Sing You Home by Ava Hunter

Sal balls her hands up into small fists, keeping them in her lap. Across from her, her newfound therapist, Dr. Cara Carter, smiles in sympathy.

“Go on. Take your time.”

Sal shifts on the leather couch. She’s a ball of nerves and anxiety. All she wants is to shed her skin and run. She’s been talking to complete strangers ever since she miraculously came back from the dead. So why is this so hard?

Dr. Carter crosses her ankles. The space-egg chair she sits in has Sal feeling like they’re in a galaxy far, far away. “We were talking about Luke,” Dr. Carter nudges, as if Sal needed a reminder.

Luke.

Her mind practically overheats on his name, and she glances out the window to where her husband waits in the truck.

He had offered to come in, but Sal wanted to go at it alone. At least this first session. Despite his reassurances this morning, she doesn’t feel it’s fair to keep dragging him through her bullshit.

“Do you feel supported by your husband?” Dr. Carter’s question cuts through Sal’s thoughts.

Her lips curve, her stomach a slow roll of a crashing wave. “I do. Luke . . . he’s been wonderful. He makes me feel safe. He loves me.”

“And that’s important to you?”

“It is. I know my life now. My real life. It’s not some lie Roy fed to me,” Sal bites out bitterly.

All along, Sal had love. She had a home she’d made. A family she was missing. The idea that Roy kept it all from her pisses her the fuck off.

Dr. Carter stares at her thoughtfully. “You feel frustrated.”

“Yeah, I am.” Sal leans forward. “Everyone’s been great. I just feel undeserving. Like all I am is a damn spectator in my own life.” She raises her eyes to the ceiling, puffs a lock of hair from her eyes. “I want to remember on my own. I want to go back to work. I want to remember my husband.”

Sal’s eyes flick to the window. Her voice growing soft, she says, “I don’t have time to waste. I’ve wasted too much time already.”

“And that,” Dr. Carter says, “is not your fault.” Another kind smile. “This will be a process, Sal. You have been through a terrible trauma. I know you wish there was a magical way to snap your fingers and implant the memories, but there’s not.”

“So what do I do?”

“What you’re doing. Immerse yourself in your life. Spending too much energy on trying to recall your memories is less important than letting the memories occur naturally. It’s probably safer too. Less frustrating.”

Sal crosses her arms. “Right. Less frustrating.”

Chuckling, Dr. Carter checks the clock on the wall. Sal blinks. The forty-minute session’s flown by. They’ve barely covered the basics—her name, her strange situation, her migraines—and now it’s over? At this rate, she’ll be lucky if she can go back to work by Christmas.

“I can give you some hope,” Dr. Carter says, and Sal perks up. “Based on your charts, I believe it’s not a traumatic brain injury but more a traumatic memory loss, due to emotional trauma.”

Sal frowns at the lingo. “What does that mean?”

“It means there’s a high probability you will remember. The memories aren’t lost. They’re buried.” Dr. Carter closes her notepad. “Your mind is protecting you until you’re healthy enough to process it. When you need the memory, it will come to you. I’m sure of it.”

Luke sits in his pickup truck, waiting on Sal. His hands drum the steering wheel. They itch for a smoke, for something to do.

Fuckin’ helpless. That’s what he is.

He should be there. Not because he’s worried about her remembering, but because he’s worried how it could affect her. What if she remembered something—something bad—and he wasn’t there? He’d never forgive himself.

He smears his face in his hands. Christ, he’s gotta pull it together.

The chirp of his phone calls Luke’s attention elsewhere. Thankful for the distraction, he grabs it off the dash.

“Hello?”

“You’re not at the house.”

“No, Mort. I’m not. I’m with Sal,” he says tightly.

A long silence. Then, “Son, we got practice today.”

Luke grits his teeth. One thing that isn’t happening is putting his music before his wife. Never again.

“I know it, and I’ll be there. But not right now. Seth and Jace can tune up.”

Mort exhales.

Luke scans the doors of the therapy center, on alert for Sal. “You want to tell me something, Mort, or are you tryin’ to piss me off?”

“You got the Opry.”

“What?”

“I was waiting to tell you until you got here, but if you’re gonna go all George Jones on me, hell, I’ll spare you the red carpet rollout.” Mort’s tone takes on a proud edge. “The Brothers Kincaid play the Grand Ole Opry in a month.”

Luke’s jaw drops.

Holy shit. The Opry. The Brothers Kincaid played years ago. It’s the epitome of you’ve-made-it status, and they always fought like hell for another shot.

He chuckles, impressed. “How’d you fuckin’ manage that?”

“My ways can’t be named.” Mort sounds so villainesque Luke rolls his eyes. “It’s your comeback, son. All you gotta do is pick a song.”

Blood pounds loudly in Luke’s ears as he realizes this isn’t all talk. It’s real. And sooner or later, he’s gotta be action. If he wants to help out Jace, go back to the man he used to be, he has to take the stage. The Brothers Kincaid was his band. He started it.

