Author's Note: This will be a three-parter. I have no idea how this season is going to pan out or what could possibly happen with Will/Kevin and the future of his career, but in the meantime I am way too ready for it to be September.

I don't own Nashville

I.

The day Kevin's invitation comes in the mail is the day Will's tires are slashed. And because when it rains it pours, it's also the perfect day for his ex-wife to text him for the first time in six months.

Kevin was told about it a few weeks ago, right before everything blew up: ASCAP's big gala honoring Nashville's best songwriters. Black-tie, hosted by industry bigshots, red carpet. The kind of thing where powerful people discuss who's being honored and the cameras discuss who invitees bring as a plus-one.

Kevin hasn't talked about it, and Will hasn't brought it up. But their silence about the gala only dances around the same topic: if he goes with Kevin, it's going to be their first public event as a couple.

So when the official invite comes in the mail, Will stares at the fancy embossed envelope for a long moment before sitting it on the countertop, right next to this month's electricity bill and an ad pamphlet for Rite-Aid. It's addressed to Kevin, anyway, which officially makes it his problem, not Will's.

Which can't be said about the slashed tires.

"I'm calling the police," Kevin said when he saw the damage. Which, Will noticed with gritted teeth, was pretty substantial - whoever did it practically took a damn chainsaw to all four tires.

There was also the matter of the word FAGGOT spray-painted across the driveway in bright blue paint.

Will was so busy staring at the word that he didn't register what Kevin was doing until he came back outside, cell phone in hand. "Wait, what are you doing?"

Kevin dialed, his face grim. "I'm calling the cops. Filing a police report." He pointed at the graffiti in his driveway. "This shit is vandalism."

Will reached for the phone. "Wait, hold on. Do we really need to do that?"

Kevin stared at him, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Look at what they did!"

"I can see it," Will snapped. "I just don't think we need to get the cops involved."

He stared back at the word written in bright blue letters, right there in the driveway for anyone to read.

"Might bring bad publicity," he added, his voice trailing.

"I don't give a shit," Kevin hissed, and then a voice came on the other end of the phone and Kevin turned away from him.

"Yes, hi, last night my home was vandalized last night and my boyfriend's tires were slashed. No, nobody's hurt. No, there aren't any weapons, as far as I can tell. No, nobody's in immediate danger."

Kevin hung up, his expression dark as he stared at the graffiti.

"Great," Will muttered. "This is just what we need. Another spot on TMZ."

"Really?" Kevin frowned. "That's your takeaway from all this?"

"Luke wanted me to keep my head down and my mouth shut," Will said. "Not end up on a segment of Inside Edition."

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, and Will pushed past him inside the house, calling behind him as he headed to the shower. "I could have just called a tow truck and washed that shit off with a hose."

"That's not the point!" Kevin shouted, but his words were lost as the bathroom door slammed and the shower head doused him in scalding-hot water that made his skin burn so hot it he stopped feeling it after a while, and after that happened he just stood under the spray with his eyes closed, leaning against the shower wall and trying to take a deep breath, the spray-painted FAGGOT flashing behind his eyes.

He didn't know how long he stood under the hot water, his skin numb and red. When he stepped out and toweled himself off in front of the mirror, it was so steamed up he couldn't see his reflection. With one hand he wiped the glass and caught a glimpse of his face - dark circles under his eyes, matted wet hair, sunburnt nose, tired expression. The mirror started misting over almost immediately, but his face was still very much the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, exactly, but it was almost a disappointment to look at what was there.

By the time he dried off and put clothes on, the cops were pulling out of Kevin's driveway while he stood in the doorway, leaning tiredly against the doorframe as he watched them leave.

Will braced himself for Kevin to say something, or pick up their fight where it left off, but instead he rubbed his eyes and asked Will, "Do you have to go anywhere today?"

"Why?"

"Since we're down a car." Kevin sighed. "If you have to go anywhere, you'll probably have to take mine. Or I can drop you off and pick you up, I guess."

"Oh." Will glanced at his truck, the tires completely flattened against the cement rippling with heat, even this early in the morning. "No. I mean, I don't have to go anywhere. I have that meeting with Luke tomorrow, but that's it."

Kevin nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"I called Triple A for a tow," he said to Will as he headed inside the house. "They said it'll be about forty-five minutes."

The front door clicked shut behind him, and even though it hadn't slammed Will still felt like he'd been shut out.

