Page 69 of Caught Up In You

As soon as Sienna opens the door, my eyes go to Romy. How could they not? My ex–best friend lights up the tiny room.

Her fiery-red hair is somehow deeper, the curls cascading over her shoulder. She’s wearing a denim halter-top jumpsuit covered in rhinestones and a pair of silver-toed, bright red cowboy boots. And even though she’s bigger and brighter and just…morethan I remember, she’s also exactly the same. The big green eyes that betray her every thought. The sliver of a gap between her front teeth that makes her smile slightly rascally. And her old Martin on a stand beside an old green velvet couch in the corner of the room. I know it’s the same guitar from forever ago because it bears a scratch down the body from thenight a drunk hurled a pint glass at her during a set and I summoned pull-a-car-off-a-child energy and hauled him out of the bar with my bare hands.

“Hi,” she says, her eyes watering. “You came.”

Ever since her first text—hell, ever since I drove away from Nashville—I’ve imagined what I’d say if I saw her again. I tried to formulate something that felt true. Honest. As if I even knew what I felt. When everything went down with my mom, my laser focus turned to Hazel. There was no space for reconciliation.

I can’t believe I almost missed this.

And as soon as I see her and that guitar, the words come easy.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her, and it takes only a beat, one long, conspiring look between us, before we’re rushing to each other, crashing into a big hug almost nine years in the making.

“I’m so sorry,” she rasps into my hair.

“Forgiven and forgotten,” I tell her, and I mean it.

“I was so drunk, and he was?—”

“A bastard,” I finish for her.

She pulls back and dabs at her eyes before her thick mascara stars trailing down her rouged cheeks. “I slapped him as soon as you left.”

“I hope you left a mark,” I say, swiping at my cheeks, though it’s too late for my mascara.

Romy grins, grabbing my hands and squeezing them. “A good one. I was wearing that big old Masonic ring that belonged to my granddaddy.”

I return her squeeze. “That thing’s like brass knuckles.”

“I heard it took four stitches to close the cut on his cheek. They had to airbrush the scar on his album cover.”

“Good girl,” I say.

I lose myself in a momentary spiral of shame that I waited so long to have this moment, but I come out of it when I realize Romy is staring over my shoulder, eyes wide.

I forgot he was even here, but when I turn, there’s Owen standing behind me, hands in his pockets, relaxed and grinning.

Waiting.

Following my lead.

“This is Owen. He’s my…” And now, after the words of absolution came so easily, my brain just…short circuits. I have no words. Pineapple? Can I say pineapple?

But Owen just steps forward and shakes Romy’s hand. “I’m Owen. Pleasure to meet you, Romy,” he says, his voice warm and deep like a hot toddy on a cold night. “Excited to hear your set tonight.”

Fuck, he’s sogood. Not pushing me. Not making me explain. My own personal safety net.

“Speaking of, we’re just here to see you,” I add. And like we haven’t missed a day, Romy fills in everything I don’t say.

“You don’t have to worry,” she says, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “He never leaves his green room before he goes on. There’s always a preshow tailgate full of whiskey and women. Sienna’ll show you where you can watch from the wings, and I’ll meet you offstage after.”

Then she pulls me in for another hug. “I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you too.”

Romy is incredible.

As good as I remember, maybe even better. She’s confident and sassy, her fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. She has an incredible rapport with her band, and she soon has the audience—who didn’t even come to see her and trickle in throughout her set—in the palm of her hand. She somehowmanages to get them singing along to songs they’ve never heard before.

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