He needs to do this. Even if he barely remembers how to play guitar anymore.

“Mort, I—”

Mort cuts him off, his tone curt, no-bullshit. “I’m here on your porch, Luke, and you know what I see? I see your brother with his fiddle and Jace with his bass, but no guitar. There’s no guitar. Find your guitar, Luke. Find it and dust it the fuck off. Because in four weeks you take the stage at the Opry. You’re singing whether you’re ready or not. So be ready. Don’t embarrass me. Better yet, don’t embarrass that gorgeous wife of yours.”

Anger wells in Luke, and he opens his mouth to tell Mort to leave Sal out of his schemes when his eyes drift to the window.

What he sees has his heart leaping halfway from his chest.

First, Sal, exiting the double doors of the clinic.

Then, Clive Jasper, the reporter from the Nashville Star, making a beeline for her.

Luke drops the phone.

Adrenaline already has him barreling out of the truck. Every single muscle in his body tenses as his boots pound across the parking lot.

Jasper, his hands tightly gripping his camera, gives Luke a smirk.

Sal perks up when she sees Luke coming, moving faster for him, oblivious to Jasper’s approach.

Luke storms forward. White-hot rage tears at him at the thought of Jasper harassing Sal, snapping her photo in her most vulnerable moment. He won’t let anyone fuck with his wife’s mind. Not while she’s still so fragile. Not while he’s around.

He steps in front of Sal, blocking her from Jasper’s line of vision. “I’d turn the fuck around if I were you. Now.”

Jasper’s ratlike face twitches. He grins, shrugging his shoulders innocently. “Just want to talk.”

Sal grips Luke’s bicep. Her voice drifts between them, wary and confused and questioning. “Luke?”

“It’s okay,” he tells her in a low voice. Doing his best to keep Sal behind him, he turns his attention to Jasper. “You have no fucking business with my wife.”

“You sure about that?”

Quick as a snake, Jasper sidesteps Luke. He raises the camera and snaps it right in Sal’s face. A blinding flash. Sal steps back, wincing, and stumbles, nearly losing her balance. She presses a palm against the hood of a car to steady herself.

“You goddamn son of a bitch.”

Luke lunges for Jasper. His fist a hammer, ready to swing.

He slams Jasper back against a parked car. With one quick punch, he knocks the camera out of Jasper’s hands.

“Luke, don’t—stop—”

Sal’s voice at his back, but Luke barely hears her. The past has Luke on a rampage. All he sees is red. All he sees are those long weeks after Sal was presumed dead. Media camped out at the farm, reporters snapping photos, Sal’s name hollered over and over again. It was something Luke hated with a vengeance. Something he never got over. Sal’s face, beautiful, smiling, in the paper, her death used to sell sorrow. And Jasper—as far as Luke’s concerned, he’s as good as dead.

“Let me go!” Jasper struggles under Luke’s ever-tightening grip.

Pinning Jasper against the car window, Luke stomps his boot on the camera. He’ll be damned if Jasper gets a picture of Sal.

“You leave my wife alone,” Luke snarls. “You hear me?”

“You broke my camera, you crazy fuck!” Jasper gasps out, his face pale. “I’ll sue you.”

“Do it.” Luke curls a hand around Jasper’s collar, tightening his grip. He drags him forward, then shoves him to the ground. “You come near her again, I’ll give you a story to write about.”

Behind him comes a soft whimper of pain.

Luke turns, blanching at what he sees. Sal, holding herself up, her hand to her brow, eyes squeezed tightly together, a grimace on her face.

Instantly, the world falls away, Jasper forgotten.

Luke hurries to her side. He grips her elbow, gives her a quick once-over. “Darlin’, you okay?” Alarmed, he dips his head. Her eyes are glassy and dazed and she stares off into the distance, as if seeing something he can’t. “Sal?”

Her eyes shutter, then blink open. Her face breaks into awareness as she cocks her head to the side and smiles wanly.

“Hmm, you broke the rules.”

His breath hitches at the mention of their bet from last night. Her teasing relaxes him. It tells him she’s shook up, but fine.

“I’m okay,” Sal places a hand on Luke’s chest and looks up at him. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Jasper, who’s scrabbling to pick up the pieces of his camera.

Sal lets out a shaky breath. “What an asshole.”

Luke steals a worried glance at Sal. She’s pale, her arms crossed around her midsection like she’s trying to protect herself. Regret slaps him silly. Regret for acting like a madman in front of Sal. For letting Jasper push him over the edge of sanity. The last thing he ever wanted to do was scare her.

“C’mon.” Luke takes Sal’s hand, and she leans into him for support, her eyes still dazed and dreamlike. “Let’s get you home.”

Sal stares out the window of the passenger seat. Downtown Nashville and its buildings fly by as Luke rolls them down the freeway, but her mind’s on the memory that hit her minutes ago like a Mack truck.

