I suck in a sharp breath. “Well… what do you want in return?”
Something sad flashes through his eyes. His voice is almost solemn when he speaks. It’s strange to hear — he’s usually so buoyant with excitement and charisma.
“What do I want?” he echoes.
I nod.
He steps closer, invading my space. His eyes are intent.
“I want you to smile and mean it. I want you to laugh without thinking twice. I want you to feel like, even if it’s just for this one, single afternoon, you can lean on somebody without the rug getting yanked out from under you.” His eyes trace over my features with such weight, I feel them like a caress against my skin. “I want all sorts of things, Felicity.”
My breath hitches.
“Okay.”
His brows quirk up. “Okay?”
“You can come inside with me.”
* * *
We walkdown the hallway in silence. The walls around us are papered in a cheerful floral yellow pattern, meant to inspire warmth and serenity.
All I feel is dread.
Coming here dredges up my past in a way I’m not entirely prepared for. I sneak a glance at Ryder. If someone had told me a few weeks ago that one day I’d find myself at a nursing home with him by my side, I’d have suggested they go see a neurologist about those hallucinations, STAT. He looks laughably out of place, but he’s being a pretty good sport considering the entire building reeks of disinfectant and pureed hamburger. True to his word, he would’ve waited out in the lobby, but I surprised us both by passing him a laminated visitor pass from the lady at the sign-in desk.
He’s already here; might as well stay for the show.
Sensing my gaze on his face, his eyes slide to mine. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
His lips twist, but he doesn’t push me.
We come to a stop in front of a room marked 102. My hand shakes a bit as I reach out and twist the knob. The door swings inward on silent hinges and I haul in a fortifying breath before I step inside. My gaze swings around, searching, but she’s not here.
Ryder whistles under his breath as he steps over the threshold. I glance at him, but he’s transfixed by all the paraphernalia on the walls. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still a rather impressive spread. Dozens of photos of the legendary Bethany Hayes, ranging all the way back to her glory days in the 1950s. My eyes flit over the black and white photograph of her hugging a young Patsy Cline, another of her sharing a mic with Loretta Lynn onstage at the Grand Ole Opry. I smile at a candid shot of her laughing with Elvis.
“She must be in the common room,” I murmur.
There’s no response from Ryder. He’s staring reverently at the autographed powder blue guitar mounted in a glass box above the bed.
“Is that…” His throat works. “Is that a vintage Gibson? Signed by Bethany Hayes?”
“Yep.”
His wide eyes find mine. “Wherearewe?”
“You’ll see in a minute. Come on.”
“Felicity—”
Ignoring his protests, I head back out into the hallway. It’s been two years since I last visited, but my vague memories tell me to turn left. A smile stretches across my face when I round a bend and hear her voice floating out of the French doors, accompanied by the faint refrains of a piano.
I hover in the doorway, watching her. Ryder stands so close, I can feel his chest brushing up against my back each time he breathes. His sense of awe is tangible.
I understand — it’s not every day you get to hear Bethany Hayes sing.