So the tow came and went, Kevin went out to run errands, and now Will is stuck in the house with today's To Do pile spread all over Kevin's living room coffee table. It's more or less where he's been camping for the past few weeks; "laying low", Luke advised, since he was officially dropped from the tour and Wheelin' & Dealin' has been scrambling for a way to handle Will's bombshell.

Which isn't to say the press hasn't found their own way to spin it, because what else do they have to talk about. Not like there are a million other pressing issues going in in the universe, other than one guy deciding to come out of the closet, but tell that to the reporters and news vans that camped out on Gunnar's lawn and in front of Wheelin' and Dealin', trying to get an exclusive. They would have tried to stalk Kevin's house, except his neighborhood has a security gate. Still, every time Will takes out the trash or Kevin goes to get the mail, he can't shake the feeling that there's someone with a camera perched right in the bushes, waiting to sell photos to the Enquirer.

He barely goes to Gunnar's house anymore, except to get fresh clothes and eat. Kevin offered him some hangers for his clothes and a drawer where he can keep a few things, and there's a toothbrush and razor in the bathroom for him whenever he spends the night – which, ever since his big announcement, has pretty much been every night. He's basically living with him, except that he doesn't have a key, and Kevin hasn't actually put it into words yet: move in with me.

Just like he hasn't officially said, "I love you."

Will's shoulders twitch. He shakes them a few times, trying to loosen up, for what he isn't sure. But he can't stand sitting here just thinking. And he has too much time to do that now, think and think and think and think, with nothing to distract him.

It's driving him up a fucking wall, all this time to think.

So he takes a deep breath and shakes himself loose and tries to focus on all the papers in front of him, looking for something tedious, mind-numbing, and hopefully time-consuming enough to distract himself from the fact that he has nothing else to do with his day.

That's something else he hadn't considered about his big announcement.. He's used to always having something to do – a show, a radio interview, a photo shoot, a rehearsal, a stadium show. But Luke told him to stay quiet, at least until they figure out how to deal with his news, and the last thing Will wants to do right now is screw things up with Luke more than he already has. He can't remember when he last had this much free time, and nobody told him how boring it would be.

So for the most part, "laying low" for Will has consisted of the following:

1) Checking his phone and email every few seconds for a new message from Luke that never comes

2) Reading every article written on his coming out

3) Searching Youtube for his music videos and reading the comments section

You think he's a top or bottom? Bear or Otter? Twunk or Twank?

He wouldn't be much good...how can you take him to a strip club

So many issues.

"Love the sinner, hate the sin…"

Kiss your career goodbye,,,

I always knew he liked to be ridden bareback!

HOMOSEXUALS AND THEIR DISEASES . GOOGLE IT !

So the guy lied for years, and now everyone is supposed to admire him. And the people that whine that this is newsworthy, are the first ones to put it in a headline.

Deviant sexual alignment is a sad choice and clearly wrong. Maybe (but doubtfully) he will change.

Another sick fuck gets some attention...so sad to see these poor choices...for sure there must be some nice girl out there, just too chicken it seems…

You are a disgusting piece of trash. People like you are evil and should be put to death.

He hasn't really been sleeping much.

Kevin's definitely noticed. A few nights ago, Will was scrolling through the comments on his video for "Hurtin' On Me" when arms looped around his neck.

"You know it's three AM, right?" Kevin murmured into his ear.

Will blinked. His vision was fuzzy. He'd been staring at the computer screen so long he had an electric buzz going in the back of his brain.

"S' fine," he mumbled. "I'll be there in a second. You go back to sleep."

Kevin kissed the side of his head. "Humor me and do it anyway."

He tried to hide the screen, but Kevin caught a glimpse of it anyway.

"Wait," he said. "This is what you're doing instead of sleeping? Reading troll comments on the internet?"

"It's not – "

Will tried to take the computer away, but Kevin grabbed it first.

"It's not productive and it's not worth your time." He shut the computer and slid it out of Will's lap. "Why are you doing this to yourself? You know it isn't going to help anything."

Will stared at his hands. "I can't help it."

And really, he has no idea why he can't stop. But he can't help himself. It's like passing an accident on the side of the road, or poking the gap of a loose tooth. Except it's his own smoking wreckage he's passing.