The flash of the reporter’s camera zapped something loose in Sal. Memories. She stood like a zombie trying to hold on to the memory while Luke pummeled the ever-loving shit out of the man who had accosted her in the parking lot.

Not that she cared.

She cared more about what she remembered.

Flashbulbs.

Headlights.

The curve of a road.

A hand held out, stretching, reaching for—what?

It’s the first clear memory she’s had since being home, and now—now she doesn’t know what the hell it means. Was it the plane crash? Frustration fills Sal. She doesn’t think so. Something inside tells her no.

“Hey,” comes Luke’s voice, low and quiet. Her memories cloud, evaporate. “I’m sorry.”

Shaking herself from her stupor, Sal turns her head to Luke. “For what?”

“I freaked out on that guy. When I saw him botherin’ you, I lost it.”

He’s watching her carefully, worried he scared her. While he surprised her, he never scared her. He’s her rock, someone she knows she can count on. With Luke, she’s the safest she’s ever been.

“I think he deserved it. Did he?”

Luke nods slow. “He’s been botherin’ you for some time now. I couldn’t let him keep doin’ it.” He shakes his head, angry at himself. “I’m sorry, though. I should’ve kept my cool.”

Sal thinks about all the questions she could ask. The reporter’s name, their history. Then she frowns, remembering the busted camera, the reporter’s promise to sue. Her stomach clenches at the thought. “He won’t give you trouble, will he?”

Luke grins. “Why? You gonna break his kneecaps?”

Sal gives a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.”

Luke laughs and her heart does a flip. God, how she loves that laugh. Everything about it earnest and passionate and happy. Like fireworks lighting up the night.

Luke stretches a hand her way. Sal takes it, dipping her fingers into his palm to trace his tattoo.

“How was therapy?” he asks.

“Frustrating,” Sal says, and Luke’s brows go up at the admission. “Dr. Carter said I have to be patient and—”

Luke chuckles. “Yeah, I can see how’d that be frustrating for you.”

Sal smacks him lightly in the chest with the back of her hand. “As I was saying, I’ll either never remember or I’ll remember when my brain wants me to.” She frowns. “Either way, it’s nothing I can control.”

“Which pisses you off.”

Sal nods and breaks into a wry smile. “Which pisses me off.”

“It’s not a race, darlin’,” Luke says, decelerating off the highway and onto the byway that leads to Wild Antler Farm. “You’ll get there.”

“Right,” she murmurs.

Once again, Sal’s attention drifts. She fans a hand against the window. The glass cool and comforting. As she stares out at the scenery, her brain ping-pongs around inside her head, alighting on every little fact she’s learned since being home.

A pop-country song comes on the radio, breaking Sal’s concentration. Her ears prickle. A duet. A man and woman singing about heartbreak and alcohol.

Beside her, Luke swears low under his breath.

The words leave her lips before she can stop them, surprising her. Surprising Luke. “The plane crash . . .”

Luke’s free hand, about to turn the station, stops midair. He gives her a sidelong glance. “What about it?”

“The trip to Pensacola . . .” Sal sits up and looks at Luke, whose expression has flattened. “Why’d we go? Was it for a tour?”

“No. You had been sick.” His knuckles grip white on the wheel. Slowly, so slowly, like he’s carefully choosing his words, he says, “I thought it would be good for you, for us, to get away.”

Then, abruptly, Luke snaps off the radio, his face dark and stormy.

Sal stares. “Why was I sick?”

The fury that had darkened Luke’s features only moments ago is gone. His face clears, and he looks soft at her.

“You were in a car accident.” He sounds like he has glass in his throat. “A month before we went to Florida. You were T-boned by a pickup truck. You broke your wrist and you lost a lot of blood.”

“Oh.” She sits silently, her brain fuzzy from the revelation.

He watches her carefully, with concern. “Sal—”

“What about you?” Sal asks, suddenly filling with a worry she’s never known. She reaches for him, her eyes scanning him for an invisible injury. “Were you hurt?”

“No.” A muscle jumps in Luke’s jaw. Tight. So tight. His handsome face drawn. Tortured, if she had to use a better word. “I was fine, Sal. I wasn’t there. I shoulda been. But I wasn’t.”

Sal’s heart collapses in on itself. The hurt in his voice, the blame. That’s the reason for the pain in his dark eyes. He’s been holding on to it for such a long time.

“It’s not your fault, Luke,” she murmurs, scooting close to curl her head on his shoulder. “It was an accident.”

Only the bob of his throat, the clench of his jaw tells her he doesn’t believe it.

They settle into silence as Luke wraps an arm around her and tucks her in tight to his side. He cranks the wheel, turning the old pickup down the dusty dirt road to their farm.

Once again, Sal’s gaze drifts to the window. Her mind to her memory. To this thin slice of her life that’s just been revealed.