Julian didn’t introduce himself or the song the way he normally did when performing, just nodded his head toward his bandmates and began to sing his own version of “Achy Breaky Heart.” It was a risky decision but a brilliant calculation. He had chosen a trite, corny song, changed it so it sounded serious, almost profound, and ended up with a completely fresh version that was conspiratorially cool and ironic. It said: You expected us to come up here and sing an earnest rendition of the song you chose as your show’s opener, or maybe something off the future album, but we’re not here to take ourselves too seriously. The crowd laughed and cheered and sang along, and when it was over, broke into mad applause.

Brooke clapped along with everyone else and reveled in all the people she could hear around her saying how talented Julian was, how they could listen to him all night. Hearing the others’ excitement didn’t surprise her in the least; how could they not feel that way? But it never, ever got old. Now, when Julian sidled up next to the microphone stand and flashed a huge, adorable smile, Brooke could feel the entire room smile back at him.

“Hey, y’all,” he said, making an exaggerated tip of his cowboy hat. “Thanks for welcoming this Yankee boy to town.”

The crowd hollered and clapped. Brooke saw Tim Riggins raise his bottle of beer to Julian, and she tried not to scream. Derek Jeter put both his hands around his mouth and made a “whoo-hoo!” sound. A couple of the writers, the female ones, with whom Brooke had been taste-testing margaritas earlier, formed a line in front of the stage and catcalled to the band. Julian rewarded them all with another killer smile.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say how proud and honored I am that you’ve made my song your song.” More cheers and catcalls ensued, but Julian held up his hand. “And I can’t wait to sing that tonight, here with all of you. But I hope you won’t mind indulging me for just a few minutes before I play ‘For the Lost.’ Right now I’d like to sing a little something for my lovely wife, Brooke. She’s been a really good sport lately—trust me, a really good sport—and it’s been a while since I’ve said thank you. Rookie, this one’s for you.”

At the sound of her nickname, Brooke could feel herself blush, and for a split second she was taken aback that Julian had called her that in public. But before she even had time to consider it, she heard the opening chords to “Crazy Love” by Van Morrison—the first song they’d danced to at their wedding—and in a second, she was transfixed by his performance. Julian gazed directly at her as he allowed the song to grow and build, and it wasn’t until he hit the chorus and threw his head back to wail the words that Brooke snapped out of their private reverie and noticed that every single person in the room was staring at her. Scratch that. The men in the room were shifting their weight from foot to foot, taking pulls of their beers, and watching the band as they worked over their instruments—it was the women who were staring at Brooke with looks of sheer envy and admiration. It was a surreal feeling; she’d certainly witnessed her fair share of Julian-worship at his other gigs, but she’d never before felt the spotlight focused so directly on her. She smiled and danced a little and watched Julian as he serenaded her and somehow, despite the fact that it was witnessed by hundreds, it felt like one of the most intimate moments they’d ever shared. One of the best she could ever remember.

As Julian finally segued into “For the Lost,” Brooke was certain the entire room was in love with him. The energy was palpable and intense, but about halfway through the song, she felt an even stronger frisson of excitement. People started moving around, turning, looking, whispering. A few people craned their necks. One even pointed. Something was happening, but Brooke couldn’t quite see what over the crowd until . . . Wait . . . could that actually be . . .

Layla Lawson? Oh, it sure was, and while Brooke couldn’t figure out for the life of her what Layla Lawson was doing at the season-premiere party for Friday Night Lights, there she was . . . and she looked great. Judging from the floral bustier sundress and cowboy boots Layla was wearing, Brooke didn’t know whether she was in costume or not, but there was no denying the girl looked fit, happy, and very, very famous. The entire room watched her as she greeted Samara with a huge hug and then made her way to the front of the crowd, near where Brooke stood at the foot of the stage.

It happened before anyone—including Julian—could even process it. Just a couple seconds after they finished the song and were soaking in the applause, Layla marched up the stage’s side stairs, strode confidently over to Julian, and enveloped him in a bear hug. She smiled and, after kissing his cheek and wrapping both her hands around his upper arm, turned to face the crowd. She looked as though she was literally hanging from him, gazing up at him with a glimmering white smile and a look of sheer adoration. Until this point Julian had been frozen in disbelief, but something must have clicked—within seconds, he was returning the adoring look and then some.

She leaned toward the microphone as if it were her own and shouted, “How hot is he, everyone? Let’s hear it for Julian Alter!”

The room went crazy. All the photographers who had ignored them earlier went wild. They jostled for position, firing off picture after picture, the flashbulbs lighting up like it was Oscar night. It was over almost as quickly as it started, with Layla leaning in to whisper something in Julian’s ear and then bounding off the stage again. Brooke assumed she’d stay for a drink or two, but the starlet headed directly for the front door.

Ten minutes later Julian was once again by her side, all sweat and smiles, his usual post-performance glow heightened by the excitement. He kissed her and gave her a look that said, I can’t wait to talk about this with you, and tightly clutched her hand as he worked the room, receiving the congratulations and backslaps with a good-natured laugh.

They weren’t alone for a single second until almost one in the morning, when Samara and Leo said good night and headed to their hotel rooms (Leo accompanied by a new friend he’d met at the party, of course). The instant the door closed behind them, Julian turned to her and said, “Do you believe Layla Lawson jumped onstage with me?”

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never believe it. I’m still not sure I do.” Brooke kicked off her boots and collapsed on the bed.

“Layla fucking Lawson. It’s surreal. What on earth was she doing there?”