Page 53 of A Song for Another Woman

"I'm thinking a man with access to private jets and national television chose to sit by himself in a two-room cabin."

My stomach twists. "That means nothing."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I said okay."

"You said it like a liar."

June leans against the desk and folds her arms. "What do you want me to say, Emmy?"

I look down at the tea. My thumbnail worries at the rolled rim of the cup until the cardboard softens. "I want you to say he's being manipulative."

"Is he?"

"I don't know." The honesty slips out before I can stop it.

June's face gentles, and I hate that worse. A man who rented a cabin instead of buying the hill under it is harder to hate. A man who doesn't call is harder to accuse of forcing the door. Aman who moves into the edge of your town and stays there, gives your anger too much room to wander.

It doesn't change what he did. It doesn't change the arena, or Melody's little digs about being a home wrecker, or my face blown up on a screen while strangers decided how humiliated I was allowed to look. It doesn't change a sentence I heard in his voice.

The only reason I'm not with Melody is because I'm married.

My hand goes to my stomach before I can stop it.

June notices. "You still okay?" she asks softly.

I nod, because the alternative is opening my mouth and saying the thing that lives in my head all the time now.He's here, and I'm pregnant, and I want my husband so badly I feel ashamed of myself.

Instead, I stand. "I have a show to prep."

June doesn't argue. She just steps closer and tucks the sleeve of my cardigan back onto my shoulder, a small, mothering motion that nearly undoes me. "Eat something first," she says.

"I had crackers."

"You had one cracker and a sniff of some tea."

"That's a balanced meal in my current season."

Her mouth twitches, but her eyes stay worried. I take two more crackers because loving June means occasionally letting her win.

At 11:58, Pop Dobbs taps the studio glass with one knuckle and mouths,You good?

I lift my thumb. This is one place where my body still knows what to do. Headphones. Mic. The red light above the door. Theold chair that squeaks if I shift too far left. The tiny scratch in the console near the fader, the same one that was there when I was twenty-two.

The theme fades under my fingers. I lean toward the microphone.

"Good evening, Harmony Ridge. This is Emmy Sutton on WHLR Backroad Country, and tonight we're talking about the difference between being missed and being chosen."

Pop's head turns behind the glass. I keep my eyes on the board.

"A person can miss you because your absence is inconvenient," I say. "Because the house is too quiet. Because the coffee doesn't make itself right. Because nobody remembers which shirt has to be washed cold. Missing is human. Sometimes it's even honest."

The phone lines begin blinking. My pulse answers each little light.

"But being chosen is different. Chosen learns the part of you it stopped seeing. Chosen doesn't ask for applause because it finally remembered you were a person."