The Reckoning was finished a month later, in November, much to the joy of the record executives. It was quickly hailed, on the strength of the two songs that debuted ahead of the album that was scheduled for a January release, as Nick’s best album to date, full of campfire serenades as well as bluesy hard-rocking ballads. Critics who were given early access called the album a labor of love; the tracks were a combination of country-influenced seventies throwbacks, full of lyrical and melodic harmonized hooks as well as heart-pounding beats of rage that would make your neighbors bang on your walls to turn it down. Everyone in Nick’s camp was ecstatic, his fanbase was in a frenzy, and the predictions for sales were astronomical.
Nick was pleased, but what was most important to him was how I could never—not once—not get misty eyed when my song, his song that he’d written for me, “Lock and Heart,” came on the radio. It was there, in every aching note he sang, his raw, almost savage, clearly wholehearted love for me. The first time he sang it, at our wedding, I had to take a small walk to the edge of the water to not break down in front of everyone. It took him coming after me, holding me tight, to get myself together.
“Tell me again, Loc,” he pressed me, whispering in my ear.
“I love you; and that’s a promise forever.”
The words were important to him. They allowed him to be able to leave me and go out, with his band, on a theater tour with Stig Malloy in mid-November ahead of the release of the Netflix documentary, Redemption Road, in December and the album in January. The sets were all acoustic based, the music lower dynamic, and everyone lost their minds.
Nick’s father had agreed to a plea deal and would spend no more than twenty years in prison, and no less than twelve. Alan took a plea as well, which, ironically, got him the eighteen months he’d initially thought his father-in-law would be serving.
I didn’t follow up on Nick’s sisters, didn’t tune in for the endless news coverage on them, because I honestly didn’t care. Nick was happy and healthy, talked to his therapist regularly, and the consensus, everywhere, was that he had come through the darkness and was now standing squarely in the light. I could not have been prouder, so when I got a call from Brent right before Thanksgiving, as I was finishing up at my volunteer job at a drug rehabilitation center, I was surprised.
“Is Conner all right?” I asked first, because Conner Fox was one month clean and sober, and as a treat, had gone to meet Nick and Stig as their guest for two shows before he headed back to the house to take up residence in our guest bedroom. He had a sobriety coach with him, who I’d handpicked. Conner had sung backup on Nick’s record as well, and Stig had offered him a job as a backup singer in his band when he felt he was ready. Conner had been thrilled. He needed a safety net when he left us, somewhere other than his childhood home, and Stig and his wife, and his band, were happy to give that to him.
“Yeah, Conner’s fine,” he said quickly, “but—”
“Flint’s not gambling again?”
“No, he’s—”
“Oh shit, did Meira go into labor?”
“No, Loc, she’s only seven months—”
“Did Diego get hurt or—”
“Diego is fine!”
“And you’re—”
“Ohmygod, can you shut the hell up?” he yelled at me.
If he’d been there, I would have glared him to death. “What the hell do you want, then?”
He huffed out a breath. “It turns out that this month away from you has not been good for Nick.”
I jolted. “No, no, no, he’s not—”
“No,” he said calmly, softly, “he’s being amazing. He’s the rock keeping the peace between some artistic, very opinionated people, and there’s something about his voice lately that is simply incandescent. I mean, really, Loc, he’s just luminous, and people are in awe of his voice, and the reviews for this tour are beyond belief.”
“Then what? I don’t get it.”
“I sent you a video from last night.”
“Okay, but he’ll be home in, like, a week, before Thanksgiving.”
“Yes,” he agreed, clearing his throat. “But I don’t think these long separations are working for him. I mean, you got married and away he went.”
“Yeah, but we agreed that—”
“Just do me a favor and look at the video, all right? Text me after.”
He hung up, and I went to the kitchen and opened my laptop so I could eat the dinner Marisol had left me and watch Nick sing while I ate.
The music was beautiful, and Brent was right, my husband sounded amazing. I had no doubt that as soon as his record hit the airwaves, the Grammy would be his.