THE NEXT DAY is Saturday, and I find myself alone on the gun range Dad built on the property. In front of the earthen backstop, I set up a sawhorse and line up some empty beer and soda cans on it.
I leave the windows down on my truck with the radio playing, tuned to our local country station, 99.9 WACO-FM. Willow texted me early this morning and told me to listen. I’m guessing they’ll be debuting her new single.
I stand back, my gun on my hip and my hand at the ready.
I draw and shoot the first can, which bounces away with a tinging sound. Drawing my pistol took only about half a second, but it felt glacially slow compared to what I used to be able to do.
As I shoot the rest of the cans, I never miss. And each draw gets a little faster than the one before. But my speed is nowhere near what it used to be.
I holster the pistol, disgusted with myself, and on the radio, the DJ says that Willow Dawes will be up next, on the hour.
I rotate my arm like I used to do before football practice. There’s some stiffness in my shoulder—a little bit of pain—but I push the discomfort away. I take a can and prepare to toss it in the air, to try to shoot it before it falls, but then I get another idea. I dig into my pocket and pull out a quarter. I remember what was going to be the tiebreaker between Ryan and me. Dropping a coin from shoulder height and trying to shoot it as it passed by, just like his hero Jelly Bryce used to do.
Ryan missed.
I forfeited.
And so the tie remained. But no one else is here now—no child who might run into the line of fire.
I hold the coin at shoulder height. I take a deep breath. Focus.
Just then I hear the DJ say, “I’m here in the studio with Waco’s beloved daughter, Willow Dawes.”
I lower the coin. I must have heard that wrong. She can’t be in the studio. She must be calling in from Nashville.
“Willow has been nice enough to give us a sneak peek of some of the songs on her upcoming album,” the DJ says. “Willow, tell us about the first song we’re going to play.”
“It’s called ‘Texas Forever,’” she says, “and my friend Rory Yates helped me write it.”
I stare at my truck, listening in absolute shock.
“You’re talking about the Texas Ranger who inspired a certain song from your debut album?” the DJ asks.
“Yep,” she says, laughing. “We’re still good friends, and the last time I was in town, he and I jammed on this song. He helped me come up with the lyrics.”
When the song starts to play, I’m even more surprised. With a professional band accompanying her lyrics, playing everything from a steel guitar to a fiddle to a piano, the song is a boot-stomping country anthem as catchy as anything on the radio. I won’t be surprised if it’s sung by college kids at field parties and beach campfires for the next decade.
After the song is over and the DJ cuts to a commercial, my phone rings.
“How does it feel to be a country music songwriter?” Willow says, laughing. “I gave you co-writing credit.”
“I’m speechless,” I say. “The song is amazing.”
“You want to celebrate?” she asks.
“Whenever you’re in town,” I say.
“I am in town,” she says. “I’m in the studio at WACO-FM right now. I could make you dinner at your place. I’ll bring my guitar. We can sit on the porch and play like we used to.”
“I’d like that,” I find myself saying. “I haven’t played in forever.”
What I don’t tell her is that I’ve been too afraid to try, worried that my injury might affect my ability to play.
“I could meet you in Waco if you want me to,” I say. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t have a place yet,” she says, and her tone shifts, making her sound uncharacteristically shy. “Maybe I could stay with you.”
I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say.
“Think about it,” she says quickly, probably sensing my hesitation.
She says she has to go—they’re going to interview her for a few more minutes and play more of the album—but she’ll call me later.
As I hang up, I don’t know what to think. Does Willow want to get back together? She certainly seemed to be suggesting it.
“Ah, crap,” I say aloud, remembering I already have plans with Megan tonight.
I’m going to have to cancel with one of them.
The problem is, which one?
I’m not the kind of guy who dates more than one woman at a time. Part of me thinks that if Willow is interested in trying again, I should go for it. There was always something special about our relationship. But another part of me thinks that it’s time for me to move on from Willow, once and for all. Megan seems perfect for me, but I really don’t know her that well. We might find out quickly that we’re not a good match. I know Willow and I are—it’s only our careers that got in the way.
I sit on the tailgate and listen to the rest of the interview and two more of Willow’s new songs, a fun romp called “Crushin’ on a Cowboy” and a heartbreaking ballad called “Tell the Angels” about the fear of losing a loved one. Maybe it’s hubris, but I can’t help but think both songs are about me.
When the interview is finally over, I find myself in a foul mood. Part of me is thrilled that Willow might want to get back together—another part is irritated with her for not letting me move on.
What am I going to do?
I clean up the cans and the shell casings, preparing to head home and brood about the tough spot I’m in. Then I remember what I was about to do before the interview came on.
I take the quarter back out of my pocket and hold it at shoulder height. I pour the pain of my dilemma into a fuming single-minded focus.
I release the coin, snatch my pistol, and shoot.
The quarter lands in the grass at my feet. I lean down to fish for it among the blades of green. When I find it, I hold it up between my thumb and forefinger and examine the hole through the face of George Washington.
“So much for that tie,” I say, unable to stop myself from grinning.
The truth is I don’t really care about the draw with Ryan Logan. What I care about is the fact that my shooting ability is coming back. The shot was pretty easy, actually.
Now I have to figure out what to do about tonight.
If only love came as easy for me as shooting a gun.