Page 58 of The Roads We Follow

“Deal.” He nods earnestly.

“I didn’t realize how close our mothers were all those years ago until recently. I knew they were teenage friends who became bandmates, and enough about the mess that followed their split and broken contracts to assume my mother avoided conversations about Lynn out of resentment. But I don’t think that anymore. Now, I think she avoided talking about those times out of pain. My mama was different after she came home from seeing Lynn in Idaho....” I purse my lips, remembering her tears, her vulnerability, her return to attending weekly church services even though it meant a three-ring circus of security detail and disguises. But mostly, I think about her desire to talk late into the evenings about things she’s never spoken about with me before. “I think whatever bond was broken between them all those years ago began to heal as soon as that old song of theirs went viral.”

Micah’s eyes are soft on my face. “I don’t know what shocked my family more—having that prestigious award show up at my parents’ house, engraved to my mother, or opening the door to Luella herself standing there only a month later at my mom’s request.”

From the sofa behind us, Hattie releases a soft snore. We both freeze and then slowly twist to find her burrowing deeper into one of the extra blankets Micah requested at the front desk.

I return my gaze to the open journal between us and trace the seven-letter blank for the clue on three across once again.Us. I count out the letters forfriends, but it doesn’t fit with the answers for the vertical clues. And then—

“Sisters.” A raw sensation crawls up my throat and seems to confirm my timely hypothesis. I tap the blank row. “That’s what they were to each other once, just like your mom wrote in her journal. An old friend you can live without after a time, but a sister...” I shake my head. “That’s different. My sisters can infuriate me like no one else in this world, and because of that, I suppose we can hurt each other like no one else in the world, too. But no matter what offense comes between us, I’d never be able to cut them off completely.” A new conviction surges within me. “I think Mama gave me Lynn’s name out of hope. Hope that one day, despite all the brokenness between them, things might be restored.”

Micah sets his hand on the page next to mine. His palm covers entries written before either of us were born, treasured words that hold mystery and truth, joy and sorrow. And I imagine, for Micah, a fair amount of heartache, too.

“Can you tell me what happened between them?” he asks.

“I don’t know all the details that led up to their fight, but I do know it was your mama’s decision to leave it all behind—their music, their tour plans, their new record, their friendship.” I take a breath, wanting to take care in how I say this next part. “Farrow Music Productions was still so new at that time that when Lynn backed out, it cost my parents every cent of collateral they put down on the company, and eventually, it bankrupted them. They lost their homeand had to move with my sisters into my grandparents’ house while my dad worked to rebuild the label from the ground up. The way my mama tells it, she thought she was done with music forever after all that. She didn’t step foot on stage again until I was three years old, after much encouragement from my daddy.”

“I didn’t know any of that.” Micah says, rolling on his side to thread a hand through his hair. “I never knew it was my mother who initiated the decision to leave.” I can hear the grief in his long exhale. “It’s hard not to think of all the questions I wish I could ask her now, starting with the motivation behind why she would choose to keep so many secrets from us.”

I nod to the journals. “Maybe the more you read, the more you’ll understand. Your mother expresses herself well through her writing. She obviously had a way with words.”

“I have it on good authority she’s not the only one with that gift.” This time when his gaze fixes on mine, the query in his voice transports me back to the mural in Carter’s Ballroom, to a conversation that feels as foreign now as it does impossible.

Had I actually suggested I write my mama’s love story for publication?

I barely have time to answer the first question due to the one that comes directly behind it:Would I actually write under my real name?

“You’re panicking,” Micah notes calmly. “Why?”

I try to sit up, but the mattress is like quicksand, and it takes two attempts to push myself into a cross-legged position.

“I misspoke before—at the mural. I can’t write a book like that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

His expression doesn’t budge even a fraction of an inch, and the patience rolling off him is almost irritating.

“Micah,” I start again, this time bolder. “I don’t know how to write nonfiction. Obviously, there’s a Raegan Farrow doppelgänger on the loose who says stupid things when she’s stressed out.”

His lips quirk. “I can vouch for the fact that it was most definitelyyou back at that mural: jean skirt, purple top, curls for days, and a face I’ve enjoyed looking at from every angle since the day we met.” He hikes an eyebrow, and all the fluttering I’d managed to contain to my abdomen is now roaming free in every nook and cranny of my body.

“You know their stories by heart, Raegan. You said so yourself. So take the next step and write them down.” He readjusts his position on the mattress to mirror my own and then reaches for my hand. I offer him the one that isn’t marred by signs of stress and slip the other behind my back. It’s easy to melt into the sensation of his touch. “Don’t sell yourself short just because you’re afraid to lean in to something new.”

“What if I lean so far I fall flat on my face and fail my whole family?” I whisper in the hollow space between us.

“And what if it’s the best thing you ever do for your family?” he asks. “What if what you write does exactly what we hope and it knocks Cheater Peter’s book right off the shelves?” He clasps my hand a little tighter. “What if this is the timing you’ve been waiting for?”

I close my eyes and focus on the feel of Micah’s hand on mine until I can process it all over again. Only, this time, when I plug the details into my own story narrative, I don’t give fear a plot point. Because if anyone in our circle is qualified to write my mama and daddy’s love story, it’s me. Adele’s version would read like a business exposition of dates and facts, and Hattie’s idea of writing was to bribe her sorority sisters to finish her term papers with VIP concert tickets to any show Mama’s team could get their hands on. And Mama? Well, she’s an orator by nature. I’ve rarely seen her put pen to paper.

It’s strange to think how little I knew about the personal life of Lynn Davenport prior to opening her journal for the first time, when now I can hear her voice inside my head, telling me a story I’m inspired to follow. Perhaps nonfiction isn’t as different as I fear.

The idea sprouts chill bumps down my arms.

“I’ll call and talk to Chip tomorrow,” I say. “Ultimately, it’s his decision to make or break.”

“And your family’s.” I don’t miss his not-too-subtle hint.

I gesture to the couch where my sister is snoring off her booze and hike an eyebrow. “Would you like me to wake Hattie to ask her now or...?”

“Raegan,” he says gently. “It’s easy to fool ourselves into thinking secrets are the best way to protect the ones we love, when it’s really ourselves we want to protect.”

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