Heartbreaker(64)

I could fail all over again, and have nothing left in the end.

“So what happens now?” I ask, fearful.

He tilts my face up and kisses me in answer, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss I could lose myself in for hours. It warms me to my bones and makes me believe again that everything’s going to be okay. Then Finn steps back.

“I’m going to Nashville,” he says slowly. My heart stops. “You need time to think, and figure out what you want,” he continues. “Just say the word, and I’ll book you a ticket. I’ll buy the whole damn plane. But it has to be what you want.” His blue eyes search mine, like he’s looking for answers. “You have to decide what this is going to be.”

My heart twists. He’s leaving.

“I love you,” Finn says clearly. “I want a future for us. But I can’t do it here, living in the past.”

“Don’t go,” I whisper, and he clenches his jaw.

“I’m not leaving you, Eva. You’re the one who’s choosing to stay.”

He walks slowly down the hallway and takes his jacket from by the door. I’m frozen in place, watching him go all over again.

Finn pauses, turning back to me. “I’ll call you when I land,” he promises. “Remember, just say the word, and I’ll be there. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper.

I could stop him. I could say anything at all. I could have the love I’ve been hoping for all these years. So why am I watching the door close behind him, and Finn McKay leave my life all over again?





Twenty-Two.


FINN.



Nashville is a music town through and through. From the bars on every corner, blasting country and rock ‘n’ roll until closing, to the open-mic nights at the local coffee shops, full of wide eyed hopefuls all looking to get their break, this city breathes, sweats, and bleeds music from every pore. I should be in heaven here, but all I can think about is a small harbor town hundreds of miles away, filled with dark memories and the only bright thing in the world.

Eva.

It’s been a week since I left, and every day is damn torture. I thought leaving her before was bad, but at least then I could tell myself I was doing the right thing. Now I don’t even have those noble thoughts to keep me warm at night. She’s not picking up when I call, or returning my rambling voicemail messages. I swore to myself I’d give her time to make this decision alone. Now I wonder if that was the biggest mistake of all. With every passing hour, I wonder what she’s doing there, if she’s missing me at all. And if she’ll ever find the strength to break free from her past and pick a new future with me.

Did I push her too far, too fast?

Did I wreck our second chance at love before it had even had a chance to begin?

There’s a sharp whistle from behind me. I turn, and find our sound guy, Eddie, waving me back inside. “Break’s over,” he calls, grinning. “What do you think this place is, a country club?”

“More like boot camp,” I snort, heading back over to the studio. It’s a low, boxy structure built at the back of Jennings’ sprawling farm, but in contrast to the rickety main houses this place is the ultimate in audio heaven. No hi-tech machines or auto tunes in sight, just the best old school equipment to make a melody sing – and the man himself at the control panel, cracking the damn whip from dawn until dusk.

“Don’t tell me you’re slacking,” Jennings grumbles as I step back into the studio and grab my guitar. Even in the heat, he’s wearing a shirt and cowboy boots, his long grey hair falling around a weathered, world-weary face. “In my day, we didn’t break for days. I’d piss right there in a bucket in the corner so we wouldn’t interrupt the take.”

Eddie rolls his eyes behind Jennings’ back. The old guy is full of stories like this, about the glory days when real men fought and f*cked and made music – usually all on the same epic night. “Just pacing myself,” I answer easily. “You want to pick up that last take again?”

“If you can get it right this time,” Jennings snorts, so I go back into the sound booth and take a seat, strumming a few chords on my guitar to get back into the right frame of mind.

Jennings’ voice comes through the speaker. “Whenever you’re ready. And try not to f*ck it up this time.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”

Eddie gives me a thumbs-up, then counts in the track. We laid the instrumental earlier this morning, and it went great. I’ve had this melody rattling around in my mind for weeks, something haunting and simple, with lyrics to match. But every time I try to get the vocals on tape, there’s something missing, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what.

‘You were my sweet salvation; you were my ruin.’

“Cut!” Jennings bellows through the speaker. “Do it again!”

I take a breath, and wait for the cue. This time, I barely make it through the first verse before Jennings yells cut again.

I lower my guitar, angry this time. All morning, I’ve sung the same damn verses over and over, and all morning, Jennings has made us rip up the take and start from scratch.

“What was wrong this time?” I demand, when Jennings opens the door to the booth.

Eddie shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man. I thought it sounded great.”