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He bristled in disbelief. “Afraid of what?”
“Of not being good enough. You’re so damn worried about what other people think, people like the Perskys and the Swansons and a record label executive you’ve never met, people who don’t even matter, that you can’t see what you have right in front of you.”
“I lost everything today, Joy. What the hell do I have in front of me?”
Maybe if she slapped him across the face, he’d open his damn eyes and finally see her.
She stared at him, waiting for him to realize the truth as emotions warred in the tight confines of her chest. Fear that what had happened could never be fixed. Anger that he wasn’t even willing to listen. Sorrow for the loss he was feeling. Frustration that he couldn’t believe in himself enough to seize an opportunity that most people would be grateful for.
“See?” he sneered. “Even you got nothing.”
“You had me.” Her voice cracked, and she had to clear her throat to continue as tears threatened. “But no matter how many times I tell you you’re better than good enough, until you believe it in here…” She laid a hand over his heart while keeping her gaze focused below his chin. “I’m done pretending this could ever work.”
She pulled her hand back and tugged the diamond and emerald ring off her left hand. He didn’t move a muscle, and she grabbed his hand to tuck the ring into his palm and curl his fingers around it. She stepped back and still couldn’t meet his gaze. One look into his eyes and she’d be lost.
“Good luck, Logan. I hope you figure things out.”
Chapter 21
‡
Force of habit took Logan across the yard Saturday morning, guitar in hand. Halfway to the barn, he lifted his gaze to the hayloft doors and slowed to a halt as memories assailed him. Helping his dad while growing up. Wrestling with his brother. More recently, writing early mornings on his weekends off.
And most vivid of all, the time spent up there with Joy.
His chest constricted as he pivoted, his gaze travelling from the barn, over the empty fields, to the house. Time fell away, and he saw his mom on the porch as he and Brent raced each other to see who could reach her first.
One blink replaced that picture with Joy, sitting in his father’s rocking chair as he sang the song for her grandmother. And the other songs. His songs that she shared without his permission.
Only this morning, standing there with nothing left, he realized it didn’t matter. None of it did beyond the fact that she’d given the ring back and walked away.
He hadn’t given the ring to her in the beginning with any illusions that their relationship could ever be real.
But then it had become so very real.
More real than he’d realized until she said goodbye. That was when he’d lost everything.
“What the hell do I have in front of me?”
“You had me.”
He was an idiot. A stupid idiot whose pride was going to do nothing but keep him cold at night. She was right. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. He’d once convinced himself it didn’t feel right, but that was bullshit, too. Being with her felt right. Being part of her family felt right, too. If working for her grandpa got him all of that, let everyone else think whatever the hell they wanted.
Maybe he hadn’t been able to figure out a way to keep the farm, but he could do something to make sure the best part of his future—the only part worth doing anything in his power to keep—wasn’t lost to him forever.
Two hours later, Logan stared at his phone sitting on the oak kitchen table. The one he’d be moving in a few days to the one bedroom unit at Wayside Apartments he’d rented with a one year lease.
See that? He wasn’t afraid, and with Grant Walker his new landlord, he sure as hell was past caring what people thought.
Liar. You’re scared spitless right now, otherwise you’d have dialed already.
Damn, he hated when that voice in his head was right. Hated that it made Joy right. Not because he couldn’t admit being wrong, but because it meant he was the frickin’ loser he’d always figured everyone else thought he was.
Gotta get past that, or you’ll never get her back.
Without giving himself another second to think, he connected the call and lifted his phone. He stood and paced the old cracked linoleum as it rang, his pulse thrumming way too fast by the time the call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Copper Hill Records, Kevin Baxter’s office.”
