I couldn’t blame him. You give a twenty-year old kid from the middle of nowhere a fat stack of cash, millions of fans, and throw his name up in lights, and his priorities were going to change. I hated myself for believing him, and I hated myself even more for believing our love was special enough to transcend our destinies.
I watched as the stranger on the T.V. gave a final wave and a wink before disappearing off stage.
“You okay?” Rebecca asked, her hazel eyes kind. Though we were cousins, she was always more of a big sister figure to me. She’d been married to Sam since they were fresh out of high school, and they’d been trying to start a family for years before finding out Sam’s interior plumbing didn’t work right and it never would.
“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.
“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.”