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I love him.

I’m in love with Griffin Hall. I probably have loved him for years, maybe even from the start, but definitely for the last six or seven.

The problem is what comes next.

Because okay. Fine. Say I decide to do something about this. I’ll go to Bastian and tell him. And if Bastian doesn’t kick my ass into next year…then what?

Then I have to actually be a partner to Finn. Not for a few hours while everyone is looking the other way. Not a two-week hideout in his apartment. A partner.

And what do I have to offer him?

I have money. I have a good voice and steady fingers on a bass. I have a career that, until three months ago, required me to be gone eight to ten months a year.

But right now? I don’t have a job. The band is on hiatus, and I have no idea when we’ll return. I have no idea if we’ll return. Even if we do, I don’t know if we’ll keep touring the way we always have.

So, I have money, and in theory, I have time, but is that enough for the man who wears his heart on his sleeve? The man who’s at the center of a community of people who know far too much about each other but would give the shirt off their back to help someone in need?

What do I have to offer? I’m forty-five years old, and outside of the band, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where I want to live. I don’t have friends. I don’t know how to be present for someone every day. What if I become restless and want to leave?

I take a long sip of my coffee and finish the pastry.

This is embarrassing. I’m supposed to be the steady member of the band.

When Mik was left with a newborn baby in the middle of a tour, I was the one who figured out what was needed. With Nikko’s organizational skills, we worked out feeding schedules, sleeping arrangements, and more importantly, keeping Kay’s existence a secret from the world.

I cannot, apparently, apply this skill to my own life.

I can’t figure out who, or what, I want to be next, how to tell Finn I love him, or how to tell Bastian anything.

I finish the coffee and sit at the window for a while longer, watching people walk past on the pedestrian mall. The couple from the jewelry store is long gone, but now there are new people. A woman with a stroller. Two teenagers holding hands. An older man with a golden retriever puppy that keeps trying to eat the snow.

The drive to Winterberry is slower than it should be. It started snowing about ten minutes after I left the coffee shop and hasn’t let up. Yesterday’s slush on the state route is coated with a thin layer of fresh powder, and the line of taillights ahead of me keeps lighting up for no reason I can see.

The heat in the car is cranked up because it’s cold enough tonight to bite through my coat.

The map said it would take just under an hour when I left Burlington. It’s been almost two.

I glance at the clock. Nine forty-five p.m.

Nikko messaged me earlier, telling me I’d better arrive at the farm today or I’d have a lot of explaining to do and groveling to Sylvie, who’s been asking about me since he arrived days ago.

I know it won’t be a problem if I arrive late. There will be leftovers in the fridge, even though I’m not hungry, and I bet Henry will be halfway through a whiskey in the living room, pretending he isn’t waiting up.

They’re all going to hug me, tell me they missed me, and ask about the drive.

I’m going to lie about all of it, and then I’ll go up to the guestroom I’ve slept in more times than I can count, and I’ll lie in the dark, thinking about the man who lives four miles away. The one I’ll have to pretend not to have seen for months.

The cars ahead of me brake again. I brake with them and the car behind me does the same.

I don’t want to go to the farm.

I’ve told everyone I’ll be in Winterberry for Thanksgiving. That’s all.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow.

Traffic slows to a crawl. Somewhere up ahead there must be an accident, or a plow, or a deer, or all three because the highway has turned into a parking lot.

I pull my phone out at a full stop and text Nikko.