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Money isn’t everything, but I want to give her the life we could only dream of as kids, and if that means cheering her on from the sidelines while playing guitar in the evenings, then that’s what I’ll do.
I watch her from across the table. My heart speeds up when she catches me staring. “You’re looking very wistful over there. Everything okay?”
A heaviness sits on my chest. “I just love you so much it hurts sometimes.”
Her gaze softens, and she reaches over, taking my hand in hers. “A good hurt, though?”
“A good hurt,” I echo.
“I love you like that too.” She kisses my knuckles just as Harriet’s final song ends.
“Thank you for joining me tonight at the Smokey Barrel Distillery. My name is Harriet Thomas.” She dips in a curtsey. “Don’t be strangers. But before you call it a night, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. Please welcome to the stage, Tate Brooks.”
The crowd cheers, regulars to the distillery hooting and hollerin’. It’s Talia who’s the loudest, wolf whistling and clapping.
With my guitar already waiting for me, I take to the stage and quickly tune the strings.
Hazel eyes meet mine, the only pair I need on me. “I’d like to dedicate this first song to my wife. Today she graduated from law school! Give her a round of applause, y’all.” The room erupts and Talia buries her face in her hands. “Talia, I am in awe of your dedication, commitment, and talent. It is my honor to be your husband. I’m so damn proud of you, baby.”
A few people aww, and when Talia peeks at me from behind her fingers, I tap my nose three times.
She taps hers in return.
NEVER QUITTIN’
Life gets hard, baby, it challenges us
When the road seems long, take a load off
I’ll be here, to carry you the rest of the way
I ain’t quittin’ on you, lovin’ you is all I wanna do
EIGHTEEN
TALIA
Turns out, a trip to the distillery is enough to wipe someone out if they had a seizure a few days earlier. Tate napped on the couch for the rest of the weekend and the first half of the week, giving me some much-needed peace. It won’t last, which is why, yet again, I am in the office.
If my colleagues find it odd I’ve been here almost every day this week, they don’t mention anything.
I’m the first to arrive, so early the cleaning crew is still here. Not wanting to get in their way, I lock myself in one of the glass meeting pods, shove in my earbuds and dive into my sea of cases.
It’s somewhat successful in taking my mind off things, but every so often, it wanders to the false news headlines about Tate or his tattoo or his half-naked body. By the time lunchtime passes, I’ve abandoned my work and spent the last hour googling his name. It’s clear they don’t know him, but they write lengthy articles about his character, spewing lies, as if they’ve known him all his life. It’s disturbing to read about your husband through the lens of a stranger.
I don’t know how he stands it.
A video pops up of him on the red carpet, and despite my better judgment, I click Play.
“What are you wearing tonight, Tate?” The reporter next to him holds the microphone up to his mouth.
“Hugo Boss, I think.” He laughs bashfully, gripping his neck. “I’ve got too many suits, I’m losing count. I’d feel a lot more comfortable in my trusty boots and hat.”
The reporter breaks into hysterics, but I can tell by Tate’s expression he’s serious. Was he not enjoying himself?
He looks handsome—as always—but seeing him in a suit is odd. He didn’t even wear one on our wedding day. I remember the days we’d thrift shop together, looking for clothes for school. Annie couldn’t afford new ones, and there was no point in me asking my folks. To this day, I buy most of my clothes secondhand and donate my old ones to Goodwill. I’m paid well at the firm, but I’ve never needed expensive price tags or big brands.
The reporter makes a point of looking around dramatically. “You’re alone? How come we never see you with a pretty lady on your arm?”
