I tilt my head. “That’s not true. All of this is for you, you know. To celebrate your hard work and success.”
“My success,” he huffs out under his breath.
“Whoa. I didn’t realize you’d invited me out here to your pity party.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Who peed in your Wheaties?”
He chuckles, but it’s devoid of the lighthearted happiness that typically accompanies laughter.
Suddenly he turns to me, nailing me with an inquisitive stare I’m not prepared for. “You’re a hardworking girl, Red. You ever wonder if it’s worth it? The long hours? The traveling? Missing out on time with your family? Missing out on having a life, period?”
I regard him warily. He probably doesn’t realize how revealing his questions are. Or how much I can relate to them.
“Sometimes. I guess I tell myself that one day all the sacrifices will be worth it.”
“When?” he demands, growing instantly angry at my answer and catching me off guard. “When do people just sit back and say, ‘Okay. You did enough to deserve to just get to live your life. Now go enjoy it.’ Because I gotta tell you, in my experience, that day is never fucking coming. Your single hits number one and that puts more pressure on the album to do the same so they add more tour dates. More promotional appearances. More radio interviews and talk show appearances. Sell out venues? They add sixteen more shows. It’s all about feeding the machine. Put your heart and body and soul into it, and poof, money comes out. Too bad you won’t have time to spend it.” He shakes his head. “I’m not complaining.”
I arch a brow at him.
“Okay. Yeah, I am complaining. But I’m also trying to caution you from making the same mistakes I have.”
“Which are?”
“Too many to name. But most importantly, don’t use each goal you reach as a reason to set another, higher, less attainable one. Because I can tell you from experience that a life of chasing the next number one, the next promotion, the next opportunity, without ever taking the time to sit back and enjoy what you’ve accomplished is exhausting. And empty.”
I blanch at his declaration. Jase Wade is sad. I can see it so clearly now. Why he puts up the front. It’s a defense mechanism, same as my own. I completely understand what Dallas was talking about now. About “Performer Dallas” and “Person Dallas.”
Performer Jase Wade is on top of the world right now. But Person Jase is lonely and full of regrets. Who knew?
“You want to talk about it?” I coax gently, leaning against him just to let him know he’s not alone.
Performer Jase would make a comment laced with innuendo at the contact. But this version of him just gives me a shrug and pitiful puppy-dog eyes.
“Not really. Nothing I can do about it, anyway.”
“You sure? Sometimes a fresh perspective helps with—”
“My wife got remarried today.” He lets out a soft breath and continues speaking more to himself than me. “My album goes platinum and I get to celebrate on the day my wife marries a fucking accountant.”
If he had thrown me over the balcony, I don’t think I would’ve been more surprised than I am now.
“You’re married?” I don’t even bother keeping the incredulous apprehension out of my voice.
“Not anymore.”
“But . . .”
“But no one ever mentioned me having a wife? That’s because we separated several years ago and she filed for divorce when my career took off.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?” I shake my head. “Jesus. My mama would smack my mouth for prying. I’m so sorry.”
“I made choice, choices that hurt the two women I loved more than anything in this world.”
“Two?”