He understands now, why Layla was so obsessed with Twitter comments about her when the reality show premiered. Why she willingly tortured herself with reading the awful things people said about her. Why she was always looking up new memes about her, or stupid rap songs of things she'd said. Why she couldn't stop looking up every version of herself that other people invented, twisting and reshaping her like a funhouse mirror, until that version felt more real than anything else she believed about herself.

This is what people think of him now. This is the kind of person people believe he is. And maybe he's got people who love him and support him and are fine with the way he is - his best friend, his boyfriend. But there are a whole lot of people who are more than willing to tell him otherwise.

And no matter what he says or does, he'll never convince them otherwise.

II.

He actually has something to do today – insurance paperwork – and it's probably a sign of just how bored he's been that he's looking forward to filling out forms. At the very least, it gives him something else to obsess over, for the time being.

Except not for long, because he keeps opening extra tabs on his computer to check music blogs and news sites, trolling for any information he can find on himself. Which is a strange feeling. Like he's reading up on someone who isn't even him.

"I feel like I'm in a costume."

"Like you're an actor in your own life?"

He's busy scrolling through Buzzfeed's Twitter when his phone rings. And, as if he's summoned her just by thinking of her, his ex-wife's name appears on the screen.

Are you busy next week?

It takes him a minute to catch up with what she's asking.

Yes?

He adds the question mark at the last minute. There's a frown emoticon in the text she sends back to him.

Are you free or not?

He makes a face at the words,, because he can hear the frustrated tone in her voice and can picture the exact expression on her face, like she's right her in the room with him.

Have 2 double-check but think so. Why?

We need to talk to a lawyer about the house, she texts back a moment later. I'm selling it and we never had a plan in place about what to do with it.

Layla's selling the house? He almost asks her where she's living, or if she's going to move in with Jeff, but he thinks that's too personal to ask her.

Why do we need a lawyer? He texts back.

I met with a realtor, she replies. She said we had to.

He raises his eyebrows. When they were together, she never handled any of that kind of stuff. He signed his name on the deed when he bought that house from Gunnart. He dealt with the mortgage. He helped Layla buy her own car, took her to the DMV to get it and registered. He handled the bills. He took care of it when the A/C broke and their cars needed an oil change and when the rain gutter fell off the garage after a bad thunderstorm. Before she got out of the hospital last winter, he hired an electrician to come in and dismantle every one of the reality show cameras so they would be gone by the time she came home. Layla used to handle a lot of the house chores – unloading the dishwasher, doing laundry, grocery shopping – but she never took on the bigger things. They hadn't ever discussed it – it was just something that they had adopted in the days when she first moved in with him, before they were even engaged. It was just the way things were, and she never questioned it. Neither did he.

For the first time since moving out of the house, it occurs to Will to wonder who is handling those kinds of tasks now that he's not there. He doesn't know much about the day in and out of Layla's life now, or if she's still hooking up with Jeff, but Will can't imagine Jeff taking care of someone else like that. And even if Layla can't rely on Will anymore, he can't picture her doing those things for herself. His ex-wife is a lot of things, but good at taking care of herself is not one of her qualities.

At least, it didn't used to be.

She said we had to, she finishes texting. The house is still in your name & I can't sell it myself. We need to work out some legal agreement about who gets to sell it.

A minute later, after he doesn't respond, she sends him another message: unless you want to handle all this yourself and sell the house for me.

He messages her back: no thanks. But I will call lawyer for u & set up meeting

As soon as he sends that text, he wonders why he's getting involved in Layla's business again. The whole point of getting divorced was that they weren't in each other's lives anymore and couldn't do any more damage to each other that their disaster of a marriage already managed to do. And now he's putting himself in her life once again, after swearing on her very-near-death bed he would leave her alone.

Layla must be wondering the exact same thing he is, because it's a moment before she returns his message: Thank you. I really appreciate it.

There's a moment where he questions if he ought to respond to this – just a neutral no problem or it's all right - but then he hears the click of the garage door, and then Kevin's coming into the kitchen with arms full of grocery bags, so Will just decides to leave the conversation with Layla right where she ended it and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Sorry that took so long," Kevin says, setting the grocery bags on the counter. "There was an accident on 440 that took forever to get around, because people don't know how to drive at all, and I sat in the stupid dentist waiting room for thirty minutes past my appointment time, and it pissed me off so much I almost gave up. Then it seemed like every soccer mom in the world with screaming kids decided to go to Kroger at the same time I did. I didn't mean to be gone all afternoon and leave you stranded here."

