Page 7 of The Song We Lost

Somewhere between the stage and this silence, I crossed a line. I just don’t know yet how much it’s going to cost me.

chapter 3

luke

. . .

Bailey doesn’t answer any of my calls. I am half tempted to have Noah try, but I think a part of me knows exactly what that will reveal. So instead I tell myself it’s nothing. She’s busy. She’s flying. She’s asleep. A thousand reasonable explanations line up neatly in my head, each one softer than the truth pressing against my ribs.

I call again and it goes straight to voicemail.

The fog from my hangover is slowly being replaced by panic, as I stare at my phone as if it might explain itself. This has never happened before.

She’s been angry at me. Hurt. Exhausted. But she’s always answered. Always given me something to work with, a fight, a sigh, a clippedLuke, not right now.

Something.

This silence is new. It crawls under my skin and leaves me with an oily, ugly feeling.

I pace the hotel room, dragging a hand through my hair, replaying everything over and over like there’s a version where I made a different choice. One where I got on the plane, kept my promise and showed up for my wife.

“You gonna sit down?” Noah asks from the bed, arms crossed, watching me carve a path into the carpet.

“She’s not answering,” I snap, then immediately regret the edge in my voice.

Noah doesn’t react. “Yeah. I noticed... What did you expect?”

I stop pacing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says carefully, “maybe she’s done pretending everything’s fine.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

“She’s not done,” I say too fast. “She just needs space.”

Noah watches me for a long second. Then he asks the one question he shouldn’t. “Do you even love her anymore?”

The room goes still. It's like I can feel my heart in my throat. “What the hell did you just say?” I bite out, heat flaring hard and fast. “Don’teversay that.”

“I’m asking because...”

“She’s my wife,” I cut in. My hands are shaking now. “She’s myonly. There has never been anyone else. There willneverbe anyone else. Don't you dare question that. Do noteverask me that again.”

The words come out raw, unfiltered, because the thought alone feels like a betrayal.

Images slam into me all at once, uninvited.

Bailey at sixteen, barefoot in the dirt behind the trailers, singing like the world couldn’t touch her. She was always so shy about her voice, even though everyone knew she was made for more. She was like starlight or straight sunshine.

The night we lost our virginity, awkward, laughing, terrified, sacred in the way only firsts can be.

I had known from the moment I laid eyes on her when we were just kids that she was special, that she was the one. My friends never understood it growing up; they always told me I needed to play the field. But I knew. I knew that she was my future; she was my reason for breathing.

The night we packed my truck and left for Nashville, everything we owned rattling in the back. She cried, saying goodbye to everyone, and I promised her it wasn't for ever, just for now.

One of the first shows we performed. Bailey was terrified. But then she closed her eyes and let go. When the music stopped and the crowd erupted Bailey opened her eyes, and her smile was blinding. The crowd knew exactly what I did.

The way we used to write together, bodies pressed close on the floor, chasing melodies until morning. Making music together always felt natural, beautiful, like it was what we were born to do together.