“I’m fine.” I swallowed my pride and gulped in a lungful of summoned strength. Being weak wasn’t a choice I’d ever had in my life. “I should probably get back to the dorms. I have an eight o’clock class tomorrow.”
I slipped on my shoes by the door and pulled my jacket over my shoulders, concentrating on the way the soft fleece felt beneath my palms in hopes that it might distract me from the burning tears that threatened my vision. Blinking them away, I pulled the doorknob and gave Rebecca a quick wave, dashing out before she had a chance to see my face.
Abandonment felt like a swift kick to the gut and a surprise left hook to the jaw all at once. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
He didn’t love me, and maybe he never had.
Mama always told me boys would say just about anything to get what they wanted.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Hot tears burned down my face in thick streaks, and the more I fought them the harder they came. I gave myself all of a ten-minute walk to get it out of my system, thankful for the blanket of night that shrouded campus that evening, and by the time I got back to the dorms, I threw myself into bed and welcomed the sleepless night and the millions of thoughts that raced through my head faster than I could comprehend them.
Screw Beaumont Mason. Screw his sweet lips and screw his empty promises.
Chapter Twelve
“Look who’s back, Ruby.” I stood up from the front porch as Dakota pulled into the drive later that Sunday evening. She trailed up the gravel, and the closer she got, the more I saw something different on her face that could only be interpreted as relief mixed with apprehension.
She climbed up the porch. “Sorry. That took longer than I planned.”
“That’s quite all right.” I stood up, pulling the screen door open for her and walking in behind. She grabbed her things from the kitchen table and met me in the family room, taking the seat across from me and clearing her throat as she flipped to a clean page in her notebook. “You enjoy your time with your mama?”
“I did,” she said, crossing her legs. She clicked her recorder on and placing it gently on the coffee table. “All right, so…”
Her words trailed off, like she was deep in thought. I waited, folding my hands across the back of my head.
“Sorry,” she said, her usual confidence wavering. “Got lost in thought there for a moment. Take me to when it all began. After you were picked up by one of the Big Three. When did you first know your career was taking off?”
“The night I played at the Grammys. Without a doubt, that’s when I knew. They had a band back out last minute, and we happened to be in town, so they asked us to fill in. It was right about the time things were taking off, but that just propelled us to a whole new level.”
“I remember that performance,” she muttered softly.
“You watched it? I always hoped you were watching that night. That wink I threw to camera one at the very end, that was for you.”
Her eyes popped open wide, locking into mine for a half second. “I figured you were just winking at the crowd.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “That one was yours. They were always yours. All of ‘em.”
“All of them?”
“My manager made it my thing after that. Said all acts need a signature at the end. Kind of like signing your autograph and scribbling an insignia underneath.”
“What was touring like for you?” she asked, her pen tracing circles in the margins of her notepad. Something told me her mind was elsewhere.
“Like I said, mostly lonely. Most nights we’d hit up a local bar after a show. The guys would go cruising-”
“-cruising?”
“Cruising for women,” I said, continuing, “but I was never really into that. I’d have a couple drinks and go back to the bus. Retire for the night. Maybe work on a new song if I couldn’t sleep. Most nights I’d lie in bed and think about you.”
Her pen stopped mid-swirl. “Right.”
“I did,” I said. “I thought about you damn near every single night.”
“Who’s Daisy?” Her question was the journalistic equivalent of a surprise left hook.
“I thought you didn’t do any research on me.”
“I didn’t.” She lifted her chin, suddenly more focused than a minute earlier. “Mom mentioned you were engaged or married or something to some girl named Daisy. You said you were lonely, so I was curious.”
Her question felt more personal than journalistic. “She’s an ex-fiancée.”
Daisy Foxworthy was a lot of things, but she could never be Dakota Andrews. A perky cheerleader type with the kind of bubbly personality that would make a man forget his pain from time to time, she was everything Dakota Andrews wasn’t. That’s why I was drawn to her. I needed something different. I needed something to make me forget her. Dakota Andrews was the snakebite and Daisy Foxworthy was the anti-venom. Or at least that’s what I told myself before I wised up and realized there would never be a cure nor a substitute for the thing I needed most.
“I assume your lifestyle wasn’t conducive to having healthy relationships?” she asked.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I smirked. “If you want to know why it didn’t work out with Daisy and me, then by all means, ask. I told your producer nothing was off the table.” I stood up, retrieving a couple beers from the kitchen and handing one to her. “Trust me. You’re going to want this.”
I popped the top off and handed her the bottle as misty fizz evaporated from the top.
“It’s just a simple question,” she said. “Many of our fans are interested in your personal life and why relationships didn’t work out. That sort of thing.”
“Fans, huh.” I took a swig and rested my elbow against my knee, hunching forward and staring at the pretty little thing trying so desperately to pretend she didn’t still give a damn about me.
“You think I’m being indirect with you. I’m not. Research has shown that fans like to be able to envision themselves with their favorite celebrities,” she asserted. “Discussing failed relationships make you appear real and genuine. It lifts that veil that so few public figures ever lift. It makes you feel attainable, if only as a fantasy. Our viewers will enjoy this information. Believe me.”
“Viewers.” I took another swig.
“Your fans. Your loyal fans. The ones who are distraught and heartbroken over your retirement.”
“I’m not retiring completely. I’m just retiring from performances. I’m still going to write songs. I’ll just let the young bucks and newcomers sing ‘em for me instead.”
She scribbled on her paper. “Good to know. See, that’s the kind of information I need. Anyway, trust me, I don’t want to hear about your failed relationship with Daisy, but our viewers will. So please. Enlighten me.”
“I met her at a tour stop in Mississippi,” I said. “She was working at a bar we went to after a show, and we hit it off. She left that city with me that night and never went back until I called off our engagement.”
“How long were you together?”