Page 5

Everything is fine. I’m good. I’m just exhausted after the last tour. Some time in the country, a lot of sleep, and I’ll be ready to hit the ground running. For today, I’ll swing by the gas station and get a coffee and some smokes, let loose a bit, pull myself together.

That thought resets my brain. I pull out of the airport lot, heading out to the lonely state route. Out here, it’s flat as can be, with white and gray mountains in the far distance. I grew up in this state. It’s more familiar than my own hand. For some reason, I don’t really feel like I’m here right now—maybe because I’ve thought about it for so long that now, it seems like a dream. I anticipated it would have a deeper impact. Instead, like it felt in the airport, it’s like I’m on a movie set.

I keep driving, foot on the pedal and hands on the wheel, looking like I’m in a video game. After about thirty minutes, a gas station appears on the horizon. I pull off and get out, crossing the empty gravel lot and step inside. A bell rings. A gray tabby cat curled on the register meows and stretches, jumping down. I kneel, letting it sniff me.

“She doesn’t get many strangers.”

I glance up at the grizzled elderly man coming from the back room. It’s clear right away that he doesn’t recognize me. My tense shoulders sink. I’m safe.

“She’s nice,” I say, scratching under her chin and rising. “Can I get a pack of Camels? And a lighter.”

“Sure thing.”

He gathers them up. I go to the freezer and stare into it for a while, then grab the same cheap brand of water I always do. The cat bumps up against my leg and follows me back to the register. The man gathers up my things, running them under the scanner.

“So what brings you out this far?” he asks.

“Me?”

He frowns and looks around. “It’s just you and me here, son.”

“Sorry, long day. I, uh, I’m working at one of the local ranches. Summer job,” I lie.

If I can, I make something up. It’s easier than explaining the truth. He jerks his head, tossing everything in a bag and passing it over. “Well, good luck with that. Gonna be a hot summer this year.”

The concept of being in one place for a whole season is strange. I’ve been touring for so long, as lead guitarist, as a producer, and finally, most recently, as frontman after I released my self-titled album two years ago. Usually, when I arrive in a town, I don’t know where I am until I have a minute to get out my phone and check. Everything blends together after a while.

“You have a good one,” I say.

He jerks his head. I leave, standing by the truck while I dig a smoke out of the bag. The first inhale of sweet summer fields takes me right back, more than the distant mountains do, to sitting on my mom’s porch, guitar behind me, scribbling songs down on old school notebooks.

I thought I knew what I wanted. Then, I got it good and hard.

Now, I’m crumbling.

I stand there and smoke, head empty. Then, a car pulls up. I don’t want to run the risk of a conversation, so I grind out the cigarette and get back in the car. It’s getting late anyway, and I told the ranch manager I’d be getting in around eight tonight. I’ve got about two hours, and if I don’t stop to smoke or get snacks again, I’ll make great time.

My heart slows as I drive. It’s so damn quiet out here. I’ve craved this stillness for so long, never thinking I’d feel it again.

The sun is setting, a brilliant smear of orange across the sky. I squint up at it, feeling the urge to get my notebook out once I get settled. But I don’t have to right now, not if I don’t want to. Jamie pulled strings behind the scenes to make sure I didn’t have any songwriting set up for the next four months. For the first time in so long, I don’t have a hundred things to do. It’s a confusing, anxiety-inducing feeling.

He didn’t even let me take my guitar, which is pure torture. He doesn’t trust me not to work.

He’s right.

By the time I pull up the gravel drive, it’s dark. The house is an enormous ranch build with a wraparound porch surrounded by some of the most breathtaking scenery I’ve witnessed. Grabbing my bags, I step out and listen. Cattle low. A nightbird cries and chatters. It’s so achingly familiar, yet it feels like a foreign land. Shoving my smokes in my back pocket, I move up the steps. There’s evidence of dogs, toys and a few beds, but no barking.

I knock quietly on the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps.

The door creaks open, an oval face surrounded by reddish-brown hair appearing. A young woman in her mid-twenties. She blinks up at me, a little shy.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say. “Sorry, is the ranch manager here?”

The door swings open all the way.