Page 121 of Forever To Me

Shit. I rub the back of my neck.

“Holy shit!”

"Technically, Asher Wyatt Walker," I mutter.

She spins around a full circle, pointing at everything in rapid-fire accusation.

“The GRAMMY?! The CMA Award?! The walls of lyrics—Walker, you wrote every single hit song on the damn radio!”

I clear my throat. “Not every song.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, waving wildly at my entire life. “Would you like a round of applause for being slightly humble about your secret GRAMMY-winning, chart-topping legendary career?!”

I sigh. “Violet?—”

She cuts me off with a sharp gasp, her hands slamming onto a pile of notebooks. “Oh my God—did you writeIf the Whiskey Could Talk?!”

I shift on my feet and look out at the lake. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? MAYBE?!” Her mouth drops open in shock. Then she stomps toward the fireplace and picks up the coveted golden gramophone, holding it up like she can't believe what’s in her hand. “You know, most people put something subtle on their mantle, like a nice family photo, or even a candle, or literally anything. No, not you. You have a freaking GRAMMY!”

I exhale slowly. “You done?”

She points at me with the damn thing. "Not even close, buddy."

I swallow and nod, waiting for this to fully sink in. It’s been a long time since anyone has realized who I used to be and understood the gravity of it. Hell, sometimes it still feels like a fever dream to me.

“I had sex with Asher freaking Wyatt!” She covers her mouth. “Oh my God.”

I roll my eyes and exhale a deep breath. She looks like she needs a paper bag to breathe into, and she’s really freaking out.

She shakes her head and looks at me, “The fuck!”

“What?” I shrug, waiting for the rest of her freak out moment to unfold.

“You let me struggle to play your songs right in front of you!” She points at the notebook where she found the song I wrote and looks at me accusingly. “You freaking wrote that song!”

I swallow nervously and nod.

"And my tattoo! It's your lyrics! You said nothing!" She starts to take deep breaths and holds her chest. She covers her face and tries to walk around me to the door.

I reach out and stick my arm out to stop her, and she whirls.

“You let me embarrass myself by playing your song in your bar. You didn’t say anything!”

“For the record, you sang it beautifully,” I add.

She stares at me and shakes her head slightly. “People talk about you. They think you’re dead. No one has seen you. You really just up and disappeared.”

I snort. “I’m sure there are a few people who wish I was dead.” I walk over to the old wooden cabinet, pull out a bottle of whiskey, and pour two glasses.

Violet narrows her eyes. “What’s this for?”

“Every time you freak out,” I say, handing her a glass, “I pour us another drink.”

She squints at me. “I’m gonna be wasted by the end of this, aren’t I?”

I shrug. “Probably.”

---