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Acoustic Alanis Morisette plays in the background. The Supremes come on next.
The vibe is a little boho, dash of country, and lots of city from the plush leather barstools to the enormous, brightly colored mural on the far wall. It’s a pop-art collage of famous women: I recognize Oprah, Meghan Markle, Dolly Parton, Michelle Obama.
“Thanks,” Stevie replies. “It’ll be bittersweet moving to a new space. This is where Lady Luck got our start, you know? I painted these walls myself.”
“Did you paint the mural?”
She scoffs. “Hell no. That was done by Kelly Zhu, a local artist here in Nashville. Pretty bomb, right?”
“It’s awesome. This whole place is . . . Stevie, it’s fucking gorgeous. Just like its owner.”
Stevie shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “You and the cheesy lines.”
“I am as God made me. So when are you gonna take me to see the new space?”
“How long ya staying?”
“Milly didn’t fill you in on that? I’ll be here through Saturday night. Gotta get back to the farm for the Sunday rush.”
“Gotcha. Welp, we’ll see if we can squeeze a site visit in, then.”
“You got big plans?”
Stevie’s biting her lip again. She hooks her first finger in the top button of my shirt, raising a brow as she peers at my bare chest. “Maybe.”
“How long you gonna make me wait?”
“Not long at all.” She grabs her pint glass and holds it up. “Let’s finish these. Then we can . . . talk.”
We do a lot of actual talking while we drink. Stevie fills me in on the marketing campaign her team is putting together for the launch of the new brewery. I fill her in on my ever-evolving schedule at the farm. It turns out I do better work when I have more freedom in my days, so I’m experimenting with some half-day situations that are going well so far.
We touch, talk, and laugh. I relax into my barstool and enjoy my girl’s company. I watch her interact with her employees and the regulars she knows by name. I introduce myself to a dozen people, committing each one to memory. I feel prouder than I probably should when I make Stevie or her customers, or both, laugh.
Stevie plays footsie with me and orders us another beer to split, this time the IPA. Tina Turner comes on, and light slants through the windows and catches on Stevie’s hair, and the space between us thrums with possibility. Anticipation.
Stevie Nicks comes on.
I decide I love Nashville.
Stevie takes me home to a pretty bungalow and fucks me in her pretty bed. She wants to have dinner at one of her favorite spots in Germantown, so I whip us up some lattes on her fancy espresso machine—takes a minute to figure out—and she calls an Uber.
We’re dropped off in front of a cute restaurant with well-dressed hipsters waiting on the benches outside. I grab Stevie’s hand on the walk to the front door. She turns her head and smiles at me, the sex in her eyes softening to something better, and I’m hit square in the chest by something good and deep and real.
The happy ending I wanted so bad for as long as I could remember—I finally got it.
It’s finally mine, and it’s way fucking better than I could’ve imagined.
The hostess takes our names, then grabs some menus and leads us into the dining room. It’s loud, and I slow my steps when I catch the sound of a familiar voice saying a familiar curse.
“Stevie,” I say slowly. “You gonna tell me what you did yet?”
“Please don’t hate me,” she replies, giving my hand a squeeze.
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“Milly and I wanted to do something special for you.”
I groan in mock annoyance. “She’s rubbing off on you, and I’m not sure I like it.”
“Stop. I adore your sister, even if she is a little . . . prickly.”
Truth be told, one of my favorite things about Milly is that she’s prickly. No fake smiles or simpering “bless your heart”s from that one.
But when I notice a large table filled with familiar faces and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, I wish for half a second Milly wasn’t such a pistol.
Oh Lord, it’s everyone. Even Maisie, who’s busy shoving goldfish into her mouth.
It’s the loudest crew in the restaurant, no question. Mama is laughing at something Bel is saying while Milly and Beau talk over each other as they dig into the loaf of bread on the table. Samuel and Emma are staring into each others’ eyes, sipping something red from enormous wine glasses.
Maisie grabs her daddy’s knife, which Rhett quickly swipes, making her scream. I flinch. Stevie laughs.
Samuel is the first one to notice us. He looks up at me and smiles—a big, shit-eating smile—and sets down his glass.
“Hello, brother.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I say, bewildered. “I mean that in the most loving way possible.”