He isn't looking at Will when he says any of this, pulling things out of the bags and loading them into the pantry and refrigerator.

Will stands there for a minute, waiting to see if Kevin launches into another monologue. When he doesn't, Will replies, "it's fine. I didn't have to be anywhere."

He wishes he hadn't said it, because it sounds so self-pitying when he phrases it like that. He sighs, then spots the envelope on the counter.

"Hey," he says. "That invite came in the mail."

"Invite?" Kevin's not really listening. His head's in the freezer, rearranging frozen chicken patties and bags of vegetables, trying to make space for the new groceries.

"Yeah." Will gestures to the pile of mail on the counter. "From ASCAP. About that gala thing."

"Gala?"

Will frowns, wondering if Kevin's just going to repeat everything he says like he's just learning a new language, until the freezer door slams and Kevin finally glances his way. "Oh, that thing at the convention center?"

"Yeah." Will could give Kevin the invitation, but instead busies himself with rifling through one of the grocery bags, filled with deodorant and toothpaste and a box of tissues. "That thing."

"Did you look at tires?"

Will frowns. "What?"

"Tires," Kevin says, closing the fridge. "You should probably do that sooner than later. The faster you get new tires on the truck, the less we'll need to share a car."

"Oh. Yeah, I looked into it."

"Good." Kevin's still unloading the groceries, lining the shelves of his fridge with ketchup and beer and cans of Red Bull. "And don't go to the dealership for new tires. They'll rip you off completely. Go to a Goodyear or Firestone."

Would it kill him to actually talk to Will, instead of AT him?

He gives Kevin a sideways glance, willing him to look his way. But he's still stocking his shelves, his back to Will, and as much as he wishes he had the telepathy to make him turn around, they both stay exactly where they are. Another holding pattern he can't control.

Kinda like his career.

It's been like this for a few days now, or maybe they've stretched into weeks. And it isn't just about the invitation, or the fact that Kevin hasn't said a word about it - and Kevin never shies from saying exactly what's on his mind. It's that Will can't talk to him anymore, for some reason. And that's something he's always been able to do.

He talked to Gunnar about it, which felt uncomfortable and a little weird. Especially because he's going through his own stuff with that Kiley girl, and whatever dance he's been doing with Scarlett for the past few months, and Will is starting to think maybe he ought to just lock the two of them in a room and let them go at it and not let them out until it smells like a monkey cage in there. Then again, Scarlett's got that doctor boyfriend, so maybe not.

"There's a honeymoon stage in every relationship," Gunnar told him the last time they talked. "You and Kevin are probably just at that point. You know, where the shiny 'newness' of the relationship wears off, and you start to see the real people underneath. It happens with every couple everywhere in the world, okay? It's normal. Just frustrating."

"I've been on a honeymoon," Will mumbled. "This doesn't exactly compare."

"You guys have had some really big adjustments the past few weeks," Gunnar said. "He's probably just trying to process it all. And anyway, shouldn't you be asking your boyfriend how he feels, instead of talking to me about it?"

"I tried!" Will said.

Gunnar arched his eyebrows at Will. "Oh, really?"

He hadn't, really, and maybe that's Will's fault. But talking to Kevin about how things have changed seems so...real, somehow, and raw, and as much as things have changed recently that doesn't mean he's ready for everything to shift so cosmically, all at once.

And he also doesn't want to admit what he sometimes thinks, when it's two AM and he's reading a comment thread about how he's "defacing the wholesome family values of country music with his choice to live an alternative lifestyle". Because he knows that Kevin is proud of him for what he did, and happy for him. And Will doesn't want to say that some days he really does wish he could take it all back. Un-come out, bolt the closet door shut and put the world's biggest padlock on it.

So maybe there is a honeymoon phase to every relationship, and this one is coming to an end, but still. Things aren't like they used to be.

He doesn't know how long it's felt like this, or how gradually it started creeping up on them. Things just don't feel the same. They don't click – and what worked between Kevin and Will was that they always clicked.

A few nights ago, things had seemed – more normal. Or at least, what passed for normal, all things considered. When they'd both caught their breaths in bed, Kevin had turned to him and asked, "you do know it's not Sunday, right?"

When Will peered over at him, eyebrows raised. "It's Tuesday," he replied.

Kevin nodded. "I know that. Just making sure you did."

