Page 109 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Griff shoulders his bag and climbs the stairs onto the idling bus. From her perch on the couch, Freddie lifts her sunglasses to get a good look at him, her brow arching into space. “You’re early.”

“Don’t got much else to do,” he says, tucking his lank hair behind his ears.

Consider that his motto of the last two weeks. Since he got back to Nashville, he’s buried himself in shit he’s needed to do for so long, but nothing’s been able to take his mind off Alabama. He’s drunk himself silly, he’s stayed sober. He’s written shit songs, he’s penned some good ones. He’s willingly seen his label, he’s told ’em to fuck off. Ain’t nothing working. Ain’t nothing chasing away the fact that he’s still haunted by Alabama overhearing the conversation. Still haunted by how he treated her.

He should call her. Alabama’s number one on his speed dial. One quick punch and he could be talking to her, apologizing. So why doesn’t he do it? Because she’s better off without him, that’s why. Because he hurt her—and like the coward he is, he’s running away.

Again.

He doesn’t blame her for walking away. He was an idiot to keep the truth from her. Alabama valued honesty, valued her reputation, and what did he do? He lied to her. He fucking curb-stomped any hope he had at a second shot.

All the plans he had—the ring, Clover—up in fucking smoke.

Griff frowns as he settles onto the leather couch beside Freddie. “Where’re we goin’ again?” he asks, kicking a snakeskin boot up on the coffee table.

Freddie huffs a laugh but pulls out her iPad and runs through the itinerary. “We drive to New York today, where we have one show at Nita’s Public House. Then tomorrow we board a plane for Amsterdam. Be excited, Griff. This will be a fantastic tour.”

Normally, he’d relish the tour. It’s the best form of distraction, hands down. But being three thousand miles away from Alabama has him uneasy. He wants to talk to her. Wants to make sure she’s taking care of that arm. Wants to tell her he loves her more than anything on this fucking planet, but the memory of her face, angry and tear-streaked, won’t let him pick up the phone.

He knows he shut down when she walked away. Hell, he’s the one who let her walk away.

He should have taken her in his arms, made her stay and listen, gave her the best forgive-me kiss she’s ever had in her entire life. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t shake that shit-awful feeling from years before. That he didn’t deserve her. That she was better off without him.

But now—now he knows he was a goddamn fool.

“Here.” Freddie hands him a printed itinerary. “Familiarize yourself.”

As Griff runs a wary eye down the tour stops, a gut-wrenching need sweeps over him. How is he supposed to get through this without Alabama? Sleep, eat, fucking breathe? She made the last tour; hell, she was the last tour. She deserves this more than him. She should be here, beside him, singing her heart out on every stage in Europe.

“By the way, you never told me,” Freddie’s voice breaks through his reverie. “How was dinner with Mavis the other day?”

“That wasn’t dinner, that was a date,” Griff grinds out. “A fuckin’ publicity stunt and you know it, Freddie.”

A smile curls her lips. “Just getting you into prime fighting shape.”

He rolls his eyes. His label had billed dinner with Mavis as a business meeting, but it really was a shameless setup. Nothing more than a distraction to get Griff’s mind off Alabama.

His stomach twists, and he gives Freddie a wary look. “Right.”

“I know you think I got you into this mess, Griff, but face it.” Freddie glances down at her iPad. “You’re better off. That man wasn’t you. The old Griff Greyson suits you better.”

His jaw clenches. He doesn’t want to be the old Griff Greyson. He wants to be the man Alabama loves. That determined kid from Clover who had so much goddamn hope he’d bust down any wall in front of him to get what he wanted.

So what’s stopping him now?

Freddie taps a nail on the table. “I want you to sing how you’ve been singing, Griff. Keep that sound you’ve built. It’s good. The label loves it and can’t wait to get you into the studio for your next album.”

Griff scoffs. “That’s some nice fuckin’ hypocrisy right there, Freddie. You want me to sing how I’ve been singin’, but you want the old Griff Greyson back.” He crosses his arms. “Pick a lane.”

Freddie sighs as Griff’s phone vibrates. “We really need to discuss the sponsors,” she says as he pulls it out of his back pocket.

When Griff looks down at his phone, his heart stops.

A text from Alabama.

With shaky hands, he swipes the unlock screen and reads the message. Good luck in Europe.Give ‘em hell. The accompanying photo is a page in her notebook. The last verse and chorus of their song finished.

What you did—how can I forgive you, how can I forget?

---