Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

An hour later, after a hellish drive through downtown Nashville, Sal hanging on for dear life, Lacey intent on evading what she thought was paparazzi, Sal’s finally on solid ground.

She takes a seat on the outdoor patio of The Stillery restaurant. Puffy white clouds stretch the noon-blue sky above. Sal smiles into the sunshine, and her soul lightens.

Twisting in her seat, she takes in the restaurant. The patio is covered in ivy, brick-walled and beautiful. Quaint, like some faraway place in Europe. She wonders if she’s been here before.

“I think we shook ’em,” Lacey says, dropping into a chair across from Sal. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Small freckles dot the tip of her nose.

Sal stifles a laugh. “Oh, you think? Nice driving, Evel Knievel.”

Lacey tosses her keys on the table. Arranges a whistle and pepper spray next to her silverware as she surveys their surroundings with eagle-eyed intensity. Sal raises a brow. “Do we really need all that?”

“Luke’s kind of famous.” Lacey sighs, fiddling with the gold locket that hangs from a long chain around her neck. “He told you that at least?”

“He did, it’s just . . .” Sal trails off as a waiter drops menus on the table.

She keeps forgetting that the man who cooked her breakfast this morning is as big of a country superstar as everyone says. He’s so down-to-earth. Confident, not cocky. Their life so normal.

Sal turns her attention to Lacey. She’s staring over her menu, looking at Sal like she’s a mirage. It’s unnerving.

“You want wine?” Lacey blurts, startling like a deer when she realizes Sal’s staring back. “You like wine? Can you drink wine? I want wine. We should get wine.”

With a wave of her hand, she promptly flags over a waiter and rattles off a well-practiced order for drinks and appetizers.

Sal smiles. Though Lacey’s more tightly wound than a ball of string, Sal likes her. She’s sweet, fashionable and talkative. Another person who can fill in the gaps of her life.

While she’s glad for the info drop, she also craves the return of her own mind. Spoon-fed memories are exhausting. Not to mention lonely. But she’ll do anything she can to jumpstart her memory. Even if it means playing twenty questions with everyone she comes into contact with.

The wine arrives along with two glasses. “Is there anything you want to know?” Lacey asks, reaching for the stem of her drink.

Sal feels like the invisible woman, lost in time, an observer pressed against the window of her life. She knows she’s married, she likes to run, and she had a job as a paramedic. Now she has a sister who’s an event planner in LA.

She thinks of what’s next.

“What about our parents? Will I see them soon?” Though she’s not sure she’s ready for a whole swell of visitors, Sal is curious about her immediate family.

Lacey stops swirling her wine. A small frown furrows her face. “Mom, she—she died, Sal.”

Sal sits back and breathes out. “Oh.”

Not one to be deterred, Lacey pulls back her shoulders and pulls out her cell phone. “Here. I came prepared.”

A folder on Lacey’s phone is named SAL’S MEMORY. Leaning over the table, Lacey scrolls through photo after photo. “This,” she says, stopping on a photo of a beautiful dark-haired woman carrying a surfboard out to sea, “this is Mom. Michelle.”

Sal searches her mind to place the woman’s face but finds nothing.

“How did she die?” she asks.

“Breast cancer.” Lacey doesn’t look up from the photo. “You were twelve and I was six. I hardly knew her; you practically raised me yourself.” With a shrug, Lacey shakes off her sadness. “Dad—he’s on a base in Iraq.” She leans across the table, squeezes Sal’s wrist. “When he gets service, he’ll call. He’s so thrilled you’re back, though, Sal. Really. It’s just . . . it’s hard for him to get away.”

In Sal’s mind: an image of a man waving goodbye from a window, a girl’s small hand in hers.

But the memory’s gone before it can grow roots.

She asks, “Did Dad always travel?”

“Pretty much. He was always gone. Always off and gone.”

Lacey’s voice wavers slightly. Like she’s trying to keep her voice even for Sal’s sake. Like she’s trying to make excuses.

“What did you do after I went to college?” A flare of guilt rises in Sal’s chest. She feels bad for leaving Lacey. She doesn’t know why. She just does.

“After Mom died, and you moved here, Dad remarried.” Lacey sips her wine and smirks. “The Witch Woman is what we call her.”

“Our stepmother?”

“Yeah. We hate her.” With a great gasp, Lacey claps a hand across her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t tell you what to think. Or stress you out. Oh my God.”

Sal emits a slight laugh. “It’s okay, Lacey.”

