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No, because it’s a song I wrote after we broke up.
A song I wrote in a spiral, the first time I saw a photo of Riggins walking around Central Park, a blonde on his arm. She was a pop star, and the tabloids spent weeks speculating about their relationship when they were seen slipping into restaurants, and she was seen stepping into his building a few times.
I got drunk that night, replaying the clip over and over of her moving to her tiptoes, of his arm wrapping on her waist as her head tipped back.
All I could think about was how fucking badly I wanted to be her because she had him, and I never would, not again.
It was the first song I sold, a large country band buying the rights and when it hit #1, I was able to buy this house.
It felt good, writing for the first time, reclaiming that small part of me I tucked away, so I kept doing it, writing dozens of hit songs, but this one… this one will always be my favorite and least favorite wrapped in one. The memories hurt, but in the good way that felt like stretching a limb that’s gone numb.
So I wrote the song he’s playing now, a song about having a crush on a woman I’ve never met because she gets him when I never will again.
He sings it with such pain in his voice, the same pain I felt when I was writing it, his eyes closed and his face reflecting the same pain in his voice. Wes is in the back behind him, strumming an acoustic guitar, and I wonder if the rest of the guys are there, too.
The song winds down, and I watch it in shocked silence, my phone still held precariously between my ear and my shoulder as the camera pans to the host.
“Wow, what a change for you!” The host of the live streaming show says, his face filled with shock and confusion. Clearly, Riggins didn’t tell him what he was going to do and I wonder if he knows, of he know who wrote that song, what it means to Riggs. To me.
Because I know, somehow, he found out. The only other person who outright knew is Evie, who is mysteriously quiet in my ear, where my phone is still held.
Riggin’s eyes don't look at the host when he speaks, staring straight into the camera, straight at me, whether he knows it or not.
“Yeah, it’s a song that means a lot to me,” he says, and I’m surprised I can hear the words over the rushing of blood in my ear. I continue to stare at the screen of my laptop, my jaw going tight with irritation when the camera pans back to the host, forcing me to lose sight of Riggins.
The host laughs, confused and amused in a way that grates on my nerves, though logic tells me it’s simply because I’m dying for the camera to pan pack to Riggs, to see him again, to hear his voice, to let his eyes bore into me again despite the distance.
“Does it? I don’t think many would have pegged you as a country fan,” the host says with a chuckle, and I want to strangle him. Who gave him this job, anyway?
“I’m a Marie Stevens fan,” Riggins says when the camera is back on him, and suddenly, I can’t breathe. The phone in my hand slips out, crashing to the couch and then the floor, but I can’t even worry about that; I can’t even focus on the words coming from my phone, Evie’s voice panicking, I’m sure.
“Marie Stevens?” the host asks, but I’m grateful when the camera doesn’t show the idiot again, somehow knowing this moment is important and instead zooming in on Riggins so he fills the entire screen.
“She’s a songwriter. She’s written dozens of number-one hits.” There’s a beat, and suddenly, I feel nauseous, cold, and clammy like I might get sick, but still, I can’t look away from the screen, knowing that as he tends to do, Riggins Greene is going to ruin my fucking life once again.
“She’s also my wife.”
I don’t watch the rest of the stream. Instead, I run to the bathroom and get sick.
20 NORTHERN ATTITUDE
NOW
RIGGINS
The banging on my door isn’t exactly unexpected.
It’s a bit sooner than I expected, to be fair—she must have caught the stream as it was broadcasted. Wes and I went to the city this morning and recorded it, and I’ve been waiting for Stella to figure it out. I wonder who told her. I don’t think it was Reed, but maybe it was.
Or it was probably Evie, with her music journalist ear to the ground at all times.
Shuffling to the front door, I open it, Stella’s fist still pounding on the air as it opens.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks instantly, her face red with irritation.
God, she’s beautiful. She’s even more gorgeous than she was five years ago when I thought she was the most beautiful girl on this earth. Even with the underlying sadness and exhaustion that seems to be ever-present, she’s stunning. And right now, angry, red-faced, and ready to tear me to pieces, I’ve never been more turned on by her.
“What?” I say, knowing damn well what’s going on.
