Page 34 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
“Then came Nashville,” he continued, each word dragged through bitterness. “The music started out like the best high I’d ever known. I thought I’d finally found a way to honor him. I wanted to make him proud, like maybe he’d hear my song on the radio and know it was me.”
He laughed, sharp and self-deprecating. “But somewhere along the line, it stopped being about music. Or him. Or even me. The spotlight turned everything urgent and desperate, and suddenly I didn’t know who the hell I was without it. I got lost.” The line of his mouth hardened, his eyes distant. “I traded my roots for painkillers and a badge—a badge that said ‘Famous,’ even if I couldn’t look in the mirror anymore.”
Aubrey’s hand hovered for a moment before she let it rest quietly on his knee. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t force comfort, just offered warmth and presence. The gesture made Gunner shiver, and some small, battered part of Aubrey’s heart shivered, too. She understood wanting to run or escape pain.
He looked down at her hand, then at her. For a second, the old Gunner flickered back—a boyish, crooked grin, a flash of what might be hope. “I used to think if I just played the songs loud enough, numbed the pain down deep enough, I could somehow find myself again. But demons don’t run. They wait. And eventually, you gotta face ’em. Otherwise, you’re done.”
Aubrey nodded. “You’re not the only one who ever tried to run,” she said, her voice steady. “But you didn’t fail. You’re here.”
He reached for her hand, enveloping it in both of his. His touch was warm, rough with calluses, and for a blinding second Aubrey could see the boy he’d been, sitting on a porch with an old man, learning about the world one story at a time.
“Remembering him used to hurt,” he said, so softly she almost missed it. “But now it doesn’t. I stay sober. I’m a better man for many reasons, and he’s a big part of that.”
She traced her thumb along the side of his hand, memorizing the landscape of his scars and veins. “He’d be so proud of you,” she whispered.
For a long moment, the world shrank to just them—and his sweet stare on her that drank her in.
“I think you’re right about that,” he eventually replied quietly.
Aubrey wanted to say more—wanted to tell him how her own ghosts still rattled chains, how the city lights of Atlanta haunted her even when she slept, how much it meant to be seen in this place, at this hour, by someone who understood the way pain could double as fuel. But the words tangled up inside her. Instead, she looked into his strong stare that had overcome so much, searching for a reflection of her own longing for finding her place in this world again.
Gunner offered it, unguarded, holding her gaze. “Thank you,” he said, voice raw. “For listening. For sitting with me while I lay it all out.”
“That’s what friends do,” she replied, surprised by how true it felt.
He turned her hand over and pressed his lips, chapped and earnest, to the inside of her wrist. The simplicity of the gesture—intimate, not desperate—made Aubrey’s pulse stutter.
“Friends, huh?” he teased, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to let her know he’d noticed the tremor in her hand, the catch in her breath. “You sure about that?”
She almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “More than friends then?”
He squeezed her hand with a gentleness that reverberated down to her bones. “Definitely more.” He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from Aubrey’s face. “Wanna know something?” he asked, his voice lighter, but no less sincere.
She tilted her face to meet his. “What’s that?”
“I think you’re the first person I’ve let see me in years. Like, really see me. Not just the cowboy, or the singer, or the mess I made in Nashville.” He studied her, earnest to the core. “I missed that. I missed being a whole person.”
Aubrey felt her heart squeeze, tight and aching. “Me too,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think I left half of myself back in Atlanta. Feels like it’s still there, waiting for me to return. But the other half—she’s here, trying to figure out what it means to be whole again.”
He touched her cheek, gentle and reverent. “Then maybe we can help each other. If you want.”
The offer was as terrifying as it was beautiful. Aubrey wanted to accept, wanted to believe she could build something honest from the wreckage of her old life. But fear clawed at her, as it always did when so many things had gone wrong before.
She hesitated, and Gunner saw it. “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s okay. No pressure. Just… I like sitting here with you. That’s all.”
Aubrey exhaled, grateful. “Me too.”
“So,” he said with a sly edge, “what do we do now?”
Just then, out of the blue, Aubrey’s stomach rumbled—a sudden reminder of the mundane amidst the memories. Laughing, she slapped her hand against her belly and said, “If that isn’t a sign that we should stop dwelling on the past and focus on the future, I don’t know what is.” Rising, she tugged him by the hand. “Come on,” she declared.
“Where are we going?” he asked, curiosity clear in his tone.
“To eat,” she answered, leading him toward the kitchen.
Gunner trailed hesitantly behind Aubrey as she stepped into the kitchen—a space adorned with weathered pine cabinets and copper pots suspended from the ceiling. His eyes drifted to the grocery bags scattered on the counter that she’d brought earlier. “That’s quite a load,” he observed, peeking into one with a curious wariness that probably betrayed his inner turmoil.
“I thought we could try something different today,” she murmured softly, her voice laced with both hope and uncertainty.
