Page 70 of Caught Up In You

I watch the whole set from stage left, tucked into the wings beneath lights and rigging and next to the smoke machines I imagine will later obscure the fact that Griffin Stone can’t play guitar for shit.

And Owen stands with me, first beside me, then behind me so I can lean back into him, his arms wrapped around my waist. I like the feeling of being cocooned by him, the smell of his soap or detergent or cologne or whatever it is putting me at ease. Throughout the show he ducks his head every so often to whisper in my ear, just little comments like, “I’ve heard this one” or “She’s really good.” But it has the same effect as if he were whispering utter filth, his warm breath sending shivers up my spine. I just keep sinking further and further into him as the show goes on.

Romy finishes the song that I know is her biggest hit, the one I heard on the radio in Grace’s shop and that I’ve been covertly streaming on my phone here and there. Then she motions for the roaring crowd to quiet.

“When I was just starting out, I used to always close my sets with this last song,” she says, leaning into the mic and smiling like she’s got a secret. My heart leaps into my throat. When she glances to the left with a smile, tears spring to my eyes. “It’s been a long while, but I think it’s time to bring it back.” She unclips the capo from the head of her guitar and moves it to the neck. “A lot of you might know it, so feel free to sign along.”

When she strums the opening chords to “Can the Circle Be Unbroken,” I want to laugh and sob at the same time. Listening to the first verse is like time traveling out of the cavernous arena and directly back to the open mic nights in tiny bars, the gigs where she went on at two a.m., all the backyard bonfire singalongs. My lips move without me even thinking, and if thecrowd weren’t singing along so loudly, they might hear me chiming in on the low harmonies, just like I used to back in Nashville. The song feels like a hymn, a prayer, one filled with gratitude for the return of my friend, for the fact that I’ve finally let myself hear her apology, accept the truth. It feels good to put down the grudge I’ve stubbornly carried for so long.

And having Owen here for this moment when the before and after of my life meet feels like opening a door inside myself and inviting him inside. It feels precious.

It feels right.

When the song ends, Romy slings her guitar around to her back and blows kisses to the crowd, then trots offstage and directly into my arms.

“Soon you’ll be on yourownheadlining tour,” I tell her. And I mean it. She was absolutely incredible.

“God, I hope so,” she says, fanning herself. “I know you want to get out of here before he goes on, but I have something for you. Wait here, I’ll be right back, ’kay?”

I nod and watch her move through the backstage area like it’s her home.

She’s only been gone for a moment when I feel his arrival like a summer storm.

When I turn, there he is.

Griffin Stone.

Exactly the same, but somehow smaller.

He looks like someone typed “country music asshole” into an AI generator. He’s wearing skintight jeans and a black Johnny Cash T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve, even though he’s never smoked a day in his life. Hell, he used to call the cops on the hipsters who smoked Spirits on the sidewalk outside our apartment.

My stomach curdles when he smiles.

Which is not what I want. Iwantto be a badass. To deliver a devastating line and leave him grasping. If I have to run into him, I want to win.

Instead I’m frozen.

“I knew as soon as I heard that old Carter Family song on the monitors that you had to be here,” he says, his eyes roaming up my bare legs. “Looking good, Wyatt.”

I can’t make my mouth move. I just let him stand there looking satisfied while he ogles me. The longer it lasts, the more paralyzed I become until I’m worried I won’t even be able to walk away from him. I’ll have to live here, rooted to this stage, for the rest of my life.

And then Owen leans in.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Owen McBride. And you are?”

I suck in a breath, watching as Griffin grits his teeth, barely hanging on to his smile.

“Griffin Stone,” he says with a bro nod, ignoring Owen’s outstretched hand.

“Sloane?” Owen asks, and I nearly snort out a laugh. It’s only by the grace of God that I manage not to grin.

Owen takes his hand back, wrapping it around my waist and bending to nuzzle me just behind my ear, knowing full well that it’s a spot that always makes me moan a little. I can practically feel his smile against my neck when the sound escapes.

In front of us, Griffin’s eyes cloud.

“Stone,” he replies through clenched teeth, his shit-eating grin now gone.

“Ah, right, the man of the hour,” Owen says. “Sounds like Romy got the crowd good and warmed up for you.”

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