“No, it isn’t.” Tears spring to her eyes, and she clutches at Sal’s hand. “I missed you so much, Sal. I didn’t know what I’d do without you.” A thrash of her blond head. “Don’t you worry. You got me through everything else. I’ll get you through this.”

It’s a strong vow, one that has Sal wondering at the reason. But either way, she’s grateful.

She gives her sister a pat on the hand. “What’s your favorite memory of us?” she asks in an attempt to dry Lacey’s tears.

Only Lacey looks resistant, her green eyes wary.

“Please,” Sal urges. “It’ll help me know who I am.”

A beat. “High school graduation,” Lacey says. “You smuggled a megaphone in and cheered the entire time I walked across the stage. You were escorted out but said it was worth it.”

“Sounds like it was.” Sal smiles faintly, saddened by the loss of the memory. “I wish I remembered that.”

“Me too.” Lacey adjusts her napkin. “But enough about that. How are you doing?”

“It’s all so strange,” Sal admits.

“So you really can’t remember anything?”

“I don’t think so,” Sal says, taking a sip of her wine. It’s delicious. Icy and crisp like apples. Warming her insides, loosening her tongue. “Small things maybe. Like dreaming of the plane crash. Feeling like I knew Seth when I met him.” She smiles when Lacey wrinkles her nose in distaste. “But everything—and everyone—else is jumbled. Like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit me yet.”

“Will it come back?”

“Maybe,” Sal admits. “The doctors aren’t sure.”

She pauses. She looks at her sister close, her mind going back to this morning. The tension in the kitchen. Luke with his arms crossed, Lacey’s eyes pinning him with her daggerlike stare. “Is there anything I should remember?”

Lacey opens her mouth.

A chirp sounds from Sal’s purse. She ducks her head to check her phone. Luke. She smiles at the text he’s sent: Everything okay?

Sal writes back: All good. At lunch.

Technically, the proper way to engage with Lacey is a taser.

Sal smothers a laugh with her fingertips.

And finds herself missing Luke. The way he was with her this morning—protective, strong, kind. Their banter, their conversation that came so natural. She’s drawn to him, which gives her hope. Like maybe he feels the same way about her.

“What about me and Luke?” Sal asks when she glances back up. Lacey’s pouring more wine. Maybe her sister can shed some light on the mystery that is her husband.

Lacey stares at her wineglass with narrowed eyes. “What about you and Luke?” Her voice is stoic—icy.

This time it’s Sal’s turn to frown. “The way you’re talking . . . you don’t like him?”

Lacey sighs. “I like him fine, Sal.”

“Then . . .” A flush of her cheeks as the question dies on her lips. She doesn’t know what the words will mean to her, only that she yearns to make sense of their familiar connection. “Do I love him?”

Lacey takes a swig of wine, her body so stiff she could moonlight as a mannequin. But when she meets Sal’s eyes, her voice is soft. “Yeah. You love him a lot.”

Luke needs a shave.

The thought’s been on his mind since he and Seth left the house for Six String Studios. As much as he hates to admit it, Lacey was right. He’s been so preoccupied with getting Sal settled, he didn’t realize his wife might think him a stone-cold stranger.

But a shave has to wait. Because Mort Stein can’t.

Running a hand across his beard, Luke scours the studio with a wary eye. A place he hasn’t been in for near on a year. Gold records line the wall, awards on a shelf, bottles of whiskey on a bar cart. Jace and Seth seated together beside Luke on a long black couch.

Mort, behind his mahogany desk, rattles off a game plan.

“Let’s talk career next steps,” Mort says, stroking a graying sideburn. “Hell, boys. I ain’t gonna dance around it. It’s obvious you three have been out of commission for a while. My biggest stars . . . crashing and burning their careers at their highest peak.” He holds up a hand when Luke opens his mouth. “Not that that’s anyone’s fault. I understand, Luke, I do. We all do.” Arms wide, Mort gestures at the room. “But now, Sal’s back. Which means you’re back.”

Seth, from his spot beside Luke, grumbles, “You mean your moneymakers are back.”

“You want the stage back,” Mort volleys. “How about we work together to make that happen?”

Shifting on the couch, Jace sits up, his eyes on Luke.

Seth’s are too. Eager. Hopeful.

Luke’s not gonna lie. A return to the stage, to music, to being on the road with his boys is tempting. But hell, he’s been MIA for nearly a year. He couldn’t find a melody in a tin can.

“We’re rusty,” Luke says with a shake of his head. “We ain’t played together in a long while.”

