“Hell, I even got the ‘Jase, I want a divorce and full custody’ update via text message. Gotta love technology, right?”
I don’t miss his hidden meaning. “You trying to tell me something, Wade?”
“Not at all.” He shakes his head like he feels sorry for me. “I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell you’re still doing here.”
“She told me to come. She said not to put my dreams on hold for this and that she’s fine. She can do this part without me.”
Again he gives me this look, like I’m a complete and total dumbass.
“I got news for you, kid. She can do all of it without you. The part you were needed for has already come and gone, so to speak.” He claps me on the shoulder again and turns to leave. “Have a good show. And when you get that text message telling you that she’s moved on, found someone who’ll hold her hand during the ultrasound and be there when she hears the baby’s heartbeat for the first time, call me and I’ll buy you a beer.”
“That won’t happen to us. She understands. We got this.”
“Then do something for me. Picture her sitting all alone in the waiting room watching all those moms-to-be with their husbands next to them. Imagine what that must feel like for her. Picture her going into labor while you’re onstage somewhere and no one can get in touch with you to tell you until after your show. Picture your kid’s first birthday party and imagine attending it via FaceTime on your phone because you’re in some godforsaken city three thousand miles away.”
Christ. I can picture all of that. His words come to life behind my eyes and there’s a pang deep in my chest.
“Now picture her face. Picture her raising your child by herself while you live your dream. Picture her seeing thousands of fans commenting online about how badly they want you and posting pictures of you with them in bars and buses and at parties. Tell me that girl understands. She’s a tough chick. Maybe she does understand. But just because she understands doesn’t mean she can live that life. It’s lonely and most women don’t do lonely well. For that matter, who does?”
“I have been picturing that,” I practically yell at him. “Every second of the damn day and night. It’s why I look like a member of the living dead onstage. But what am I supposed to do? Just walk away from everything I worked for? Give up my dreams to sit in waiting rooms and at birthday parties? Because I’m thinking I could give my kid a hell of a lot better life on this income than if I go home to Amarillo and work in construction. I don’t see you running home to the missus.”
Shit. That was low. The guy told me about his divorce and his ex-wife getting remarried recently. But I can’t help it. I’m in an impossible situation and I know it.
Wade leans down, putting his face level with mine. “If I had it to do over again, I would run home before you could say my name three times fast. But you’re right. These are the decisions you have to make. Sacrifices. No one said it would be easy.” He straightens, nodding at someone who’s entered the backstage area to announce that it’s time for him to go on. “Good luck to you, kid.”
I hear the unmistakable click of heels coming toward my room, then a knock rattles my door. I highly doubt I have groupies in Rio de Janeiro, so that only leaves one person.
“There you are,” Mandy says, sliding open my door and slapping me with a hate-filled glare. I switched seats with my drummer on the plane so I didn’t have to deal with her. She wasn’t too thrilled about it.
“Here I am,” I say evenly.
“So I heard you have big news. I’d say congratulations, but I figured we’d find another way to celebrate.”
She pulls a bottle of champagne from behind her back and it’s like a twisted scenario of when Robyn helped me celebrate “Better to Burn” going gold.