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“Do you want to be here?”

Until she came along, I didn’t think about what I wanted. Looking back, I think Bill was right that day he took me to the storage unit. I’ve been running from who I am as a person for years, from the regret that I just up and left, that Mom passed and I wasn’t there for it. I put my nose to the grindstone and worked myself almost to death, because then I didn’t have to stand in this kitchen and let my brain run away.

I lean on the counter, opposite her.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

She nods, smiling hesitantly.

“You like spending time with me?” I say, uncomfortable with the question but unsure how to ask it differently.

Her face softens. She holds out both hands, and I take them, cradling them in mine. They’re small, with rounded nails, and they fit perfectly inside my hands. All of her fits perfectly with me, if I’m being honest. The way her body just slides upon mine when we’re in bed together…that makes me start thinking long-term kind of thoughts.

“Of course, I do,” she whispers.

She bites her lip, eyes hesitant. We’re both quiet for a moment. I can’t stop turning her hands in mine. Touching them, holding them, wondering things that are far too early to wonder, like what her ring size is and if she wears silver or gold.

I’m jumping the gun.

Our lives are both very complex. It would take real commitment to figure it out together.

“You hungry?” I ask finally.

She nods. “Let’s order some groceries, and I’ll cook.”

“I’ll order the groceries and cook,” I say, reaching for my phone. “And after last night, I was thinking I’d have some leftovers.”

Her forehead creases. “What? You’re seriously still horny after all that?”

Horny isn’t really the right word. What we did last night, and in the flamingo pink motel room, hasn’t left my mind since. Up until that moment, I thought I knew what connection felt like. I had relationships that I thought meant something, and maybe they did. But I never felt so deeply connected to anyone the way I was to her when I was buried inside her, kissing her so slowly, it felt like we could stay that way forever. My body flowed as easily as a river into where hers began, filling a cup long empty.

She pours into me. I hope I do the same for her.

I’m a closed case, a diagnosis so easy, I could give it to myself. She’s a more poetic tangle.

A new beginning. A hope for something more without having to leave the past behind. I wonder what that feels like and if she could show me.

“Come here,” I say.

She comes close, and I take her by the nape and kiss her deep, long. She sighs, and any leftover resistance fades. When I pull back, I spank her ass lightly and point her toward the bedroom.

“Go on,” I say. “Clothes off. I’ll be right there.”

She goes, face flushed, biting her lip. I linger in the kitchen and add some necessities into the cart before I hit buy. Then, I pause and sink down on the counter. I’m not sure why, but it feels like I’ve been out of Nashville for longer than I have. I’m a different person standing here, a more careful man with a lot more hope to carry.

I take the notebook, folded in half, from my back pocket and flip through.

In the moments when she’s been asleep or in the shower, I’ve taken out these pages and scribbled all over them. One side is Mason’s, which is good shit. I’ve written enough to know when I’m producing something good. When I started writing, after we left Wyoming, it was pretty good. Then, it was better-than-I’ve-written-in-a-while shit. Now, it’s the best I’ve written in a decade.

Mason’s lyrics came out fast. Mine were a little slower. I wrote his songs across the middle of the page and mine in the margins going the other direction. That’s how it’s always been. I wrote my self-titled album in stolen moments on scraps of paper. Standing in gas station parking lots. Sitting in my apartment after a show. On planes. I write a lot in airports.

I touch the words. They’re little fragments of the last few weeks with her at my side.

Little fragments of us.

There was something about being on the road, en route to somewhere else, that gave us time. Now, we’re here, and I have to look reality in the eyes. She told me this was something secret, temporary, the first time we slept together. But that was back before all those miles we spent together on the road. I wonder if she still feels like I’m more trouble than I’m worth with my career and baggage in tow.

I get it. If it’s too much, I understand.