Rust & Starlight
Chapter 16 : A Call From Nashville He Ignores
The phone had been buzzing for three days.
Mason had thrown it into the kitchen drawer after the first day — the one next to the silverware, wrapped in a dish towel to muffle the sound. But the buzzing continued, a persistent vibration that seemed to mock him every time he reached for a fork.
Wren noticed on the fourth morning.
She was looking for a can opener — the manual kind, because the electric one had died six months ago — when her hand brushed against something that hummed. She pulled out the phone. The screen was cracked, the battery at twelve percent, and there were seventeen missed calls and forty-three text messages.
“Mason,” she called. “Your phone is alive.”
He was in the living room, patching a hole in the wall where a pipe had burst last winter. He came to the kitchen doorway, his hands covered in spackle.
“I know.”
“You have seventeen missed calls.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to check them?”
“No.”
Wren held up the phone. The screen lit up with another incoming call — the name Gary — Manager flashing across the cracked glass.
“It’s ringing right now,” she said. “Your manager.”
Mason crossed the kitchen, took the phone from her hand, and pressed the power button. The screen went black.
“Not anymore.”
“Mason.” Wren’s voice was careful, measured. “You can’t just ignore your life.”
“I can. Watch me.”
He turned back toward the living room, but Wren caught his arm.
“Wait.” She pulled him to a stop, her fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Talk to me. Why won’t you answer?”
Mason looked down at her hand, then at her face. Her eyes were worried — not for herself, but for him.
“Because I know what he wants,” Mason said. “There’s a record deal. A comeback tour. A chance to pretend the last five years didn’t happen. And if I answer, I’ll have to make a choice.”
“What choice?”
“Between that life and this one.” He gestured at the farmhouse — the peeling wallpaper, the creaking floors, the stack of unread books on the coffee table. “Between Nashville and Kansas. Between the man I used to be and the man I’m trying to become.”
Wren released his arm. “I’m not asking you to choose.”
“You don’t have to. The choice is already made.” He pulled the phone from his pocket — the dead, black screen — and set it on the counter. “I’m staying.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you’ll have me.”
She stared at him. Her throat moved as she swallowed.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered.
“What’s not fair?”
“Putting that on me. The decision. If you stay and it doesn’t work out, you’ll blame me. If you go and regret it, you’ll blame me. Either way, I become the reason you lost your career.”
Mason shook his head. “You’re not the reason. I am. My choices. My mistakes. My priorities.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the small scar above her eyebrow. “I’ve spent fifteen years chasing fame. It made me rich and famous and miserable. I’ve spent eighteen days chasing something else. And for the first time in my life, I’m not miserable.”
He touched her face, his spackle-covered fingers gentle on her cheek.
“You’re not a reason, Wren. You’re a destination.”
The phone stayed in the drawer for another week.
But on the eighth day, when Mason was out fixing the gutter, it buzzed again. Wren was alone in the kitchen, washing dishes, when she heard the familiar vibration. She dried her hands, opened the drawer, and looked at the screen.
Gary — Manager had called four more times. Unknown Number had called twice. And there was a text message from a number she didn’t recognize:
“Mason, it’s Julian Voss. Blackthorn Records. My offer expires in 48 hours. Don’t throw away your future for a farm girl. Call me.”
Wren stared at the words. Farm girl. The phrase landed like a slap. She wasn’t ashamed of being a farmer — she was proud of it — but the condescension, the dismissal, the assumption that she was somehow less than made her blood run hot.
She thought about deleting the message. About pretending she’d never seen it. About protecting Mason from a choice he’d already made.
But that wasn’t who she was.
She set the phone back in the drawer, left the message unread, and went outside to find Mason.
He was on a ladder, cleaning leaves from the gutter. His flannel was untucked, his hair was a mess, and he was humming — a new melody, something soft and sad. He looked down when she approached.
“Gutter’s almost done,” he said.
“Good.” She stood at the bottom of the ladder, looking up at him. “Mason, your phone buzzed again.”
“Ignore it.”
“I can’t.” She folded her arms. “There’s a text from Julian Voss. He says his offer expires in 48 hours. He says you’re throwing away your future for a farm girl.”
Mason’s hands stilled on the ladder. His expression darkened.
“He called you a farm girl?”
“He did.”
Mason climbed down from the ladder, his jaw tight. He walked past her into the house, went to the kitchen drawer, and pulled out the phone. He read the message, his face unreadable. Then he pressed the call button.
Wren watched from the doorway.
“Julian,” Mason said, his voice cold. “It’s Mason Cross. I’m calling to tell you to lose my number.” A pause. “I don’t care about your offer. I don’t care about Blackthorn Records. And if you ever call her a farm girl again, I’ll drive to Hays and show you what a farm boy can do with a post-hole digger.”
He hung up, turned off the phone, and threw it back in the drawer.
Wren didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You just burned a record deal,” she said.
“I know.”
“For me.”
“For us.” He walked toward her, stopping inches away. “That’s what people do. They choose each other.”
She reached up and touched his face — his stubbled jaw, his tired eyes, his beautiful, complicated, infuriating face.
“You’re insane,” she whispered.
“Probably.”
“I’m falling in love with you.”
The words hung in the air between them. Mason’s breath caught.
“Say that again,” he said.
“I’m falling in love with you.” Her voice shook, but her eyes were steady. “And it terrifies me.”
Mason pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. She buried her face in his neck, breathing him in — sawdust and coffee and something else, something that was just him.
“I’m falling in love with you too,” he murmured into her hair. “And I’m not terrified. I’m grateful.”
They stood like that in the kitchen, holding each other, while the phone lay silent in the drawer and the gutter dripped outside and the farm waited, patient and eternal.