Will frowned. Kevin rolled on top of him, arms crossed over Will's chest, and with their faces only a few inches apart he realized Kevin's expression looked way too innocent.

"It's just," Kevin said, and yep, he was full-on smirking now, his voice teasing, "for a Tuesday night, that was an awful lot of mentions of God."

Will choked. He couldn't help it. He started laughing so hard he was pretty sure he pulled something. Kevin was just lying there on the bed, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and when Will tried to catch his breath Kevin pulled him in for a kiss, and before they knew it they were mentioning God in a way that had nothing to do with the Holy Spirit.

But that was a few nights ago. And now the versions of themselves that had kissed every inch of each other and fallen asleep holding hands seem miles away as they stand in the kitchen putting away groceries. And Will doesn't know how to close that distance, any more than he knows how it was created in the first place.

III.

The thing about Nashville is that even in the thicket of things, you're never far from nowhere.

Case in point: Wheelin' and Dealin's headquarters. Right off of I-40, it's a few blocks away from what looks like nothing but an endless expanse of wide open road, with hardly any signs and no streetlights dotting the asphalt. Before he reaches the exit, he drives mile after mile through green hills and not a whole lot else. No matter how many times he's made the drive, it's always a little surprising – and reassuring – to reach the exit and realize that Luke's office space is only a few blocks away from the big action.

But get off an exit earlier and make a few left turns, and you're sitting on the edge of a sand-covered road overlooking a creek bed run dry of rainwater, the clear sky above you devoid of any buildings or city lights. Just nothing but silvery blue and suffocating heat; even the branches of the trees wither beneath that endless empty sky, and there's a limp breeze that can barely rattle the tall grass covering the dry, cracked ground.

This is where he is now. Sitting in Kevin's car while the local country station plays some hot up-and-comer. It's a warm, stormy day where the clouds are heavy and electricity pools in the air, zapping the tip of his tongue whenever he tilts his head back towards the skyline getting darker and darker.

He's about to go into his first meeting with Luke since the press conference. The first time they've seen each other face-to-face, and apart from a few short, checking-to-see-how-you-are-doing phone conversations, the first time they're really going to talk about everything that's happened. Just the two of them, sitting down alone and talking about a decision that is going to drastically change both their futures.

A decision Will made.

Since his truck still doesn't have tires, he borrowed Kevin's car, and the little black hybrid feels way too small to fit him inside. It's so low to the ground that it makes him feel like an arcade game, like a moving target for a semi. He left way earlier than necessary so he'd have some time to calm down before he met Luke. Then maybe his heart wouldn't drop straight into his stomach.

Like it is right now.

The day after he came out, Luke sent him in an email. Just by looking at the email address, Will could tell it was sent from Luke's own personal email account – not the business one he usually used when he sent Will emails. This wasn't about business, which meant it didn't go through his agent, or his publicist, or Jimmy, or anybody else on his team. This was written by Luke specifically for Will to read, and nobody else.

Which meant that whatever he had to say was going to be real.

He couldn't bring himself to read it for over a week. Every time he was on his laptop or using his phone, he'd hover right above that mail icon, and stop just sort of pressing it. Luke may have said that he didn't care about Will and Kevin, but he was also a businessman. One who had signed Will with the intention of making lots of money off of him and his brand. Who had already invested lots of money and time into making Will the star of his new label.

He really does want to believe Luke is one of the good guys. But Luke is also his boss. When all is said and done, Will thinks he might have tanked Wheelin' and Dealin' before it even got off the ground. And good guy or not, Luke Wheeler isn't the type of guy to just sit back and take being made collateral damage lightly.

Then Luke called to set up this meeting. And once it was done, Will figured it was time to bite the bullet and find out what his boss really thought about him. At least then he would know what he was walking into.

So he sucked it up, and clicked on the email.

Will,

I know we haven't had a chance to talk about everything that happened. And let's be honest, everything that's going to happen next is something nobody can guess. I'm not sure where where exactly it is we start, or what's the best road to take now. Definitely the one less traveled, that's for sure.

But I do know this. It took serious stones to do what you did, son. If I had been in your position, I'm not sure I could have done it. To be honest about yourself, at the expense of everything you're going to be up against now - that took bravery. A whole lot of it. Most folks don't have a shred of that.

Look, I have to be honest about this next part – none of this is going to be easy. It's not going to be fun. I have no idea what it's going to be like – not like we have a model to go off of. You and me, we'll be making this shit up as we go.