A shrug. “So play.”

“What are you thinkin’, Mort?” Jace asks.

Mort lights a cigar. White smoke curls around his face. “I’m thinking a return from your hiatus. Something big. Something expensive. Something on stage so the public knows your hiatus is done. They’ll eat it up. Especially with Sal back.”

Luke stiffens. Beside him, Seth’s frowning. He doesn’t like it any more than Luke does. “My wife ain’t a story, Mort. And she ain’t gonna be used to sell your records.” Making a quick decision, Luke slaps his hands on the legs of his jeans. “I ain’t doin’ it. It’s too soon.”

Mort sucks on his cigar and looks at Jace. “That alright with you? You’re the one hurtin’ for money here.”

Jace tenses at the proclamation and shakes his head in annoyance. “Goddamnit, Mort.”

Confused, Luke leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks to his best friend for answers. “What’s he sayin’, Jace?”

Before Jace can reply, Mort chuckles and says, “Your friend’s been having a little too much fun playing a gambling man.”

Luke cuts a glance at Seth, who looks just as surprised before glancing back at Jace. “Is that true?”

“I ain’t proud to admit it, but yeah. It is.” Jace sighs long and low. “I got into some money trouble early this year. It’s why I’ve been pushin’ Seth to play every shit-ass gig Mort’s scrounged up.” Jace glances guiltily at the ground. The tips of his ears burn bright red with embarrassment. “Emmy Lou doesn’t know yet. But we could lose the farm. The stables.”

Luke sucks in a sharp breath. The boarding and rehab center they run for hurt horses is Emmy Lou’s life. She’d be devastated. “Jesus, Jace. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Man, you didn’t need that burden. Not with Sal . . .” Jace trails off. Silence falls.

The truth hits Luke like a bucket of ice water.

Jace couldn’t tell him. Not when Luke was so lost in his own shit. The notion has Luke feeling like the worst type of man. He’s been so out of it for so long, he didn’t even realize his best friend was sinking.

“Damn.” Seth leans back on the couch, gives Jace a nod. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Don’t be.” Jace’s hazel eyes are clouded with shame. “I got myself into this mess. Luke needs to focus on Sal—”

“No,” Luke interrupts.

All eyes swivel to him.

It doesn’t matter what Mort wants. It doesn’t even matter what he wants. It matters what his best friend needs. Jace is in trouble. Luke’s gotta help him.

“I can take care of Sal,” Luke says. “And I can take on a gig.”

“You’ll play?” Seth’s gawking.

Mort’s smirking.

“I’ll play,” Luke agrees.

Seth lets out a hoot, clapping Luke on the back. Jace gives Luke a grateful nod.

“My boy, my boy.” Excitement tinges Mort’s voice. “You got the perfect comeback song, too.”

Luke meets Mort’s knowing stare. “What’s that?”

“‘Sal’s Song.’”

Luke freezes at the words. That song—it’s like shrapnel to his heart. His gut twists as the lyrics he wrote for his wife, right before she died, lash the caverns of his mind like a whip.

Seth’s cringing.

Jace whistles. “That’s a humdinger of an ask, Mort.”

“It ain’t finished,” Luke says through his teeth.

“Finish it, then. It’s a damn good song.”

Luke clenches a fist.

Of course it’s good. It’s about Sal. Though his wife’s inspired countless songs, this one’s the most honest song he’s ever written for her. Every single line, every lyric was about what she meant to him, what she did to him. She kept the pressure on, always. Made him do better, sing honest. Sal always told him his song had to come from the heart if he wanted it to be honest. Without Sal, he had no heart.

But playing it for anyone else, putting it out there like some damn commodity to be sold, feels wrong. Like Luke’s cashing in on Sal’s homecoming. Putting her on display. The song’s personal. He needs to finish it for her, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before he gives his wife up to the world.

That song is hers.

“No,” Luke says sharply. Mort’s face darkens, but he continues. “I’ll finish the song. It can be a deep cut we play in small bars, but that ain’t our single.”

This time, he doesn’t even have to ask.

Both Jace and Seth nod their assent.

Mort sucks his teeth, considering Luke’s refusal, then drops it, apparently deciding not to irritate his frontman any further. “Looks like we got ourselves a deal.” He jabs his cigar at Luke, bits of ash scattering to his desk. “You’ll be on a stage in a month.”

A month.

His gut twists.

He damn sure better be ready.

Seth and Jace follow Luke out into the hallway.

“Lunch?” Jace asks.

