"Not Vera," Sacha said softly. "Your snow angel. She's not who she's supposed to be, William. She needs you."
He squeezed the phone so tight his joints ached. "I'm hanging up now."
"It's not easy living in a world that doesn't believe in you." Sacha's voice was quiet, tight, vulnerable.
In seventh grade, Will had beat up a kid for calling Sacha a crazy faker. He'd been suspended three days. Mari Belle had hit the roof. Don't you want to be somebody someday? You have to do good in school if you want to escape this place. And then you go and get suspended over some knucklehead telling the truth? She is a faker. She is crazy.
But she's ours, Will had said.
Aunt Jessie had plied him with her famous chocolate chip cookies, sweet tea and homemade fried chicken for those three days. And Sacha had taken him for his first guitar lesson with Vera, then told him not to fight on her behalf ever again. He didn't remember exactly what she'd said, but he couldn't hear Taylor Swift without thinking of Sacha. Haters gonna hate.
"You need to see this through," Sacha said. "For all our sakes."
He had to force his jaw to unclench to talk. "What does that mean?"
Sacha hesitated. Barely a moment, but enough for Paisley's words from last night, before the fire, to pop into his brain. "What's going on with you and Aunt Jessie?" Will said.
"Nothing. Why?"
She was lying. Will didn't have psychic powers, but he knew Sacha. "She need another divorce lawyer?" Will said.
"Don't be silly. Donnie's the best thing to ever happen to her."
And again with the lying. "Sacha-"
"You worry about you, young William. You can't fix anything else until you fix you."
Will bit back a bullshit. "Nothing to fix. I'm not broke. Tell Aunt Jessie I'll call her later. Love you." He hung up, then moved to the window and pulled the blinds up to see two cars stop out front. His truck pulled into the driveway, and a girly red number parked on the street.
His phone rang again, but Will didn't have to check the screen to know who was calling. "Mikey."
"Still alive, buckaroo?"
The hesitation and caution in his voice put a rock in Will's gut. They'd been here before, everyone worrying about Will's state of mind over a girl. Will's heart shed a tear and raised a glass to Vera. "Yeah."
"Got your truck and some clean clothes downstairs. Could hit Nashville by nine if we left now."
"Word's out I'm here, huh?"
"Nope. Just used some smarts."
Figured Mikey would use those smarts now.
"I'll pop the garage," Will said. "Pull it in."
Wasn't going to Nashville.
The somebody-walked-over-his-grave feeling from last night had faded, but he was getting his own signs that he needed to stay here.
Like writing all night long. Then sleeping like the dead.
"Not so sure that's a bright idea, Billy."
Will wasn't either. Mikey was probably right. Staying in Lindsey's house wasn't smart.
But maybe Sacha was right too.
Maybe he wasn't done here.
He glanced at the notebook next to the bed, filled with scribbles of lyrics, chords, arrangements. Staying wasn't smart for his heart, but it was productive for his art.
Why he was here, after all.
"Not your call," Will said.
He disconnected before Mikey could start cussing like a roadie.
Will stumbled downstairs to open the garage, and Mikey pulled the truck in. Under silent protest, Will was sure. Pepper followed on foot, and Will shut the garage again.
Mikey eyed him cautiously, an apology lurking along with the dumbass accusations. "You look like shit." He stepped into the house and gave Will a man-hug.
Behind him, Pepper offered a small finger wave. "I think you look fabulous," she said.
Will smiled at her. "You sure you're related to Saffron?"
"Unfortunately," she said brightly.
"You get a hotel?" Will asked Mikey. He'd swing by later, show Mikey what he'd been working on and see if the songs would still talk to him outside Lindsey's house.
But Mikey flashed a classic Mikey grin. "Got six numbers last night. Figure I can house-hop for a couple days."
Will swung around to look at his buddy fully.
Because now Mikey was lying. If he were house-hopping, he'd smirk and say he had something better. Shove his hands in his pockets and shut up, not inspect the kitchen.
Mikey didn't have to mention his numbers. It was understood. Bragging-something was off.
"Talked to the fire chief," Mikey said.
Will swallowed hard.
