I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything. The exhaustion, the pressure, the expectations I’m already familiar with. The addiction. The way the industry eats people alive.
And my brain throbs with pain as I realize one more thing:
"Everything" includes me.
"You didn’t have to leave," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
She exhales, and this time, it’s heavier. "Sweet girl, I know you see it as leaving. But do you know what it’s like to be stretched so thin, you feel like you’re failing everyone at once? To be onstage singing to tens of thousands of people while knowing your baby is home, learning to walk without you? To finally get back to her and realize she’s different now—bigger, brighter, full of new words and new thoughts that she learned without you?"
"But you started taking us with you! We were doing all of that on the bus!"
Her voice catches—just a little—and that does something to me. I look at her, but she’s staring at the window now, at the sliver that’s open to the world outside.
"I was exhausted, Lou. I was so tired of feeling like no matter what I did, I was making the wrong choice. If I stayed home, I was letting my team down—the band, the fans. If I left, I was letting you down. Your sisters. And your daddy…" She trails off, shaking her head.
I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she pulls her eyes from the window and looks back at me. "At some point, I had to consider whatIwanted. Because I couldn’t go on like that. Staying in that life was costing me more than I was willing to give."
My lungs squeeze so tight, it’s hard to breathe.
She brushes my hair from my face, her touch as soothing as it was when I was little. "I know you think I lost something when I walked away."
I do. I think it every time I see that look on her face—the look she had tonight, when she was playing piano like she was finding herself on it.
"But all I see is what I gained.” She smiles, but there’s something unreadable in it. Something that makes a tear leak from my eye and into my hair. “I’m sorry my choice hurt you, but it was the best one I could make at the time, and I can’t apologize for it."
I don’t know what she means. I don’t know if I want to.
I close my eyes, hoping sleep will come before my thoughts drown me.
Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks again.
"I hope you never have to learn the way I did."
But I don’t know if she’s talking about music. Or Dad. Or the feeling of choosing, every single day, between the things you love and the things you love more—and knowing no matter what, every choice has a price.
And thinking back on tonight, on playing with Dad and Momma—with Patty—makes me sick.
Because I already know what that price is.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to pay it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LOU
Iwake up to 156 missed texts from the Janes last night.
Parker
I know we’re on Christmas vacation, but does anyone feel like planning my wedding for me? Anyone? Bueller?
Ash
I’ll get right on it.
When you stop being Type A+.
