Page 18 of We Redeemed the Rain

“Okay.”

“I love you, sweetheart. I’m going to let you go because your eyes are closing.”

“Thank you.”

“Can’t wait to see you.”

“Same, Daddy. Love you.”

When he let me go, I took a hot shower and slipped between the sheets.

Dad’s words knocked around my head on repeat. Of course he was right. Why didn’t I see it before? I shouldn’tquitmusic…I was justburnt out.All I needed to do was fix the burn out then maybe I could write a few halfway decent songs and record my sixth album. Then maybe I could make some sales, and I wouldn’t need the label after all.

The pillows were cool against my clean cheeks and damp hair. For a brief moment, the covers were chilly on my skin, but in moments, they warmed, and sleep—blissful and deep—claimed me.

All a good night’s sleep did was provide more brain power for overthinking. I was so close to extending my stay in Nashville before checking out of the hotel this morning. Part of me did want a few days to just lay around and be by myself because the tour was nothing but go-go-go and constant interaction night and day. But I’d spent so many weeks in hotels, that spending another hour in an impersonal room with unfamiliar faces in the lobby seemed more of a chore than a mending, healing option.

So I checked out, piddled at a nearby shopping center, and now was waiting for my flight home to Denver. My carry-on bag and Glory crowded the floor next to my barstool at a dimly lit airport bar. It was almost four o’clock in the evening, and I was considering an alcoholic beverage.

The loose leaf contract was spread on the counter, and I poured over every line. Honestly, I would need an attorney to look it over before making a final decision.

After reading the contract through for the second time, I raked my fingers through my hair and propped my head in my hands, my elbows grinding into the tile countertop.

A chipper voice next to me cooed, “Hey, doll, you got mimosas?”

The bartender answered, “Sure do.”

“Wonderful. I’ll take one.”

I glanced up at the mimosa lady to see her looking at me. She motioned to the stool a few feet from mine. “This seat taken?”

I shook my head.

“Great. You look like you could use some company.”

Oh perfect. A chatty Cathy. On any normal day, I would love to chat. But today my emotional energy tank was bone dry.

The seat swiveled beneath her as she sat down. Plopping her Danielle Steele hardback and saggy purse down on the counter, sheasked with a twang to rival Dolly Parton’s, “Going home or leaving home?”

I gave her a polite smile. “Going.”

“Where’s home for you?”

“Denver.”

“Ah. You look eager to get back.”

“I'm just eager to not be traveling.”

“Been away a while then?”

“About eight weeks on a work trip.”

She was in her mid-fifties, I thought. Her southern charm radiated off her in waves. Her big, blonde hair brushed the tops of her shoulders. “What do you do for a living?” She raised her hands to stop me. “No wait, let me guess.”

My cheeks warmed under her casual perusal. “You’re a news anchor.”

“No.”

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