Page 105 of Sweet Escape

Not that it matters what I want.

But still, a part of me is glad she wasn’t willing to let go of the big things she’s dreamed of for ... some guy.

My chest still aches at the idea that maybe that’s all I was to her, though, when she was so much more to me.

The music that’s been pumping through the speakers comes to an end, and then we hear a familiar voice making announcements.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, you’re in for a treat tonight!” Gigi says, her voice echoing around the football field. “Tonight, we have a handful of incredible performers ready to bring this Fall Festival to life!”

I turn to Murphy as Gigi continues her announcement.

“Ten bucks says the first song is an off-key version of ‘Indian Summer,’” I joke, referencing a Brooks & Dunn classic that I hear somewhere in town at the start of autumn like clockwork.

Murphy smirks at me.

“Welcome to the stage, all the way from Santa Monica ...”

My head spins back toward the stage, my brows furrowing.

“. . . Vivian Walsh!”

I blink, certain I’ve misheard. But sure enough, there’s that familiar red hair as she walks onto the stage, a guitar slung around her shoulder. I push out of my chair and take a step forward, my hands on my hips as I watch her get set up, adjusting the height of the mic and plugging her guitar into the sound system.

“Hello, Rosewood!” she says, her voice ringing loud and beautiful and clear through the speakers as she steps in front of the mic. “Some of you might remember me from when I visited this incredible town last month and did a little performance at The Standard. Well, I’m back with a few songs, and I’m excited to share them with you. I hope you enjoy.”

Then her fingers begin to pluck and strum her strings. I turn back to Murphy, finding her up and helping someone at the cork and ring game.

“Did you know about this?” I demand.

“Of course I did,” she replies, laughing as she accepts cash from the couple standing, waiting to play.

I face the stage again, my ears soaking up the sounds of Vivian’s voice as she plays that song she played at The Standard. “Sweet Escape,” I think she called it. Listening to her play soothes something inside me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I watch her until the song finishes, and she begins playing another.

“Why is she here?” I call back to my sister, uncaring that she’s supposed to be working.

“Why do you think?”

I look back at her, finding Murphy handing over a bottle of wine to the couple. She looks at me, a smile on her face.

“She’s in love with you, dummy. This is her grand gesture.”

I spin back around, my heart pounding at what my sister just said, wondering if it’s really true.Hopingthat it is.

I head toward where Vivian is on the opposite end of the field, leaving Murphy behind to handle the booth. I weave into the crowd surrounding the stage, getting close enough that I can see those freckles that I love so much.

God, she’s a fucking queen up there. Commanding the stage and the attention of everyone listening.

And I can’t do anything but drink it in. Bask in her presence.

Any attempt I’d made at moving past the feelings I’d begun to develop ... is gone. Dust. Blown away in the wind of the storm that surrounds my heart when I’m near her.

She finishes singing, her eyes closed and her head tilted up on that last note, and then the crowd around me cheers and shouts, applause sweeping through the entire event.

That’s when her eyes find me. Like she knew where I was standing the entire time.

“Technically, I’m only supposed to do two songs,” she says, giving me a smile, “but I have one more. Something I wrote over the past few weeks. It’s about that time in your life when your idea of home becomes less about a place, and more about a person. I haven’t named it yet, but I’m thinking about calling it ‘Where You Are.’”

Then she’s strumming her guitar again, a folky-country sound that I find myself swaying along to, my fingers tapping lightly against my jeans as I listen.

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