Page 15 of August Lane

“A decade ago,” he said, which felt good to admit. He wanted to shed his lies. Peel himself down to the core. But he had to keep some of them. The big ones had become scaffolding, holding up all the rest. “She’s in love with someone else. I’m happy for her.”

“Well, I’m not!” Ava cried. “You two were so good together.”

Luke wiped sweat from his brow and started walking toward the kitchen. “I need some water.”

“I can get it.” Ava moved quickly, trying to cut him off. “How about a real drink? You like old-fashioneds? I know how to make those now.”

“I don’t drink anymore,” Luke said. He’d never considered telling her he was an alcoholic because he knew what she would say. Well, you came by it honestly.

Luke could recall the few times Ava had been sober with perfect clarity: Three Christmas mornings.

One of Ethan’s birthdays. Two trips to Branson.

There was one Wednesday game night when he was ten years old that had been nearly perfect.

He’d convinced himself that three uneventful hours of Uno and pizza meant things would get better, that they’d reached a level of normal that made him cry himself to sleep.

But two days later, when Ava became so flustered by her new coffee maker’s instructions that she shattered the pot against the wall, he’d cleaned the mess with tiny glass shards in his hand and hadn’t shed a tear.

“You shouldn’t be drinking, either,” he told her. “It doesn’t mix well with your medication.”

Ava touched her dime again and wound the chain around her finger. “Fix that droopy face of yours. We should celebrate! How about pizza?”

“I’m not staying,” Luke said. He was broke enough to convince himself that he could stomach sleeping in his old room until the performance fee hit his account.

But he knew what would happen if he stayed in this house.

Five years of sobriety wasted on grocery store chardonnay.

“I just stopped by on the way to the motel. Jojo’s manager is paying for it. ”

“For two months? That’s a lot of money.”

“Not for them.”

“Well. That’s disappointing.” Her voice had risen slightly with the effort to hide her distress.

He was doing the same thing. Being there took him to dangerous places.

Holding her hair back while she leaned over the toilet.

Him blacking out after a game. Now they eyed each other, forcing small talk while their inner drunks tore up their insides.

His phone vibrated. A text from David Henry flashed across the screen. What the hell are you doing in Arcadia? And why the hell did you think I’d pay for it?

“I’ve got to deal with this.” Luke gestured to his phone. “Call you later.”

He walked out the door before she could protest. The hot air was brutal, but he took in a lungful, grateful to escape the rankness of that house. But based on David’s text, he had nowhere to go.

Maybe it was time to admit his half-assed forgiveness tour had flopped and cut his losses. He could hide in Memphis until it was time to return for the show.

“I know that look. Already plotting your escape?”

Luke looked to his right and there was August, standing next to his truck with a mean smirk on those perfect lips. She’d also pinned her hair into a messy Victorian pile on top of her head, and goddamn if the combination didn’t steal his breath.

She looked at the house and her expression softened to concern. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Luke’s eyes never left her. “I know.”

The silver touches at Luke’s temples made him look older than thirty-one.

Or maybe it was the look in his eyes, like he was standing in some deep hole and was resigned to being buried in it.

August hated knowing that about him, how complacent he could be about things that were objectively unbearable.

The thought of him staying here, with the woman who’d made him that way, was more infuriating than the flyer folded in her hand.

“How’d you find me?” he asked.

“I checked the motel and didn’t see any unfamiliar cars,” she said. There were two motels in town, and only one that regularly changed the bedsheets. “I checked King’s, too. This was my third stop.”

His eyes shifted to his truck, and a smile crept over his lips. Crooked and flirty. That same damn finger sliding down her back. “So you were driving around town, searching for my truck?”

The picture he painted was embarrassing. Like she’d been squinting through the windshield at random parking lots, frantically searching for signs of him. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?” Luke folded his arms over his chest. Those were different, too.

Teenage Luke had been tall enough to have an awkward, stringy quality to his limbs.

Now he was broader, with the solid trunk of a guy who flipped tractor tires for fun.

“A few hours ago, you threw hot coffee in my lap.”

She folded her arms, mirroring his stance. “It was lukewarm.”

“Did you know that?”

“Yes.” He raised a brow. She rolled her eyes. “I suspected. Either way, you deserved it.”

“I did.” He moved closer with slow, cautious steps, like she was a skittish fawn he’d cornered. “I do,” he continued. “Which is why I’m surprised to see you. Figured I’d be the one chasing you around town.”

“I’m not chasing you.”

“You could have called.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“Hasn’t changed.”

She pictured his first cell phone—a cheap Samsung he’d purchased before he left town. “Did you really think I’d keep it this long?”

“I kept yours.”

Surprise stole her ability to speak. She could still picture the wrinkled scrap of paper she’d shoved into his hand when he’d asked for it. It was the first one he’d added to his contacts, which felt like some grand gesture, effortlessly romantic.

“Why?” she finally managed.

“Because it’s yours,” he said, with a dismissive shrug that tried to pretend those were just words. His eyes said don’t pry if you know what’s good for you. That door might be better off closed.

August showed him the flyer. “What the hell is this?”

He was slow to look at it, reluctant to change the subject. When he finally did, horror creased his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit. ” She was spiraling back to rage, which was good. Easier to understand than the dance they’d just been doing. “So much for that apology.”

