Telling her goodbye is going to suck. Telling her goodbye and knowing I’m leaving the girl I’ve thought of as mine on some level for the past seven years to some other bastard is going to suck hairy gorilla nuts. But it’s the least I can do.
Getting dressed I think about the night she slapped me at the diner in Denver and the amazing sex that followed. If not for her and that night, I wouldn’t have written “Tough All Over,” it wouldn’t be the headlining track on my upcoming album, and I probably wouldn’t be going on this tour.
Memories of our amazing night in New Orleans and her celebrating my single’s success with me fill my head as I pack the rest of my belongings into my bag.
This is my life, I might as well get used to it. Strangely enough, it isn’t the shows I keep remembering from each city. It’s the time I spent with her. The shows she didn’t attend are hardly even memorable. I played, I grabbed some food and beer, and crashed alone. Without Robyn in my life, it’s black-and-white. All work and no play. Which is odd since technically I “play” for a living. But when she’s there, my world is in brilliant color.
Fuck.
I knew in New Orleans, and maybe I knew even before that. But damn it to hell, I love her. Not like I love my fans or my sister or my job or my music. I am crazy head over ass in fucking obsessive love with her. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m leaving the country, for fuck’s sakes. I can’t exactly ask her to wait a decade or so while I make music until people get tired of me. She deserves better than that and it sounds like she found it.
I want to see her, to go to her place and apologize and lay my heart on the line. But now that it’s time, I’m chickening out for fear of two possible outcomes. One, her new man is there and I kill him and go to jail instead of on tour. Two, she feels the same way and dumps her new man and spends her life sitting around waiting on me to finish living my dream.
Neither of those feels right.
Not really.
So I pull out my phone and take the mangina way out. Texting. Which was probably invented by a coward who’d acted like a jackass and needed to apologize to some girl but didn’t have the balls to do it on the phone or in person. Cowards unite, Dude.
I’m sorry for being such an ass. I understand why you haven’t called me back. I’m happy for you and I should’ve said that instead of storming out. Tell your new guy he’s lucky I’m leaving the country and that he better treat you right.
When she doesn’t reply, I send one more—one that says three words I should have told her in person—and then I shut my phone off because I’ve become too much of a * to even handle her goodbye.
“I’m so glad the label decided to add Rio to the tour. The food is amazing, the people are beautiful, and wait until you see the water. It’s this incredible shade of aquamarine and so clear you wouldn’t believe it.”
Mandy prattles on in the back of the town car that’s taking us to the airport. I couldn’t give two fucks about leaving the country right now. Or what color the water is anywhere. The only color I care about right now is emerald. The color of Robyn’s eyes. They darken to jade when I piss her off. And they’re lighter, peridot maybe, when they’re filled with tears.
Propping my elbow on the ledge of the tinted window, I stare out at Texas as it passes.
When we pull up to the Dallas–Fort Worth airport, the driver gets out and handles checking our luggage. I don’t have much. A guitar. Two suitcases full of clothes. Everything else will be handled by crew members.
“Come on, Superstar,” Mandy says, linking her arm with mine. The contact pisses me off.
“Enough with the superstar shit,” I say, ignoring the years of manners that have been ingrained in me.
Mandy jerks her arm loose and glares at me.