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Neither the driver nor I say much. We just listen to the radio as massive oaks and maples roll by. This is beautiful country, with expansive farms and gorgeous woodlands and long driveways leading to huge homes on faraway hills.
“That’s Miley Cyrus’s house over there,” the driver says matter-of-factly. A minute later, she points out the window again. “And that’s Tim McGraw and Faith Hill’s place. Or maybe they sold it. I’m not sure.”
After we’re about thirty minutes out of Nashville, she turns down a driveway that leads through rolling hills and groves of trees to an amazing brick home tucked back in a copse of sycamores. The two-story building must be five thousand square feet, with a steeply pitched roof and ivory columns out front. The driveway culminates in a circle, with a small fountain in the middle.
“Wow,” my driver says. “Is this the house Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman used to own?”
I don’t answer.
I’m too in awe. When I see Willow on TV or hear her songs on the radio, it always gives me a surreal feeling. But when she’s back in Redbud, visiting my folks or knocking on my door to say hi, it’s easy to forget she’s a star.
She’s just Willow.
But here, stepping into her world and not just glimpsing it from a music video, I feel completely overwhelmed. Suddenly my idea of showing up on her doorstep with a bouquet of airport flowers seems incredibly naive.
But I’m here now, and there’s no turning back.
“Can you stick around for a minute?” I ask the driver. “In case she’s not here.”
“No problem,” she says, and even though I never mentioned why I was here, she glances at the flowers and says, “Good luck.”
My boots click on the cobblestone walk as I approach the house. Through the window, I can see a massive living room, with high vaulted ceilings. I bet my two-bedroom cottage, which I used to share with Willow, would probably fit in that room with space to spare.
With my mouth dry and my legs like jelly, I step onto the porch. Ignoring the queasy feeling in my stomach, I press the doorbell.
A minute later, the door swings open, and a handsome man stands before me, with a trim beard, a stylish taper-fade haircut, and arms covered with tattoos. One glance and I recognize him from TV, the guy Willow was doing the duet with, “Sincerely, My Broken Heart.”
“Can I help you?” Riley Chandler says, glancing at the flowers in my hand.
“I might have the wrong address,” I say. “I’m looking for Willow Dawes.”
“Somebody here for you,” the guy calls over his shoulder.
Two seconds later, Willow pops into view, looking as beautiful as ever in a pair of Lululemon leggings and a white T-shirt tied above her navel. She gasps when she sees me, and her hand goes to her mouth.
“Oh, my God,” she says. “Rory, what are you doing here?”
“I promised you we’d finish that conversation,” I say.
She lowers her hand and something catches my eye.
There’s a large diamond glimmering on her ring finger.
Noticing where my eyes have gone, she holds her hand out so I can see the ring better. With her other hand, she holds onto the man next to her and gives his arm a squeeze.
“This is Riley—my fiancé.” Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I wanted to tell you before we made it public.”
Sothatis the conversation she wanted to have? Not that she was still in love with me. That she had fallen in love with someone else.
The ground beneath me feels as unsteady as the footing atop of the train. It’s all I can do to keep my feet planted underneath me and maintain a friendly expression.
I swallow hard.
“Congratulations,” I say, handing her the bouquet of flowers.
Then I extend my hand to Riley Chandler. With a confused half-grin on his face, he takes it.
“Word of advice,” I say to him. “Don’t let her go. You’ll regret it.”
