Page 86 of All of You

She smiled tightly and nodded.

I pushed out a breath as the lights lowered and the opening act went on. It was amazing, exciting, impressive—all those things, but my mind remained on the small powerhouse next to me, a cocktail of anticipation, self-consciousness, excitement, and overwhelm making my head swim. Before I knew it, Whit was escorted back stage by a runner so she’d have time to get changed, and I was left to sit, nod politely, and wish I had my phone so I could look busy.

The lights went low, and the music began. Eight of the top Country stars were lit with spotlights as guitars and drums crashed and the song took flight. Four women, four men, all decked out in guitars and cowboy hats—Whit’s transformation had my attention completely. She wore cut-off jeans and a tied up button-down sleeveless shirt with red cowboy boots and a white cowboy hat. What an insane shift from the polished, daring look, and yet, she was no less magnetic.

She looked at home up there, sharing spotlights and marching across the stage like she owned it. Toward the end as the group worked its way to the platform that had extended out into the crowd, Colton Danes, whom I’d done an excellent job ignoring by keeping my eyes squarely on Whit, slid his slimy hand around Whit’s waist and pulled her to his side, his fingers on her bare stomach.

It’d been a while since I’d felt rage, but there it was, crawling up my throat and nearly steaming out my ears. I might have launched out of my seat if I hadn’t been gripping the sides of my chair, if I hadn’t seen her cock her hip to the side and bump him away from her, and if he hadn’t complied with that less than subtle hint.

I could feel eyes on me, could practically hear the questions the reporters would ask as we left, but as long as she was okay, I’d be okay. After what felt like an hour, she was back in her red dress, her hair, make up, shoes all looking as though she hadn’t just been performing her heart out on stage for a six-minute medley and ending it by getting groped by a fellow performer.

I turned to her immediately. “You okay?”

I bent to look in her eyes and saw only determination there, which was a relief, if a bit confusing.

“I’m just fine. He knew better, but he won’t get confused after tonight.”

I had no idea what that meant, but she seemed settled, so I wasn’t about to push it, especially when the applause had amplified as more presenters walked out and the award for best song was going to be announced.

Before I had a chance to get light-headed, there it was, someone saying Whit Grantham for “Stolen Moment!” Somehow, my body knew it should stand, knew I should hug Whit, kiss her cheek, absorb the smile and joy radiating off her in that moment, take in her words as she said, “Forgive me for doing it like this.”

I sat down as she reached the podium, adrenaline shooting through me as she took the award and envelope, hugged the presenters, and then stood at the thin microphone that popped up out of the stage every time an award was announced.

“Thank you so much for this honor,” she started, her voice rich, beautiful as always, a slight tremor of nerves or adrenaline, maybe even emotion.

She continued, thanking all of the people who’d helped on the album, who’d influenced her, all so rapidly, I could only understand a third of the names.

“Finally, I have to say thank you to the soldier who inspired this song. Without his vulnerability and willingness to share his pain, this song wouldn’t exist. I’d like to say thank you to all our men and women serving, for how much they give up, and for those who make the ultimate sacrifice.”

She took a breath and found me in the audience, and my thudding heart pounded so loudly, I could hardly hear.

“But today, I’d especially like to thank my boyfriend, Lieutenant Ben Holder, who is, in fact, that soldier who inspired this song. My heart has always been yours.”

The room exploded, people cheering and standing, a few around me clapping me on the back as Whit was escorted off the stage, her focus straight ahead.

I heard nothing—not the sound of clapping or comments as people shook my hand or smiled in my face, offering me congratulations.

Minutes ticked by, and my mind was all white paint in a white room, just bright and harsh and bland and empty.

On what? Why were they congratulating me? And why had the floor dropped out from underneath me? What did it mean when she said I was him?

It was metaphorical. It had to be. It must have been, because we’d never met—I hadn’t talked with her before Flint’s house, and the song had already been out then.

Or had I?

I sat down, feeling my hand shake and tucking it beneath my thigh, my heart continuing to pound like I was running, racing, with Whit still nowhere to be seen. I waited through a commercial break, through another award announcement, and finally, I had to get space, still not breathing right, still not making sense of anything, my skin nearly crawling from the confusion.

My mind was empty as I went through the motions in the bathroom, that same white room, then as I made my way into the hallway and toward the door to the theater.

“Ben,” came her voice, and I turned.

I took her in, beautiful, flushed, concern in her eyes, but I couldn’t tell why it didn’t impress me like it normally would have. I had no idea what I was doing here.

“Please talk to me,” she said, her words slow and level as she approached.

She put a hand out to touch me, then must have thought better of it as she pulled back and let it drop to her side.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, welcoming the approaching numbness because I couldn’t begin to process what her words meant, what I was doing here with her in a room full of people I didn’t know as the date of a person I certainly didn’t know.

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