But we're doing it.

You're one of the most talented guys I've ever met. I know you made a lot of tough decisions and sacrificed a lot, and now you're going to be asked to do more of both of those. This whole new strategy is going to take a lot of time and patience. But I'm willing to figure it out.

I'm proud of everything you've shown me. Wheelin' and Dealin' still has a place for you here.

Will read it once. Twice. Three, four, who knows how many more times. He read it so much he could practically recite it, line for line. Then he went to Kevin's and printed it out from his computer. He keeps a copy in his email inbox and has the printed version tucked at the bottom of the drawer Kevin offered him. Now he has proof that someone still believes in him.

He read it before he left for this meeting, so he'd remember that.

Wheelin' and Dealin' still has a place for you here.

He keeps that phrase in his mind. Holds into it in the back of his teeth like a hard candy, sucking on every word and syllable, trying to savor it and make it last, as he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to Luke's office.

"Hey, man," he says, and hopes his voice doesn't sound shaky.

Luke glances up at Will from behind the desk, his expression neutral. Will tries not to gulp or breathe too loudly. His heart's thudding in his ears, and even as he thinks of the email Luke sent him, this is his boss and this is his business. There's no looking past what Will did, however much Luke might actually like him.

"Hey, yourself," Luke replies. "Sorry it took us so long to see each other. Things have been…pretty hectic, to say the least."

Will meets Luke's gaze for a moment. There's nothing accusatory in his tone, nothing angry or disgusted, and his eyes are calm, if not a little friendly. If he were here to fire Will, maybe he'd look a little more serious.

At least, that's what Will tells himself, as his gut backflips into his throat.

"That's all right," he manages, and takes a seat across from Luke's desk. He sinks into the chair on rubbery legs and suddenly feels very small. "Things HAVE been hectic."

The two of them regard each other for a beat, face to face with three feet and a whole career in between them.

"How have you been?" Luke asks.

It's a careful question.

Will thinks about the tires on his car. The tabloid headlines. The comments on Youtube and at the bottom of every article written about him. People calling into country radio stations where he'd once been the most requested artist and demanding deejays pull his songs out of rotation.

The word FAGGOT spray-painted in the driveway, right there for everyone to see.

"Fine. It's been…uh, fine."

"And Kevin?"

Holding Kevin's hand on the porch that night. Falling asleep next to him. Kissing him with chapped lips and coffee breath and having it calm every part of him. Waking up and they're tangled together. The night of their first kiss and thinking he fell in love with him that night, in the millisecond between leaning in and closing his eyes.

"Kevin's great," Will says. "He's doing great, too."

Luke nods.

"That's good," he says.

Luke clears his throat and folds his hands over the desk.

"So, let's get right down to business," he says, and takes a deep breath. "I know every reporter across the country is wanting THE exclusive on Will Lexington," Luke continues. "People Magazine contacted my team a few days ago asking for rights to the story. We've gotten offers from Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly…hell, the folks at Good Morning America must've left me four messages alone in the last week. Everyone wants to be the first one with the scoop on you."

"And do we have a plan to give one?" Will asks.

Luke nods. "We will. Eventually. Which is why I'm hiring an image consultant. This girl out of L.A.. You'll be meeting her next week. Name's Gabriella. She's supposed to be the best of the best. Worked with everybody - politicians, actors, anyone big-name you can probably think of. We'll talk with her, hear her ideas. And we'll go from there. But first, there are some ground rules we need to cover first."

Will nods, his mouth dry.

"And from now on," Luke says, "we have to make sure that we're united in everything that we say. I don't have to lecture you on how much things are changing. You already know. Which is why you run everything you say by me first." He narrows his gaze to Will. "Everything. Don't talk to anybody without me and my team backing you up."

"And you're going to?" He can't help but ask. "Back me up?"

There's a pause where Luke regards him.

"I told you, you still have a place here," he tells Will, his voice quiet. "I meant it. Just like I meant it when I said I'm proud of you. Kevin's a great guy, and I hope you two are happy together."

Will's throat clamps shut, a warm feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach. It makes him feel a little light-headed.

"Okay," Luke says, his tone business-like brisk again. "Now for the hard stuff. You know CMA Fest is coming up in a few weeks."

