“You should’ve seen the way my daddy looked at me,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I embarrassed him. He always taught me to do the right thing, and I didn’t. He’ll never look at me the same way again. He hates me.”
Griff grabs her hand. “Don’t do that to yourself,” he says, turning his entire body toward her. “You’re so damn strong, Al. Everything you’ve faced, you just keep comin’ back. Sure, you made a mistake, we’ve all made mistakes. You can’t go on blamin’ yourself forever.”
She raises her eyes. “You takin’ your own advice?”
The look on his face, the conversation from this morning, says he won’t.
He lets go of her hand. Instead of answering her question, he says, “I never for a goddamn second thought you did any of the shit they’re sayin’. Never.” He runs a hand through his hair. Hesitates. “But I gotta ask, Al—and feel free to kick my ass—but why? Why’d you do it? You didn’t need any of it. Hell, with or without Mort Stein, you were on your way to a number one song. A platinum album. You would have made it. I know it.”
She sees him trying to piece it together.
The girl he knows.
What she’s told him.
What she did.
She gave him everything but the why.
She stares down at her hands. That’s the part no one knows. Not even Holly. The part she kept out of the press conference.
Now, she owes him the truth. She owes herself finally saying the words aloud.
Her throat threatens to close up, but she braces her body, steadies her voice and says, “I wanted to beat you.”
Griff blinks, surprise creasing his face. “What?”
“The only reason I ever came to Nashville after you left Clover was to beat you. If you could make it without me, I was gonna show you I could make it without you. And when I met Mort, I thought he was the fastest way to get ahead. The fastest way I could get me a number one song and prove to you I was as good as you were.” She nods, staring at the ground, lost in the past. “I thought, all it was was one kiss. How much damage could it do?” She laughs grimly. “Turns out, a lot, in fact.”
Alabama exhales a breath, the admission like a weight released. She wasn’t expecting to bare all in a boot store today, but she did. Surprisingly, she feels better.
She lifts her head to stare at Griff.
His jaw is open and gaping. She can’t tell what she sees in his eyes. Regret. Maybe guilt. She knows it was a hell of a story to lay on him here and now, but it was something she had to do. For herself and for him.
Griff smears a hand over the back of his head. “Damn. Al, I—”
But whatever he was about to say is cut off by the reappearance of the clerk. She stands in front of them, a tall stack of boot boxes swaying precariously in her arms. “Okay, we’ve got the classic calfskin cowboy boot here with a round toe and a one-and-three-quarter inch heel ...”
Alabama gives him a quick side-eye. “We’ll talk later.”
“Oh, you better believe we’ll talk later,” Griff says, his face as dark as a storm cloud.