“I would have told you before if you had listened to me.”

“Why would I do that?” She shoved the flyer at his chest. “Why would I listen to anything you had to say? You had my number for thirteen years and never bothered to use it.”

Luke worked his jaw in a way she’d seen countless times before. He was searching for words that might calm her, rejecting anything that might create more conflict. “You wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me,” he said. “I wasn’t ready for this. For you.”

August wasn’t ready for him, either. She’d realized it the minute Bill said Luke was coming back.

She was right where he left her all those years ago—hurt, angry, and humiliated by what he’d done.

It was easier to think of him as a list of offenses instead of a man.

Luke lied. Luke left. Luke was selfish. It was a simple and uncluttered hate that only worked in the absence of contradictions.

But that’s what he was, a bundle of things at war with each other.

Luke lied but also looked lost. Luke left but had returned to the sight of his worst nightmares.

Luke was selfish but wore regret like a penitent King Midas desperate to touch something real.

Birdie used to say that love wasn’t feeling. It was doing. Despite how August felt, she couldn’t act on it, no matter how much she wanted to. She couldn’t love him anymore. She couldn’t . The shame would eat her alive.

“Congratulations on your growth,” August said. “But I won’t forgive you, so don’t bother asking.”

Luke’s expression sharpened, like she’d cut somewhere deep. “I don’t want your forgiveness, August.”

It shouldn’t have hurt after what she’d just said. She had no right to care. But that was her way, wasn’t it? How did Birdie put it? Contrary, just to be contrary? That was her curse. “Then what do you want?”

Luke balled his hands into fists. The word peace was drawn across his knuckles in black ink. “I owe you. Everything I have, which hasn’t been much lately, but that’s about to change because of your mother.”

Her face warmed. “Are you offering me money?”

“Only if you need it,” Luke said. “Only if you could stomach taking it from me.”

August saw herself through his eyes. A small-town lifer who couldn’t get it together enough to leave this place. “But not credit.”

Luke stared at her for a long moment. “I’d lose everything if I did that.”

August felt herself hardening. Any lingering sympathy she had toward him drained away. “Like that money.”

“No. I mean, yes, but it’s not just that. It’s complicated—”

“Well, I’ll make it simple.” August moved closer. “You’re not singing ‘Another Love Song.’”

“Yes, I am. I hate it as much as you—”

“No, you don’t. I swear you don’t.”

“Okay.” He lifted his hands. “You’re right. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. But it’s what she hired me to do. I don’t have a choice.”

“This is your choice. Sing one line of that song, and I’ll tell everyone you lied about writing it to win that dumb reality show.”

Luke looked horrified, staring blankly like she’d transformed into someone else. Maybe she had. Offering money was like baring his neck to a bloodthirsty vampire. He’d made her his monster.

“You want me to quit? Walk away from the last chance to do anything with my life? Music is all I’m good for. I fuck this up, they won’t touch me again.”

His voice was tight, hinting at the first genuine anger she’d seen since he returned. She wanted more of it. She wanted him to feel what she’d been carrying inside for years.

“I didn’t tell you to quit,” she said. “Sing something else.”

“That song is all anyone wants from me.”

“Because you never gave them anything else! Just country-bro bullshit that only works for white boys. You hid more than a songwriting credit, Luke. You hid yourself. You hid your voice.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He was yelling now, matching her fury. “I am very much aware that I fucked my career before it started. But I can’t change it. I tried and failed repeatedly. And we both know it’s ’cause I can’t write shit without you!”

The solution came to her with such clarity she struggled to put it into words. “You’re right” was all she said as a plan tumbled into place.

Luke had everything to lose, but since Birdie died, August had nothing worth protecting. She hated her job. Her family barely tolerated her. She’d spent most of her adult life caring for Birdie because that’s what you did when you loved someone. You stayed.

Meanwhile, Luke had done the opposite, putting his ambition over everything.

Now here they were, standing at two life-altering precipices with completely different trajectories.

Luke’s was pointed skyward, with unlimited potential, while hers was a slow disintegration, like an old tree no one knew was dying.

Her salvation was obvious. Music was all she was good for, too. She’d steal his last chance for herself. And was it really stealing when the victim was a thief?

“We’ll write something new,” she said. “Something better. And you’ll sing it at the concert.”

“You want to write a song with me?” Luke looked seconds away from laughing but was too furious to let it escape. “After everything that’s happened?”

“You’ll give me credit this time.” Which would require trusting him, which she absolutely wasn’t prepared to do. “During the concert.”

“August, this is…” He slowly shook his head. “You’re not thinking clearly. There’s no way Jojo will let me sing something she hasn’t approved. The concert is only two months away.”

“Then we should get started. Or should I call my mother and put you out of your misery now?”

She pulled out her phone and waited for his answer. Luke’s eyes were blazing, shifting between the phone and her face. August smiled, and he stared at her mouth. She had a brief image of them grappling—settling the standoff with tongues and heat.

“Fine,” he said, practically growling. “I’ll do it. Just put the damn phone away.”

“One more thing.”

His chin jerked up, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What?”

She hesitated, but then spoke in the firm, decisive tone she was determined to feel. “Once the show is over? I never want to see you again.”