Maybe the fire had thrown Mikey off his game. Will could see the truth, the sympathy in his buddy's eyes. Vera was well and truly gone. Not so much as a string left. No tuning knob, no bridge, no frets.
She was dust. Memories. She'd played her final song.
He should've put her in the truck last night. Should've taken her along. "You go and say the sorry word, I'm gonna kick your sorry butt from here to Canada," Will said, his voice too raw. "It's nobody's fault. Happened. It's over. Gotta move on."
He'd dedicate his next Grammy to her, God willing he got another. Wouldn't ever forget her or replace her in his heart, but it didn't matter if it was Mikey's fault the fire started or Will's fault for leaving Vera in the house in the first place. It mattered that Will still had to be Billy.
Mikey glanced around the kitchen again and did an admirable impression of a Mari Belle sigh. "Shit, Will. Mari Belle's gonna kick your ass," he muttered.
"And your momma's gonna wash your mouth out." Will dialed up his charm for Pepper. "Begging pardon, ma'am. He doesn't get out often."
Pepper humored him with a smile, but she had some curiosity and confusion drawing her brows together. "Related to Saffron, remember? I've heard. Where do you want your clothes?"
"Cassidy called in an order," Mikey said.
Will's assistant was well on her way to a raise. He took the bag from Pepper, and when Mikey got that look-that I'm gonna talk you blue in the ear look-Will nodded to the door. "Got a lot of stuff to do. Appreciate the help. Give a holler if you run out of houses to hop to."
Mikey flinched, but still took on that don't-stay-here-and-be-a-dumbass look. "Will-"
"I got this one," Will said.
Whether he truly did or not, he still herded his guests to the front door. He did have a lot to do-he always did. Lot more went into being Billy Brenton than writing and singing songs. There were still tour logistics to hammer out, merchandise to approve, marketing and publicity plans, endorsement commitments, his agent and manager and the label brass to appease. He'd used the B word-burnout-to get everyone off his back when he ditched Nashville, but it meant they wanted to hear from him more.
To know he was okay. That he'd be ready for tour. That he wouldn't disappoint his fans or any of the dozens of people who counted on the Billy Brenton empire for their paychecks.
So even if he didn't have his personal life under control, he had to convince himself he did.
He thanked Pepper for the help. Listened to Mikey's orders to call Mari Belle and Aunt Jessie. He'd ask Cassidy to find him a new hotel as soon as he finished messing around with a song that was tickling his brain. He had to work on it now, before he forgot.
Mikey paused on his way out the door. "You're a real mess, Billy-boy."
"Not so much as I could be."
Chapter Eight
WEDNESDAY WAS A hot mess of a day for Lindsey. Opposing counsel sent ridiculous requests to change already agreed upon terms, a staff meeting went without coffee and her mind kept replaying the soft guitar sounds that had invaded her sleep most of the night. She wasn't sure when Will had finally fallen asleep, but she'd tiptoed out of her house as silently as possible and hadn't spoken to him.
It wasn't that she didn't want to talk to him.
It was more that she didn't know what to say.
I'm sorry seemed so long overdue, it would've been meaningless. Let's be friends hadn't worked out fifteen years ago and despite being older and wiser, Lindsey didn't trust the swooning the smileys on her panties did every time Will flashed a smile her direction. Which wasn't often, and mostly came with a sarcastic tilt, but still.
She wasn't as immune to her houseguest as a modern single woman should've been. Especially given that he was apparently immune to her.
So she worked late and hoped he would be gone by the time she got home.
She was finishing paperwork when someone knocked at her office door. Her assistant had left an hour ago, and the paralegals had quickly followed. She looked up, expecting to see one of her fellow lawyers in the firm, but instead, her dad stood there.
Much better than seeing Marilyn, even if Dad's appearance brought back memories of the last time he'd come to visit. About a year and a half ago, on a comfortable October afternoon, he'd stumbled in, skin pasty, cheeks wet, brown eyes lost. It's Mom, he'd said, his voice cracking. She's gone.
Lindsey shut the door on the flashback and blinked quickly. Today, he stood tall, his olive complexion normal, nothing lurking in his expression beyond the normal subtle unease she always thought she saw whenever her occupation came up.