A Life With No Regrets (Fairhope #5)

by Sarra Cannon

  I step away from the stage and walk back to the bus. It’s quiet in here with the band gone, and I sit down at a small booth and table toward the front. I pull out my guitar and strum a few chords, wondering what my grandfather would have to say about all of this. Would he tell me to go home and fight for the girl?

  God, I wish he was here right now to tell me what to do.

  I wish he could tell me whether he forgives me for not being there that day in the hospital. I miss him so much, even now.

  I cradle the guitar close, letting my fingers work the strings, finding a melody that feels right. Making music is such a holy thing. Like praying and getting an unexpected answer inside the music. There’s always something to learn inside the notes of a good song, and every good songwriter has to dig deep down inside themselves to find the tune that’s really going to mean something. It’s like stripping yourself bare in front of everyone, showing them all the ugly things you’ve done and felt.

  I realize in this moment that this is why I stopped playing after my grandfather died. I didn’t want anyone else to see my shame, but without being true to my own emotions, no music could push through. Nothing true, anyway.

  So here alone in the bus, I test it out for the first time in years. I pour myself into the instrument and the sound of the chords, searching for something that strikes a match in my soul.

  And when I find the right combination, tears spring to my eyes.

  My heart opens, bleeding onto the strings with every note I play. And in return, the music teaches me something I never knew about myself.

  I’ve spent my entire life trying to be people’s sunshine. My mother has called me that since the day I was born, saying that her precious baby boy—a true gift after so many girls—was there to bring her joy. She said that I smiled the day I was born and every single day after, and that my gift was to make people happy.

  So I hung my own worth on that idea. Making other people happy. I learned how to make them smile when they were feeling down. I learned just the right thing to say when someone needed a laugh or a bright spot in their day. I focused on having fun and being the life of the party.

  But I never have truly thought about what I want in this world. About what makes me happy.

  The truth of it hits me straight in the chest like a bullet.

  This is the reason I’ve struggled with long-term relationships. The reason my relationship with my father has always been so strained. I was so focused on trying to make sure people were having fun that I didn’t really open up to them. I never truly became vulnerable to show them who I am. I never really stood up for what I want or fought for what would make me happy.

  With my father, I’ve never felt good enough, because nothing I ever did seemed to make him happy. With my girlfriends, the minute things got rough and I didn’t know how to fix it, I bailed or wasn’t there the way they needed me to be. The extent of my joy-bringing had come to an end, because cracking jokes or throwing a party can only take you so far.

  Real relationships are made in the moments of nakedness, when your soul is laid bare. And when Jo finally opened her past up to me, I left, thinking that was what she wanted from me. Thinking that would be best for her.

  But I realize in this moment, as I play a new song, that I did exactly the opposite of what she truly needed. I left because I thought I couldn’t make her happy.

  But happiness is not what she needs. She needs love, and if I simply had the courage to follow my own heart and love her, then I would be exactly the man she always needed me to be.

  The doors to the bus swing open and Willow climbs on, giggling, still high from the performance, but I’m not here anymore. I’m already miles away in my mind.

  “Colton, did you hear us out there?” Willow says. “Did we nail it or what? I swear, that crowd was magic.”

  I look up from the guitar and the small slip of paper on the table where I’ve scribbled a few lyrics.

  She eyes me. “Why do you have that goofy, distant look on your face?” she asks. “What are you up to?”

  She walks over and snatched the paper off the table, reading.

  “Holy shit, this is good,” she says. “Are you writing again?”

  Her hand is trembling. I know that handing this song over to her would make her day. Hell, maybe it would make her whole career.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Sure, whatever,” she says, still reading and nodding her head. “I want to hear this. Do you have a melody in mind yet?”

  “When you guys recorded Picking Up The Pieces, how come you never listed me as the co-writer?” I ask.

  “Huh?” she asks, not even looking up. As if nothing matters to her but her next hit song.

  “Why didn’t you share credit with me?” I ask. “On the album, it only lists you as the songwriter. I’m just wondering why you never thought to include me. I mean, most songwriters get royalties for their work, right?”

  She looks up, jerking her head back, as if this is something she’s never considered.

  “Is this about money?” she asks. Her mouth twists and she shakes her head. “If you want some money for the songs, you know I’m happy to talk about it. I never figured that mattered to you.”

  “It’s not really about the money,” I say, pulling the guitar strap over my head and placing the instrument in its case. “It’s about the fact that you never thought about it.”

  “Colton, what are you getting at? Why are you asking me about that? It’s been years since we recorded that song.”

  “You know that I didn’t even know you guys were going to record it until I heard it on the radio?” I ask. “Imagine that. Writing a song and not even knowing it was going to be on the radio, as if I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You gave me that song,” she says. “You wrote it for me.”

  “I wrote it with you,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

  “So, what? You want credit for it now, after all this time?” she asks. “I’m not even sure how to do that, but I guess I could call the record company if you want me to.”

