Page 99 of The Roads We Follow

Raegan walks toward me and mouths,What are you doing?

“I want to read your book,” I say without preamble.

Her eyes widen, then narrow into slits. “I thought you said you read it last night—”

“Not that one.” I shake my head. “I have an entire day where I won’t be sitting behind a steering wheel, and I’m in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I’d like to grab a chair and sit in the shade by the river and read a brilliant piece of fiction until the concert starts.”

“Micah, I don’t even—”

“Can you access the file from your phone?”

This stops whatever excuse she was about to give me. She nods.

“Will you send it to me?Please?”

She twists back to check on her impatient sister. “Only if you promise to be honest with me.”

“Do you know me at all?”

She rolls her eyes, and the smile she offers is enough to ease the pinch in my chest from earlier. “Fine, I’ll send it to you.”

As she jogs to catch up with Adele, I watch her slip her phone from the pocket of her floral shorts. Exactly thirty seconds later, I’m holding a digital piece of Raegan’s heart in my hands. If I can’t be with her for the next twenty-four hours, this has to be the next best thing.

Turns out, I was right about two things. The first: Adele kept Raegan working at such a breakneck pace that apart from our texting and a brief walk of the grounds last night before we all turned in, I’ve barely seen her. The second:The Sisters of Birch Grovesurpassed even my most optimistic expectations. It’s exquisite. Even as misting tents went up and sound checks blared and thousands upon thousands of boot-and-hat-wearing country-music lovers entered the main gates and danced in the grass as the opening bands came out to rev up the crowds, I couldn’t pull myself away from reading. Raegan’s story about a family’s struggle to reclaim their connection after a life-altering event sent them spinning in different directions is as provoking as it is profound.

I search for her face in the VIP section of the amphitheater as the sixth band of the day finally exits the stage. It’s nearly sunset, which means the temperature will be dropping soon and the arid breeze will feel nearly as cool as the river. I see Hattie first. She waves at me with an exuberance that has me matching herinfectious grin. I make my way over to her, noting the empty seat between us.

“Can you believe this?” Hattie yells, twisting from our VIP seats near the front of the stage to the impossibly huge crowd stretched out above us. “It’s unreal, right?”

As I follow her gaze, the massive bowl of people sitting and standing as far as the eye can see under a rapidly changing horizon is more than my feeble mind can comprehend. It’s no wonder Luella wanted to come back here or why some of the biggest stage names have called it their favorite venue, returning tens of times. I get it now. Impressive is an understatement.

She holds up her phone, capturing a video I have no doubt she will be sending to her kids.

“Did you see the amusement park rides on the back side of the grounds?”

“The what?” I yell.

“Amusement rides.” She makes a circle gesture with her fingers and then pulls out her phone to show me the pictures she took of the rides she sent to her kids. “I used to love thrill rides, but Raegan loves the Ferris wheel. She used to ride that thing over and over while Mama performed at state fairs.”

Warmth blooms in my chest at the thought of young Raegan. “Where is she now?”

“Adele asked her to sit with Cheyenne while Mama does her backstage meet-and-greets with fans.” Hattie shrugs. “She trusts few people in our industry. There are some real creepers.”

The statement bothers me—as much for the truth of it as for the questions it stirs. Questions I’ve vowed to put to rest, I remind myself. Hattie fills our wait time by pointing out every industry professional she knows—on stage and off, providing nuggets of backstory on each of the headliners and those up-and-coming on the country-music scene. And a small part of me can’t help but feel vindicated that Tav Zuckerman’s band didn’t make the cut for such a festival this year.

As soon as the lights change, the roar of the crowd becomes deafening. And when Luella is announced and she struts on to the stage, I can’t help but gawk at her outfit.

“It’s great, right?” Hattie squeals in my ear. “I picked it out for her!”

“It’s...” I laugh, unsure if I even have the vocabulary for what it is. “It’s soher.”

Luella’s silver jumpsuit looks like she fell into a cave of diamonds and got to keep whatever she could glue to herself. Every time she shimmies across the stage in her white cowgirl boots or monologues about something or other to her fans, the crowd stands and cheers. I’ve seen Luella perform on YouTube clips taken by fans, I’ve seen her give acceptance speeches at award shows, and I’ve watched her sing with her daughters on multiple occasions now, but I’ve never seen her like this. This is Luella the Music Legend. In between old fan favorites, she’s funny and charismatic and entertaining as all get-out, and I have a sudden flashback of my mother’s early journals. Of those first entries where she describes Luella’s natural charm that won friends over quickly—a trait that couldn’t be more opposite of my mother’s personality. She was always slow to trust and open up, but once she did, she hung on tight. It’s no stretch of the imagination to visualize how Raegan’s mother and mine would have made a good match in music and as friends. Yet ultimately, I can’t imagine my mother’s journey continuing on the way Luella’s did. My mother lived the life she wanted—a quiet life in Chickee’s house, teaching children music, serving at her church, working in her garden, loving on her husband and her two sons.

A hand grasps mine, and soon I’m staring into the eyes I’ve been dreaming about seeing again since we last parted ways. Raegan’s curls are soft around her face, and her makeup is fresh. And I swear my heart bucks in my chest at her beauty. She says something, but it’s impossible to hear over the acoustics. She tries again, lifting up on her tiptoes this time as the fabric of her long, indigo sundress swishes against my calves.

“I missed you.”

Her voice has been the narrative in my head all day, telling me a story I didn’t want to put down until after the final page was turned. But these words,these wordsI hear differently. I don’t care about the setting or the crowd or whatever displays of affection Adele warned against. I care about Raegan. More and more with every minute we share.

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