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Grabbing the back of my neck, he shouts, “Because I still love you, damn it!”
My breath catches. “Well I don’t love you.” I take a step back and I can’t believe I said it. A part of me still wants to hurt him, and he knows it. “For years I tried to forget about you. Because in the end, the road is where you belonged. It always has been. I fell in love with a traveling outlaw and got burned because of it. When you chose the stage, I was long gone and so was a piece of my heart. I left it with you.”
“You’re lying,” he says. The damage I’ve done is underlined in his voice.
“You should know,” I return, shrugging on my leather jacket and pushing my bra down in my bag. “Forget about me. Stop saying you still love me.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Well if we want to keep working together, you should. The anger and hurt may be subsiding, but love is a whole different rodeo, cowboy,” I say before turning around.
“Honey, stop,” he pleads, reaching for my hand.
“Like I asked you once?” I bite out.
His shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”
“Quit saying you’re sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Stop singing about how you’re still chasing someone. How you’re going to make them burn. We’re done,” I say, my voice trembling, and my heart breaking.
“We are never going to be over, and like you didn’t know I was singing for you,” he roars. “What the hell do you need? A flashing neon sign? Hell, every song I write is for you.” Spreading out his arms, he says, “This is all fucking for you!” His eyes mist up.
“Screw you,” I drawl.
“Yeah good one, babe,” he groans, shaking his head. “Fuck this shit. Let me drive you home,” he says, grabbing his keys.
I am home. It flashes through my mind but I push it back before I can do something stupid like tell him I’m still in love with him too.
I hate and still love the son of a bitch to a fault.
“I’ll find my own way,” I say, leaving him standing alone burying his head in his hands. I don’t stop when he throws something across the room. It crashes against the wall, taking me right back to the moment he shattered my heart.
Eight years ago—Ryman Auditorium, Nashville
“Rone, you need to stop,” I plead, watching him pace around the dressing room.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. He pours himself another drink and throws it back. His drinking has gotten worse the last couple of weeks: blackouts, an out-of-control temper. I’m still hurting from losing the baby, but seeing him like this tears me apart.
One of the tour assistants knocks on the door of the dressing room. “Five minutes!” We move down the hallway, and the buzz of the crew members and the roar of the audience travel to us backstage.
“Please,” I say, grabbing his arm. He sways a little before leaning against the wall for support, not meeting my stare. “You need to stop. You need help I can’t give you.”
His bloodshot eyes lock with mine. He looks like hell. His hair is greasy and he hasn’t taken a shower in days. He hasn’t touched me since leaving the hospital months ago.
“The drugs, the booze—it needs to stop,” I beg, feeling the tears threatening to spill over. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I’ve cried enough. He needs to make a choice: me or the stage.
“What do you mean?” he grunts. The blank look I’ve come to hate is reflected in his stare.
“I need to go on in a minute,” he mumbles, taking a step away from me.
“Come with me,” I beg, taking his hands in mine. “Stay here in Nashville with me. Get better. Give it all up, babe.”
He keeps staring at me, as if he isn’t registering what I’m saying.
“I love you. Please come home with me,” I say, placing my hands on his cheeks and feeling his sweat against my fingertips. “I love you. Leave out the backstage door with me.” The tears spill over. “I love you so much. Can’t you see? You are my home. I need the man I fell in love with back. You need to walk away.”
He stares into my eyes, and for a moment, I think he is going to kiss me. Instead he grabs my hands and pulls them roughly down. “I can’t. I can’t stop now. I won’t give it up.”
“One minute,” someone yells.
“I need to go. I need to do this.” He pushes me away from him.
“Why?” I sob, “Why, Rone?”
“Because this is my home,” he says before walking out the door toward the stage.
He doesn’t look back and neither do I.