  I shake my head and stand. She doesn’t even understand why this matters to me. Have I failed to stand up for what I want so often that people think I’ll be happy even when they’re walking right over me?

  How have I been so blind?

  “Where are you going?” she asks when I grab my duffel bag from the back. “Colton, come on, if this is about money or something, I told you. I can write you a check. Just name a number.”

  I take the slip of paper from her hand and stuff it in my pocket.

  She frowns and stares up at me. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Willow,” I say. “I appreciate the chance to tour with you guys for a while, but I’ve got someplace I need to be. I’ll see you around, okay?”

  I step past her in the narrow hall, but she places her hand on my arm.

  “Don’t go,” she says. “I need you.”

  I smile. “Someone else needs me more,” I say. “Tell the guys I said goodbye. I’ll catch up with y’all next time you’re back home. Goodbye, Willow.”

  She stares, mouth open, as I walk down the steps and out into the night, finally ready to follow my heart.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I awake to another day, the sun streaming in through the curtains. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, not ready to get out of bed.

  Like most mornings, my first thought is of my father. How will he be feeling today?

  There is a part of me that hopes to see some kind of improvement. A better day or a step in the right direction, but Dr. Walsh has told us that with ALS, there may be good days and bad days, but there is never significant improvement. The best we can hope for is a slow progression. More time on the clock.

  I swipe at a tear, determined that I will not break down today. Today I will be strong for my daddy. And for myself.

  Today will be a good day, because we’re together.<
br />
  I wrap the blankets tighter around my arms and an image of Colton flashes through my mind. I close my eyes and imagine that first night together in the cabin, and what it felt like to lie next to him until dawn, tangled up together.

  I miss him more than I ever could have imagined.

  I want to call him and tell him to come home, but I’m scared. What if he is having the time of his life? What if he’s realized that we were a burden to him?

  I pull his letter from the drawer of my bedside table and read it for the hundredth time.

  Does he still think of me?

  It feels like he’s been gone forever.

  I fold the note and put it back in the drawer. I shower and dress for the day in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s soft and comfy. I put on my favorite fuzzy socks and pad out to the kitchen where my father is already awake and having his first cup of coffee.

  He has been having more trouble with his hands lately. Grasping things, especially when they are small. We’ve switched to mostly plastic in the house, paper cups with no handle and a wide base. He’s doing great, and I’m so proud of him for not giving up.

  “Good morning, Jojo bear,” he says. “How’s my beautiful girl?”

  “Good morning, Daddy,” I say, kissing his temple and giving him a hug. “How’s the coffee?”

  “Strong,” he says. “Grab a cup and sit down.”

  “I was thinking about making muffins,” I say.

  He laughs and shakes his head, but when I turn to question him, he looks down at his tablet and continues to swipe through news articles. He used to read the newspaper every morning, but now that it’s harder to hold onto and turn the pages, he decided it was time to make the switch to new technology. We bought him a cutting-edge new tablet, and believe it or not, he loves it.

  “What are you laughing at?” I ask, taking my favorite mixing bowl down from the cabinet.

  “Jo, sweetheart, look around,” he says. “What do you see in this kitchen?”

  I frown and look around. Okay, so the counters are covered in baked goods. Homemade bread. Muffins. Cakes. Pies. Cookies. Most of them are wrapped, though, with name tags attached. This afternoon, I plan to play the baked-goods-fairy in town and deliver them all over town.

  “Do you not see the humor in the fact that your first thought this morning is to make more muffins?” he asks, his shoulders shaking from laughter.

  I purse my lips, trying not to smile, but I can’t help myself. “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “I may have gotten a little bit out of hand.”

  “A little?” he asks. “Try crazypants.”

  “Daddy,” I say, smacking him on the shoulder. “Baking is how I cope with stress.”

  “Oh, I remember,” he says. “When you were fifteen I thought I was going to have to buy a whole new house just to store all the bowls and pans and things you kept buying online. I think I gained twelve pounds that year off cookies alone.”

  I smile and shake my head. “I can’t help it,” I say. “Let me have this one thing.”

  “Bake away, my dear,” he says. “But first, grab some coffee and a muffin and sit down with your old man for a minute.”

  I humor him, pouring myself half a cup of coffee and filling the rest with cream and sugar. I choose a cranberry muffin from one of the many overflowing baskets on the counter and sit down across from him.

  “What’s up?” I ask. I can tell he has something specific he wants to talk about.

  “How are you holding up, kiddo?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m fine, Daddy,” I say. “We’re going to get through this.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about the diagnosis,” he says. “I’m talking about your breakup. And don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking about him. As much as I’d love to believe those frequent tears are all about me, I know I can’t take all the credit. So spill it. How are you really doing?”

  I lower my head and try to hide fresh tears. I blink and cut my eyes at him. “You know me too well,” I say.

  “You’re my Jojo bear,” he says. “It’s just been the two of us for a long time. I might even know you better than you know yourself.”

  I nod. “You might,” I say. I take a deep breath. “I miss him, Daddy. More than I thought I would.”

