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I wonder what he’s doing right now, at this moment. We’re in different time zones, if he’s at home, that is, but it’s hard to know. His life is a blur of planes, trains, and cars back and forth across the country. Does he even know what time zone he’s in?

I wonder if I could do that, really. The idea of getting a shot at pursuing music sounds like a dream. But because I know Coen and Jamie, I can’t help but think of all the negatives.

Never being home.

The constant pressure.

The loss of privacy.

Ever since I left, I weigh all those things in my head. But I never come to any conclusion. It’s hard to choose if it’s worth it because I’ve never known what those negatives are like in reality.

He does. He tried to tell me.

I pause outside the barn, jamming the mug and apples into the crook of my arm, and pulling open the door. Inside, it’s cool, dark, and sweet like the hay stacked upstairs. The door rolls aside, making a little crash. It rouses the horses; I catch their hooves rustling in their bedding. Samson pokes his head over the railing, closely followed by Gabe. One of the new horses, Matty, dips his bay nose into the hall and whinnies.

I wonder if he would like slow mornings like this. When he was here, he went out and helped Coen with the chores. But could he live like this and appreciate it? The way Coen does, because they seem as different in that way as Sabrina and me.

After I feed the horses, I sit on a straw bale in the middle of the hall and listen.

It’s so, so quiet.

I wonder if it’s quiet where he is. Maybe if I imagine him as hard as I can, he’ll feel my thoughts like a little nudge. I close my eyes tight and remember how it felt to stand outside his house on the cliffs with the wind whipping. With him so near, it felt as if nobody else in the world existed. I remember it like it’s happening now, I can almost taste the salt on my lips.

Indescribable.

That night, I go through the file cabinet in my closet until I find a stack of thin faux leather notebooks. I take one out, remembering how Coen always keeps one of these folded in half in his back pocket. Sometimes, he takes it out and writes something down, a concentrated frown on his forehead.

I climb into bed and pick up a pen, opening the notebook. Usually, when I try to write my own music, I stare at the page with the melody in my head, but no words. Now, the words spill out like I’m a vessel and they’re water flowing through me. It’s a rush, it’s also a relief. All the longing, the loneliness, the little nagging thought that I don’t belong here, all come out on the page. The words paint a picture of the coast, of a lonely girl searching. Forever searching, never finding.

It’s depressing, but it’s raw and real.

I scribble out the title—Last Cowboy on the Coast—and slam it shut.

It’s past midnight. I set the notebook on the bedside table and roll to my side. My phone sits beside it. Never lighting up with a message from him. I didn’t think it would. I hoped it wouldn’t, and then, I’m disappointed when it doesn’t.

The next day, everyone is gone, leaving me alone at the ranch. I make myself a cup of coffee, crawl into one of the sweatsuits he bought me, and start working on the melody. It’s already interwoven into the lines I heard in my head while I was writing. Everything disappears around me and time flies by, hours gone in seconds. Coen’s truck coming up the drive startles me out of my trance. Everything hurts. My fingers are all cramped up. Maybe I should invest in a laptop with a keyboard if I’m going to be doing this much writing.

I put the notebook away and hang my feet off the bed, thinking.

Maybe I was right. There’s something about music that heals me.

I don’t think I could give up the opportunity to do this.

CHAPTER THIRTY

JAMIE

I feel kind of dirty, watching her account without her permission. But that doesn’t stop me, not for a damn minute.

She’s gaining a lot of momentum. Does she have instant deal numbers? No, but she has enough that if she keeps up with this, she’ll start getting noticed by the end of the year. I was right in my analysis. She comes across as sweet, but with a sharp edge that people seem to find attractive. When I’m feeling brave, I dip into the comments section. The commenters are largely female, and the response is overall very positive. There are a couple people calling her a wannabe, saying she’s too similar to some other artist, making fun of her for being stiff on camera. The same old run-of-the-mill bullshit.

But overall, her following seems to love her.

I scroll further and scowl.

User4565travis appears to like the way her tits look in that dress. I click through and scroll his photos, all taken from below in the front seat of his truck. Not a particularly big fan of this guy. I report all of them, and his entire account, and click off his profile without a single regret. Her tits do look great, but Travis-whoever-the-fuck does not need to point that out.

I pace the hotel room.