Will nods. Before everything, he'd been set to perform at LP Field on the third night of the festival, in between Kip Moore and The Band Perry. He had also been scheduled to do a meet-and-greet at the convention center that afternoon, where wristbanded fans would be lined up for hours to have their pictures taken with him.

"They're pulling you out of the line-up," Luke says.

His mouth drops open. "Seriously?"

Luke nods. "And they're pulling you out of the festival all together. I also got off the phone with the coordinators of the CMT Music Awards, and I hate to say it, but they're pulling you from that event, as well."

"So," Will says in disbelief, " I'm not even allowed to attend?"

"They said," Luke says, treading each word like a stepping stone, "that you are welcome to attend the event, but you aren't going to be walking the red carpet. They'd prefer to avoid the media frenzy."

Sneaking in the back door. Will can't help but remember the CMAs, when a limo had picked him and Layla up from the house and escorted them to the red carpet, where everyone was cheering his name.

Luke watches him try to process all of this.

"We knew there'd be consequences, son," he says. "We'll just have to swallow it and move on."

Will doesn't know what he expected, exactly, but it still hurts to hear.

"Did you want me there in the first place?" he asks. That would technically be his first public appearance since coming out; Luke didn't need to explain how much that moment would matter. Not just to the label, but Will's entire career from now on.

"I haven't decided," Luke says, and Will's a little relieved. He isn't sure he wants his first big moment out to be at an awards show that used to be called the Flameworthy Awards. "I was thinking we'd do something a little more low-key. Get an exclusive out before you make any public appearances, to get people talking in a certain direction."

"And speaking of low-key," he adds, "You know Kevin's being honored at that ASCAP gala for songwriters. I don't know what you two have worked out, but I was assuming -"

"That we'd go together," Will finishes. There isn't any judgment in Luke's expression, but he still finds himself shrinking a little.

"We haven't really talked about it," Will says, "but If it's too soon, too public –"

"No," Luke says. "I think it might be a good place to start. We'd have to run it by Gabriella, see what she has to say about it. But I'll keep that in mind for a possibility."

Will lets out a breath.

"You've been pretty quiet on social media," Luke observes. "That's good. One less thing to worry about controlling."

Will makes a face. "To be honest, I've never liked it much in the first place."

"Neither do I," Luke says with the smallest of smiles. "Which is why I have a team to handle it. But I think it's best that they handle yours, too. For better or for worse, that is how we're going to control a lot of talk about what direction this all heads in. One more thing we'll have to sort out when Gabriella comes to town."

"And the album?" Will asks tentatively.

Luke shakes his head. "I hate to stop, but we're going to have to. Least till we know how all this pans out."

Will already knows this, but still. He was kind of hoping for someone to throw him a bone, just for a second.

"For now, it's just a waiting game," Luke says.

"So…" Will says, "for now, the plan is to just keep quiet, and stand still?"

Luke nods. "For now. It's the best we can do."

There's a pause where he adjusts his glasses, and looks at Will like he's about to say something he really, really doesn't want to say.

"Will, I can't bring you on tour with me," he says. "You know that. I wish I could. I wish it wasn't an issue. And for me, it isn't. But the problem is everybody else. We don't have any blueprint. So for now, we sit, and wait."

Will swallows his frustration as best he can and nods his head.

It's not like he expected to be selling out arenas or keep being a country heartthrob. But everything hinges on his next move, and he has no say in it whatsoever.

It's driving him crazy.

"Got it," he says.

Luke nods, and then stands up, reaching out his hand. Will shakes it, and then takes it as a dismissal.

"Hey, Will."

He turns around at the door, stomach in knots.

Luke offers him a small grin. "Say hi to Kevin for me."

Will tries to smile back. The smile that used to open any doors for him. Including the doors to this office.

"Sure thing."

IV.

He drives back to the house down the long stretch of highway that looks like it leads to nowhere. He has the radio turned down, but even with the low volume he can make out the opening riff of "Boys and Buses", which he heard every night of his life for half of last year and now it's permanently seared into his brain, like the Meow Mix commercial and that creepy "It's A Small World" tune, and now he thinks that Luke is probably hearing that song every night now with Juliette as his new opening act and a there's a sour taste in his mouth. He slams the radio dial and switches the station until he finds something with pedal steel and a whole lot of clang, the drums pounding, pounding, pounding, loud enough to rumble the floor of the truck under his feet like an earthquake, and he rides out the wild crackle and shake like it could split a hole in the ground, big enough to swallow the mess of his life in one giant gulp.

