Page 191 of We Redeemed the Rain

Gifts weren’t a typical thing between us. Tag and I didn’t have money for extras. The studio was something I knew he had to scrape pennies for. He’d probably been saving for months to buy me a second-hand microphone. And I had no doubt the studio was the reason there wasn’t a diamond on my ring.

It was such a Tag thing to do. Because he loved my heart and knewexactlywhat was inside it.

Music, love, words, people.

I stammered, emotions making my voice wobble. “Why—why did you do this?”

He blinked, hesitating for a moment, then he said something I would never forget. “Because there’s more songs in your soul the world needs, Strings. The same way it needs more sunrises to chase out the dark.”

I sucked a breath.

Even though there wasn’t a lot of funds for things like gifts, Tag gave me one thing every single day.

His words.

The man lavished me with words. And I was greedy for them. Everything about what he said and how he said it made me crazy with love. Maybe it was because that’s what brought us together so long ago—words written by kids. Or maybe it was because he truly knew how to wield them. Or maybe it was because whatever he said, be it simple or grand, was a direct line of vision into his heart. Most likely, it was all three.

I craved whatever he said, whatever he wrote. Every syllable was oxygen in my veins.

“Do—do you like it?” A beat of worry crossed his face.

I sought a response that would never do justice to this act of love. A hoarse whisper escaped me, “Iadoreyou.”

A relieved, breathy chuckle softened his face into a tender, knowing smile. “Get over here.”

I flew into his arms.

EPILOGUE

Two years later

I’m laying up in the hayloft, beside my wife. She’s on her back and has her arms flung over her head, naked and completely unashamed. Her eyes are closed. Looking at her without the sound turned on, you’d think she was asleep. But she’s actually humming. Her gentle song joins the rain on the barn roof; the mix nearly lulls me to sleep. If I wasn’t so eager to put some thoughts on paper, I’d curl up beside her and let my body sink into the bed of old quilts and hay and give in to the quiet call.

Bea is humming something I’ve never heard before. I’m not going to ask her about it—she always sings for me when it’s ready. Right now, she’s furrowing her brow, probably trying to work out some lyrics.

We’re here, in the hayloft, where this all began. And our hearts are spilling over the exact same way they always have. Music. Words. When we’re together, we sing a lot, write a lot. I’ve found there are infinite ways to express myself. But my favorite will always be this.

Pages.

These days, I find myself running to paper. But not for the reasons Iused to. Years ago—another life it feels like—I found comfort in these pages because I spun stories, created realities I could dwell in and build a make-believe home on. I wrote lines of poetry because it gave my brain something to obsess over during the quiet alone hours. It was an outlet—a chance to take a quick breath at the surface before plunging into the depths again. The lines were filled with free therapy and mere fantasies.

That’s not why I write now.

Now, I’m spinning a new story, arealone. I rush to write down reality before I forget one single, glorious detail. I’m writing down the moments that heal me, the moments that bind us, the moments that—stacked together—redeem the darkest parts of my childhood.

One look, one touch, one word at a time.

Right now, I’m living one of those moments with my bride.

About two hours ago, I held the walkie talkie up to my lips and pressed the button. “Feel that?”

A pulse of static filled the beat before her response. “Feel what?”

I pressed it again. “Uh, hello. The rain?”

I leaned against the hayloft door frame, watching her unload boxes from the back of the truck. Her hips swayed as she carried a box up to the wraparound porch. I didn’t know what the hell she was doing. Didn’t care either. She dropped whatever it was and headed back to the truck bed. Raising a hand to shield her eyes from the rain shower, she picked up her pace.

Her hair was down, cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders. She had those blessed skinny jeans on, cowgirl boots, and a pink flannel shirt (She hasn’t started singing country music yet, but she’s well on her way. Ninety-nine percent sure she was humming along with George Strait last Friday.). As good as she looked, I knew she’d look a lot better after I got ahold of her.

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