Not just lyrics, but a whole page of musical notes to accompany them. A fully executed melody with chord progressions and key changes. This is not the fruit of a single night’s labor. This must’ve taken him days to complete. Weeks, even.
There’s a title at the top, scrawled in his messy handwriting.
A GIRL NAMED FELICITY
The page blurs before my eyes — I have to stop three separate times to get myself under control before I finally make it through reading the entire thing. And when I do, for the first time since he walked out of my life, a bit of the gaping hole on the left side of my chest where my heart used to reside seems to stitch itself back together.
I can’t regret giving a piece of myself to the man who wrote these words, even though he’s gone. This song is the most romantic gesture I’ve ever received. The only way it could possibly be better is if he was here, standing before me, singing it in person.
Part of me wants to pull out my guitar and pluck out the tones, to weave his lyrics into a spell in the air around me… but this song —his song— isn’t meant to be played while choking back tears. And there are too many memories in this room already. Of his mouth and his hands… his wolfish smile in the dark and his mismatched eyes, burning into mine in the faint light of morning.
I stroke my fingertips reverently against the page, tracing his sloping script like it’s part of him. There’s no signature except for a single lopsidedRscribbled in the bottom corner. I read through the lyrics one more time before I force myself to stop. With a final, reverent caress of my fingers on the page, I force myself to close the book and put it away in my backpack.
I’ve got goodbyes to say and a bus to catch.
* * *
I findIsaac where I first met him — behind the bar, polishing glasses with a white rag in the semi-darkness. He turns when he hears the door from the break room swing inward, watching me step through in silence. His brows lift when he sees the guitar case in my hand and the bag slung over my shoulder.
“Should’ve stuck with my gut,” he grunts. “Never hire singers. They always abandon ship without any damn notice.”
“I’m sorry, Isaac. I honestly hate to leave. Especially after all you’ve done for me.”
“Ah, hell, can’t exactly say I’m surprised. You showed up here using a fake name, underage, with no place to stay and a certain fondness for being paid under the table in all cash…” He shrugs. “I knew there was a pretty good chance you’d skip out one day without leaving a forwarding address.”
I blink. “You knew all that, and you hired me anyway?”
He grunts again.
“But… why?”
“For you grandmother,” he admits gruffly.
My eyes bug out of my head. “You know Gran?”
“Bethany Hayes isn’t the kind of woman you forget meeting, even after forty years.” Isaac’s lips twist. “How’s she doing? Last I heard, she was over at the Elmwood…”
“She’s not the same. She’ll never be the same.” My eyes sting. “But she still sings.”
“I’m glad. Your grandmother was one of the first real stars to ever agree to perform here, way back when I first opened this place. She dragged all her famous friends along, too. Really helped put me on the map.” His eyes flare with unexpected warmth. “Figured I owed her one. Probably more than one.”
“After everything you’ve done for me, I think she’d agree you’re even, at this point.” My head tilts as a thought occurs to me. “How did you know I was her granddaughter?”
“Put it together as soon as you mentioned your cousin Devyn. Plus…” His lips turn up in a rare smile. “Have you ever seen a picture of your grandmother when she was around your age? You’re the spitting image of her.”
“Really?”
He nods and walks over to the register. I watch in silence as he pulls out a short stack of bills and extends them toward me. When I make no move to take them, he sighs. “Come on, I don’t got all day.”
“I’m not taking any money from you, Isaac.”
“Don’t be high and mighty. Doesn’t suit you.”
“But—”
“This is standard severance. You earned it. You’re a good waitress and a hard worker. Take it before I change my damn mind.”
My fingers close around the bills. I hate accepting charity, but between bus fare and at least one night in a motel, I need the money more than I’d like to admit.
“Thank you, Isaac,” I whisper in a thick voice. “For the job, for the room, for everything. I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”
“Ah hell.” He rubs the back of his neck, which is rapidly turning red. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing.”
He gives me his sternest look. “You be careful, kid. It’s a mad world out there. And if you ever find yourself back in Nashville… you’ve got a job waiting for you here. Hope you know that.”
I leave the same way I arrived, months ago — just a girl with a guitar, cut adrift once again. Only this time, I’m leaving behind a life I built for myself. A life I’ve grown to love. I’m so distracted by my misery, I don’t even realize I’m being followed as I make my way toward the bus terminal beneath the burning midday sunshine.