Kevin probably wants his car back, but he hasn't called or texted asking about it, and Will has nowhere to be. And it's not like he's dying to go back to the house, where Kevin will probably find other ways to not talk to him while he does his own thing and leaves Will to simmer in his own boredom and frustration. So instead of taking the exit back home, he keeps driving, heading further from the city as storm clouds descend on the horizon like he's headed towards the end of the earth.

When the sky opens up, it crashes down on the hood of the car like nails, slamming into the windshield and momentarily blinding him until he finds the switch for the windshield wipers. Even then, he can only half-see the road ahead of him, the dim brake lights of the cars ahead and the Tennessee Highway Patrol signs warning him to buckle up, it's the law.

The rain keeps falling and doesn't show any sign of letting up, but he isn't ready to turn around yet, so he follows the rain and the road farther into the dirty nickel sky. The radio is still blaring something fast and hard, although he can barely hear it over the rain on the hood of the car. After a while, Will notices the gas gauge is slowly drifting closer to E, so as soon as he sees signs for the next stop he takes the ramp to the first gas station he sees. It's still pouring outside, so when he pulls under the hood over the fuel pump the pounding on the roof stops abruptly. Reaching into his pocket for his debit card, he looks through every sleeve in his wallet before he remembers exactly where he left it: right on Kevin's coffee table, where he'd been using it that morning to pay bills online.

He sighs, running a hand over his face. And this day just keeps getting better and better.

There isn't any way to do this except run straight through the thunderstorm, so he takes a deep breath and darts across the parking lot, cursing when his foot steps in a puddle of rain and completely soaks the inside of his boot. He throws open the door to the convenience store, shivering automatically in the blasting A/C, and heads to the counter where the cashier, a fiftyish man in a red polo, is flipping through a fishing and hunting magazine from the rack next to the register.

"You picked the wrong day to be out, son," the man says, without looking up from the pages.

Will tries not to roll his eyes. "I picked the wrong day to forget my card." He lays a damp twenty down on the counter, grateful that at least he has cash on him. "Pump seven, please."

Later, he'll remember this moment like time stopped, and the whole scenario stretched out like taffy. Even though it was only a few seconds; probably less than thirty, if he had to guess. He would also remember that the room suddenly felt unbearably hot and airless, like he was standing in the center of an oven, and his soaking wet feet were glued to the dingy convenience store floor, a thousand pounds of lead.

Travis Tritt is playing on the sound system. There's a TV up in the far corner playing the local news. A fly is buzzing around the boxes of cigarettes stacked behind the register, and the magazines on the counter are talking about the new royal baby and some reality show wife getting plastic surgery.

The cashier looks up from his magazine, finally looking at Will, and when he does, his expression twitches like he smelled something bad. He looks at the money on the counter and then back at Will, that same hard look on his face, mouth in a firm line and eyes flat.

"You want it all on the pump?" the man says, without breaking eye contact.

Will nods. "Please."

The man nods, typing in the numbers into the register, and waits for it to print out Will's receipt. While they're waiting, the man turns back to Will with those flat eyes, and stares him down with unabashed scrutiny.

"You know," he says, and Will isn't really listening because he's damp and cold and wants to get out of this freezing store, "my family has listened to country music our whole lives. We think what you're doing is a damn disgrace."

It doesn't hit him at first, what the cashier is saying, because he's thinking "holy shit, it is so fucking cold in this store" and trying not to let his teeth chatter. It's a delayed reaction, and when he does finally hear the words, he stares at the cashier, open-mouthed, stunned into silence.

The cashier frowns at Will. "You and your kind, you don't belong in country music. It's a perversion. You shouldn't be up there talkin' about it like it's normal. What you're doin' is wrong, and it doesn't have a place here."

He can't move. The tips of his ears are on fire, and when a second ago he was cold now he's suddenly burning hot all over.

The cashier never breaks his gaze as he tears off Will's receipt and slides it across the countertop, coolly staring him down.

"If I had my way," he says, "I'd never serve any of you. Y'all ought to just get out, cause it ain't right. None of it."

There's a long moment where they stare at each other, the cashier frowning and Will gaping. Then he takes the receipt, shoves it in his pants pocket, and numbly shuffles out the door.

This time, he doesn't bother running through the rainstorm.