Page 13 of A Song for Another Woman

At 1:16, headlights sweep across the front windows. I stand before I can decide not to.

Cade comes in quietly, guitar case in one hand, phone in the other. He looks tired and wired, the way he does when the room gave him something good. His face softens when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I wanted to see you.”

A flicker of guilt. Then the smile. “Well, lucky me.”

He sets the guitar down and crosses to kiss me. It's a good kiss if judged by technique. Warm mouth, familiar hand at my waist, a little hum in his throat like he remembers me. My body answers because it's loved him longer than it's known how to protect itself.

When he pulls back, I keep my hand on his arm. “Can we talk for a minute?”

His eyes flick toward the stairs. “Now?”

The word isn't cruel. It's worse. It's weary.

“Just a minute.”

“Okay.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. What’s up?”

I've rehearsed this gently because I still think gentleness might save me. No accusations. No crying. No saying Melody’s name like a weapon.

“I’m worried the whole Wildfire thing has gotten too big.”

His expression changes so slightly someone else might miss it. I don’t. I've spent years studying his face.

“What do you mean?”

“The story around it. You and Melody. The clips. The interviews. The cameras keep finding my face, Cade.”

He exhales, not quite a sigh. “Em.”

“I know it’s promo. I know it’s a song. But people are making me part of it.”

“People talk.”

“They’re not just talking. They’re watching me react to my own marriage like it’s entertainment.”

He looks pained for a second, and hope rises in me so fast it hurts.

Then he says, “You’re imagining the worst of it.”

I let go of his arm. “I’m not imagining the camera.”

“No, but you’re giving it too much weight.” His voice stays soft, careful. “It’s just a bit for the show. Duke says the audience loves seeing that everyone’s cool with it.”

“Everyone?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.”

He steps closer, reaching for me again. “Don’t make this weird, babe.”

The sentence is small. Almost tender. A door closing with a quiet click.

“I’m trying to tell you I’m hurt.”