He cleared his throat. “The song talked about my grief and how I’d overcome it, but that didn’t feel like the truth. It made me sound like a fraud. In fact, grief had once again become an accomplice of mine, one that I just couldn’t shake. Every time I went to finish the song, I couldn’t even read the lyrics without getting pissed off, so I just stopped writing it altogether. That’swhen I decided to come here, to come to Quincey Falls, in hopes of finding whatever it was that I was looking for.”
“And? Have you found it?” I asked.
My question evoked a change in his position, the chair turning until he was facing me again. The sadness in his expression faded into something else as his eyes drank me up like a whiskey neat.
“I’ve found something.” The depth of his gaze knocked the wind out of me. “‘Choices’ is the first song I’ve written in almost a year, and something about that song makes me feel more than I’ve ever felt before. And truth be told, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help.”
“Yes, you would’ve. It just might have taken you a little bit longer.” The sureness in my voice was just the right amount of sassy and sweet.
“That I’m sure of,” he confirmed, the sadness flooding back in. “But now, I’m struggling again, because I know I’m going to have to face the grief if I really want to make this album something I’m proud of, and that’s been really hard for me.”
“As expected,” I said. “Stetson, you tragically lost two of the people who were closest to you, and that’s not something that just goes away. In fact, as someone who’s constantly found solace in creating, I’m convinced people like us, people who create, feel more deeply than anyone else. I always used to think that I was too emotional, too loud, just all aroundtoo much, and then someone very important to me told me that I was looking at it all wrong. I wasn’t any of those things; I just felt emotions deeper than everyone else, and when those emotions got too heavy to bear, I channeled them into my creative outlet. For me, that was poems and lyrics.”
George had been the one to tell me that back when I was younger. I’d never shared that with anyone before, but thenagain, I’d yet to meet anyone who seemed to carry the same emotional burdens.
He may have come off like everything just rolled right off his shoulders, but it took all of five minutes of talking to him in the dark under the stars to uncover that he also felt things on a much deeper level.
“Damn. I’ve never thought about it like that. I just assumed I needed to be strong enough to figure it out. Strong enough to fight through it, move on, keep going with my life, and pretend like I was unbothered by all of it. And I think I did so by creating songs that had more to do with beer and women than with actual emotions.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. I just think if you used those emotions to your advantage, you’d surprise yourself. That’s all. Those feelings of grief that make you feel like a sinking ship with no life raft. The feelings of sadness that sometimes make it impossible to think about even getting out of bed. Use those feelings. Tell your story. Create some damn good songs,” I said, standing from the couch and dusting my jeans off to rid them of any wrinkles.
“Come on, I wanna show you something.” I extended my hand in his direction, nervously waiting to see if he was going to accept my invitation.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were all business and no play,” he said, still sitting in the chair.
I dropped my hand, feeling a little embarrassed that I’d offered it. “Sometimes a little play helps the business. You’ll see.”
He stood, grabbing my hand in his. His palm was softer than I expected as our skin touched. Tiny bolts of electricity swam from my palm all the way to my toes as he interlaced his fingers with mine. I looked down at our hands and then back up to him.
“What?” he questioned. “You didn’t really think I was going to turn down your offer, did you?”
I stayed silent, smiling behind my teeth and pulling him toward the door.
Chapter Twenty
We saddled up the same two horses we rode last time, Valhalla and Cheyenne, before starting the trek to the other side of the farm. A little slice of heaven that George had shared, only with me, so many years ago.
“Now, before we get to where we are going, you have to promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to show you. Got it?” I demanded.
“So now we are keeping secrets?” His smart-ass mouth once again resurfaced, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get me going, just a little.
“I’m serious, Stetson,” I jokingly pleaded. “This has been my safe haven for years. I can’t even believe you’ve sweet-talked yourself here.”
“Me?” He threw his hand to his chest. “If I remember correctly, this was all your idea.”
“I know, I know. But I just thought maybe this might help you,inspireyou even. Sometimes we all need a little inspiration, especially when we feel stuck,” I said, letting the reins out a little and picking up the pace. “You better keep up.”
I didn’t look back; I knew he’d be behind me. Instead, I let the wind swirl though my hair, the smallest douse of spring hiding in the midst of the cool air as I rode further from the barn. A sense of satisfaction ran rampant through my body.
We came to the bottom of the hill that butted up to what appeared to be a tiny forest of trees—black oaks, to be exact. They were tightly compacted, and if you weren’t looking hard enough, you’d never see the clearing on the left side, just big enough to fit through with a horse.
“Where are you taking me, Scarlett Carson? Do I need to be worried?” The sarcasm in his voice was thick, like honey stuck in a jar.
“You’re hilarious,” I mocked. “When you write your next album and it’s your all-time bestseller, feel free to thank me in the acknowledgements.”
“Already have you on the list,” he spouted. “But seriously, where in the hell are we going? I never imagined that being taken deep in the woods would spark the inspiration I’m looking for.”
“Hush. Just follow right behind me and stay on the trail.”