  “Of course you do,” he says. “You love him. Anyone can see that.”

  “So why did I tell him I wanted to break up?” I ask. “I don’t even know anymore. After he disappeared all day and then seeing Bryan again, I don’t know. I just snapped. I was so scared that I was messing up all over again, choosing someone that would only hurt me. But it wasn’t really him I was afraid of. I think I was afraid of myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” I say. “I worked so hard to learn how to protect my heart and shut people out. Before Colton came along, I’d gotten pretty damn good at it.”

  “You’re telling me,” he mumbles.

  “I’m not even sure I realized I was doing it. All I kept thinking anytime a guy would hit on me or someone would try to get close to me was that opening myself up in any way was just asking for pain and regret,” I say. “As long as I kept my world small, I thought I’d be able to control it. I thought I’d be safe, and that nothing could touch me like that ever again.”

  “Life doesn’t work like that,” he says.

  “No,” I say, wiping away a tear. “It doesn’t.”

  My father takes my hand across the table, leaning in. “Pain comes to us no matter how hard we try to shut it out,” he says. “What you were really shutting out was the chance at happiness.”

  His words hit me so hard, they nearly knock the breath from my lungs.

  He’s right. I denied myself happiness and love for so long, thinking that safe and alone was better than risking it all for something more. If I kept my life on an even keel, I could never fall very far.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I don’t know how to fix this, and I’m terrified I’m going to spend the rest of my life regretting the fact that I pushed him away. That I didn’t open up to him until it was too late.”

  My dad takes in a breath and squeezes my hand. “Here’s the thing about regret,” he says. “We all make mistakes. We all experience disappointment and pain. But it’s the things we let slip through our fingers because we were too afraid to go after them that we regret the most.”

  I look at him, unable to stop the flood of tears.

  “I’m so sorry that you were hurt so badly when you were so young, but that’s on me,” he says, his bottom lip trembling. “I was so wrapped up in my own sorrow, still mourning the loss of your mother and throwing myself into my work that I wasn’t paying attention to the one person who mattered most to me in the world. That’s why after it happened, I broke things off with Kelly. I cut back on my hours and hired more help. I made you my sole priority, Jojo. Because when you realize that someone is the most valuable person in your life, you do whatever it takes to make them feel loved. To make them feel safe and important.”

  I scoot closer to him until our arms are touching.

  “I realized a long time ago that the only way to live a life without regret is to give all of yourself to everything that matters,” he says. “If it makes you happy or makes your heart sing, if it seems worthwhile or touches your heart in the deepest places, then you open yourself up and you give. You risk everything, even your own heart, to follow your dreams and your passions. Yes, you’re going to fall along the way. Some people that you trust will hurt you or fail you, but I’m telling you Jo, the rewards and the love you receive, the lessons you learn and the person you become, will make it worth any pain that you feel. That’s why I’ve always encouraged you to go out and spend time with friends, put yourself out there, follow your dreams of cooking or starting a catering business. Whatever you want to do, you should do it.

  “None of us are g
uaranteed tomorrow, and that has never felt more real to me than it does right now. You made some mistakes, but you cannot continue to punish yourself for that your entire life. You deserve to be loved, Jojo. You deserve to follow your dreams, but none of that will be possible if you aren’t willing to risk getting hurt. Being vulnerable. Letting go of that fear that holds you back time and time again. You can’t hide from life, Jo. Not anymore.”

  I stand and collapse into my father’s lap, letting him rock me like he did when I was just a little girl. I cry until there are no more tears, the truth of his words hitting home in a way I never expected.

  “You’re right,” I say, laughing through the tears. “I know you’re right. But it’s too late, Daddy. I already messed things up between us.”

  He raises an eyebrow and points to an article on his tablet. “According to the internet, Long Road Ahead is playing in Atlanta tonight. That’s only a few hours from here, so if you get on the road now, you might even beat them there.”

  I feel a million years lighter. I’m scared and nervous and trembling, but I know with a sudden fierceness exactly what I have to do. Even if he tells me he doesn’t want to be with me. I have to tell him how I feel.

  I kiss my father’s cheek and stand up, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

  “Daddy, I have to go,” I say. I kiss him again and run back to my bedroom, giddy and terrified at the same time.

  I throw on my boots and leather jacket, grab my purse and run for the door.

  My dad is laughing and crying at the same time. He pulls me into a hug.

  “Go get him, Jojo,” he says. He throws a fist into the air and lets out a loud whoop.

  I roll my eyes and laugh through my own tears. My dad is crazy, but he’s mine, and I love him more right now than my heart can contain.

  Trembling, I get into my car and drive, wiping tears from my eyes so that I can see the road. I haven’t even had time to set my GPS yet, but I just start driving, wanting to get to Atlanta as fast as I can.

  The radio is tuned to the local country station, and as the current song winds down, a familiar voice comes on. I slam on my breaks and stare at the radio. How is this possible? Am I dreaming?