Luke shakes his head. Impatient, he punches the elevator button. “I want to get back to Sal.”

Seth laughs. “She ain’t gonna be home for another couple of hours. Not with Lacey at the helm.” He claps Luke on the back. “Stop worryin’.”

Jace grins. “I’d say Sal owns you, man.”

A chuckle rolls off his lips as they step into the elevator. “I’d say you’re right.”

I’d say she brings me to my knees, he thinks. Jace has him pegged. He’s never belonged to anyone else, because he sure as shit always made sure Sal knew he was coming home to her.

In a matter of seconds, they exit the elevator and turn the corner into the lobby.

Who Luke sees has him stopping dead in his tracks.

Alabama Forester.

The woman who’s made Luke’s life a living hell for the last year.

She’s at the front desk, signing in. When she turns around, she freezes. Her gaze moves to each of the Brothers Kincaid, then zeroes in on Luke.

Her gray eyes widen. Her nostrils flare slightly.

Then, “Luke,” she says by way of a greeting. With that, she walks fast for the elevator, keeping her red head down the entire time.

Beside him, Seth swears low under his breath. He slides a hand over Luke’s shoulder, trying to steer him away, only Luke’s unmovable.

He stares after Alabama, remembering the last time he saw her. Remembering that kiss.

That damn kiss that spun his entire world off its orbit.

It was part of his publishing deal with Mort. Recording a duet with Alabama Forester, an up-and-coming pop-country artist Mort represented.

The song was shit. Sal knew it and fought him on it. The first time they had ever been at odds over a damn song. Still, Luke agreed. He put the music before his wife, despite all of Sal’s misgivings that it wasn’t his sound. That something was off.

And she was right.

After the recording, Alabama kissed him in the parking lot of the studio. Luke took her by the shoulders and pushed her away. “We’re recordin’ a song,” he told her firmly. “That’s all we’re doin’. Nothin’ else.”

Alabama got the message plain and clear.

Sal was it for Luke. Always.

Then why didn’t he tell her the truth?

Because he was a chickenshit coward, that’s why. Because Sal been puking her guts out for days because of the pregnancy, because the kiss meant nothing, because he wanted to protect her.

The kick of it was—if he had been honest in the first place, she would have believed him.

But he wasn’t. And the worst thing happened.

There was a photo of the kiss.

A week later, Clive Jasper sent it to Sal. He had been waiting around with a camera and snapped his shot of Luke and Alabama. Why, Luke didn’t know. Blackmail, revenge, good press, but whatever it was, the damage had been done.

Determined to get answers, Sal took off to get the truth from Luke. Only she was distracted thinking about the the photo and missed the stop sign at Hellier Curve. An oncoming truck T-boned her, and Seth, who had been on his way to the house that night, stumbled upon the accident. He pulled Sal from the wreckage, saving her life.

That night they lost the baby, and Luke nearly lost Sal. The first time.

Lying. Cheating. That was her father. It was Sal’s deal breaker.

She told him a story once about her mother hooked up to chemo, sick as a dog, and all she could do was cry over a man who never came home.

Sal vowed never to be that woman.

She’d walk away without a second thought. “If I’m not your road, Luke,” she said between hot, angry tears—she could barely look at him that night in the hospital—“you tell me now. And you tell me true. And I’ll be gone. I’ll let you go.”

He got down on his knees beside her hospital bed and swore on his life that there was nothing between him and Alabama.

He never knew if Sal believed him. For weeks after the accident, she pulled away. Distant and grieving. Distracted. She said she’d give him an answer when they got to the beach. About their road. It was the worst kind of hell, waiting for her answer. He wouldn’t blame her if she walked away, but he also knew it would end him.

Somehow the photo never made the papers.

After Mort discovered Clive Jasper was behind it, he made it disappear.

But Luke didn’t give a shit about any of that. Let it go public. Let him be branded a cheater. All that mattered was Sal. His wife’s trust in him was top priority; bad press, he could handle.

And then he put Sal on that plane . . .

And now . . .

Now Sal doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember the photo, the car accident, the baby. She doesn’t remember the words Luke whispered at her hospital bedside.

I can’t live without you.

“If you ask me, Mort oughta do himself a favor and drop her already,” Seth grumbles, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He glares at the elevators, where Alabama’s vanished completely.

“C’mon,” Luke grits out. He smears a hand down his wiry beard, thinking about Sal. About getting back to her. The need to see her is intense, gut-wrenching. He’s been without her too long already. “I wanna get a shave.”