Page 12 of A Song for Another Woman

I press my palm flat over the folder. “In the music room, probably.”

He glances down at me. “You okay?”

The question is gentle. That almost makes it worse.

“I’m okay.”

He steps inside, looking around like the capo might have wandered into the desk by itself. His phone buzzes in his hand. He checks it, smiles faintly, and types something back.

I know better than to ask. I ask anyway. “Melody?”

His thumb pauses. “Duke.”

It may even be true.

I look down at the blue folder. “Do you remember this?”

Cade’s eyes move from his phone to the paper. For a second, the room changes. Recognition crosses his face, small but real.

“Your little house,” he says.

My throat tightens. “Our little house.”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “God, I haven’t seen those in years.”

“I found them in the drawer.”

He comes closer, crouches, and touches the edge of the folder. Not the pages. Just the folder, like the memory might stain him if he holds it too long.

“You were so proud of these,” he says.

“I was.”

He hears something in my voice then. Not enough, but something. His smile fades a little. “Babe.”

Before he can say anything else, his phone buzzes again. He looks, and the moment folds itself up and disappears.

“I’ve got to run soon,” he says. “Session got moved.”

“Of course.”

He stands. “Can you send Carly the updated schedule? She keeps putting me in interviews during vocal rest, and I swear to God, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“I already fixed it.”

“See?” He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “That’s my girl.”

I wait up that night.

The house goes dark by degrees. Staff leave through the side entrance. The security lights come on beyond the pool. The city glows faintly through the windows, Nashville lit and alive while I sit curled at the end of a sofa no one has ever spilled popcorn on.

At 11:43, Cade texts:

Leaving soon.

At 12:28, he texts:

One more pass. Sorry babe.