser.
This is gonna be harder than I thought.
From Augusta to Atlanta and all over Arkansas and Alabama, I avoid talking to Lou more than I have to. I hang out in my bunk when she and Alicia chat, and I stay away from green rooms, dressing rooms, and lounges. If it doesn’t pay my bills, I don’t do it.
The hardest part is the look of hurt in her eyes when I don’t talk or tease. I’m like a robot with her—answering specific queries but not engaging beyond her immediate need. The only exception is during a show. When the stress gets to her, when she stumbles, I can’t stop myself from being there.
“Looks like someone hit the guac a little too hard tonight,” I say when I can see she’s beating herself up for tripping over an exposed cable that should have been covered.
I see the smirk twitch her lips, but then I also see her eyes tighten. As Bailey plays a fiddle solo, Lou flips her mic over to my channel and says, “Oh, is someone acknowledging that I exist? Color me surprised.”
“I thought you’d appreciate me taking a step back to give you and Nash space to plan your lives together.”
“Hardy har har,” she says before flipping her mic back over to sing.
It takes a lot of skill to be able to jump from a conversation like this back into her music, but Lou is already a seasoned pro. I probably should stop arguing with her, riling her up, but I’ve seen firsthand how it helps her. The occasional compliment does, too. I may be able to keep my distance, but I can’t see her need something and not provide it.
That should make me feel better about myself, shouldn’t it? Maybe I’m not as selfish as I thought.
Wrong. Because making her happy feels too good to stop.
I don’t know how it’s possible, but she gets better with every show. When she talks to the crew or to Alicia on the bus afterward, though, I can hear how tired her voice is getting. I find myself putting honey in her tea and turning the humidifier on in her suite when I get onto the bus before her every night. I’m sure she thinks Alicia does it for her, just like I’m sure she thinks Ash or Jane sent her the slippers.
I’m okay with that.
I don’t need credit—heck, I don’t deserve it. I just want to see her happy.
Because I’m a sap. A sucker. An absolute fool.
I take comfort in knowing that at least no one else knows I’m falling for her.
No one but Sean.
