22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

C ourage

"You're telling me this place has the world's largest collection of… toilet seat art?" I raise a skeptical brow as we pull into the parking lot of Barney Smith's Toilet Seat Art Museum.

Candy grins, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yep. Over 1,000 hand-decorated toilet seats, each one a masterpiece in its own right."

"And here I thought I'd seen it all." I shake my head, a chuckle rumbling in my chest. "You never cease to amaze me, rock star."

We climb out of the van, the Texas sun beating down on our shoulders. Candy's been unusually quiet on the drive from Nashville, her gaze distant and her fingers tapping a restless beat against her thigh. I know the decision to do the interview with Broken Starlets weighs heavily on her mind, the enormity of it casting a shadow over our usually playful banter.

But for now, I'm determined to coax a smile from her lips, to chase away the ghosts haunting her eyes. And if that means feigning enthusiasm for toilet seat art… well, sign me up.

The covered porch is flanked by columns made of, you guessed it—toilets. "Quite a feat of engineering," I mutter.

We step into the museum, the air conditioning a welcome reprieve from the sweltering heat. The walls are lined with rows upon rows of toilet seats, each one adorned with a dizzying array of colors, textures, and themes.

"Okay, I take it back," I mutter, my eyes widening as I take in the sheer scope of the collection. "This is actually kind of… impressive."

Candy laughs, looping her arm through mine as she tugs me deeper into the exhibit. "See? Never underestimate the power of the porcelain throne."

We wander through the exhibit, pointing out our favorites and marveling at the creativity on display. There are seats decoupaged with vintage postcards, seats studded with seashells and rhinestones, and seats painted with intricate landscapes and abstract designs.

But even as we ooh and ahh over the art, I can't shake the feeling that Candy's heart isn't fully in it. Her smiles are a beat too slow, her laughter a touch too forced. It's like she's going through the motions, her mind a million miles away.

Finally, as we pause in front of a particularly garish seat bedazzled with plastic fruit, I can't hold back any longer.

"Hey." I turn to face her fully, gently gripping her shoulders. "You okay? You seem a little… distracted."

She blinks, shaking her head as if to clear it. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just…" She waves a hand, gesturing vaguely at the riot of color surrounding us. "Taking it all in, you know?"

I frown, not buying it for a second. "Candy," I press, my voice low and serious. "Talk to me. What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

She sighs, her shoulders slumping as she averts her gaze. "It's just… the interview, the documentary… it's a lot, you know? And I can't help but wonder if I'm doing the right thing, if I'm ready to face all those demons head-on."

My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice, the way her fingers twist together in a nervous fidget.

"Hey," I soothe, reaching out to take her hands in mine. "I watched you fight through one of your darkest hours. Shit happens to all of us, but most of us don't have to deal with it splattered over every front page on the planet. And you managed it like a boss . Your spine is made of steel, babe. You survived the worst of it. This? Telling your story, reclaiming your power? It's just the next step in your healing."

She nods, taking a shaky breath. "I know. And I want to do it, I do. But…" She trails off, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. "Do you think Maury was as positive as he pretended to be on our Zoom call? When I told him about my decision?"

I think back to that conversation, to the pride and protectiveness shining in Maury's eyes. "I think…" I choose my words with care, "that Maury loves you like a daughter. And that he'll support you in whatever you decide, no matter what."

Candy huffs out a relieved groan, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "Yeah, you're right. He's always got my back." Her eyes dance with sudden mirth. "As long as I'm wearing panties."

I sputter, my ears going hot at the mental image her words conjure. "Ah, yes. The X-rated exit. I can't complain… it's why we met."

She grins, unrepentant. "Who was worse? The woman who went commando or the assholes who took those upskirt photos? Askin' for a friend."

I shake my head, marveling at the sheer force of nature by my side. "You are something else, rock star." I tug her closer, heedless of being in public. "You, Candy Wood, are a raging wildfire in a world of candlelight."

She melts into me, her arms winding around my waist and her head coming to rest on my chest. "And you," she whispers, "are the steady ground beneath my feet. The shelter in the storm."

I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in. She used a different shampoo this morning—roses and sunshine.

"I've got you," I promise, the words a solemn vow. "No matter what comes, I've got you."

We stand like that for a long moment, the world narrowing to the space between our heartbeats. As I hold her close, surrounded by the whimsical chaos of Barney Smith's Toilet Seat Art Museum, I feel a flicker of hope take root in my chest.

I'm holding Candy Wood in public, and she's holding nothing back. Her eyes are full of affection. She just called me her shelter in the storm.

Something breaks loose in my chest and rearranges itself in a new configuration. I've been protecting my heart, burying my true feelings, keeping part of myself hidden.

When the time is right, I'm going to take a play out of Candy's book. I'm going to be bold, fearless, courageous , and let her know what I become more certain of every day.

I love this woman.