So Much It Hurts (36 page)

Click, click, click, click…

Suddenly, from around the corner, a camera was in our faces and a member of the tabloid media was spouting questions to Chris faster than he could answer them. Ignoring them, he grabbed a pen from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, jerked my grocery list from my hand, jotted something down on it, and thrust it back at me. With the cameraman chasing after him, he darted around a magazine rack and around the cash register, disappearing out the electronic doors.

Peering down at the paper he had shoved into my hand, I saw a phone number scrawled below the last item written on the list—ten numbers that reminded me of a scrap of paper he had handed to me nearly fifteen years ago outside Club Millennium. Those were numbers I had kept hidden in my jacket pocket that saved me on more than one occasion. These were
new
numbers that would continue to keep me linked to the man with whom I was once hopelessly in love.

“Where did he go?” Eli asked, disappointed.

I stared longingly in the direction of Chris’s disappearance. “He just had to leave, honey.”

“Can we see him again?”

I looked down at the ring on my finger, imagining Michael at work every day, crunching number after boring number in order to provide for us—his family. He and I had worked too hard in the last five years to fix our marriage and maintain a stable home for our children. Then, I remembered the heartfelt letter I’d found written to me from my mother in the hat box in her attic. Those thoughts, along with one sidelong glance at the photos plastered on every magazine stacked on the rack of Chris partying it up and getting intimate with numerous women, provided me with my answer: “No, sweetheart. No, we can’t.”

My heart felt as if I were tearing a piece of it off and stomping it into the ground while my head begrudgingly encouraged me to rip my list, along with Chris’s phone number, into a million tiny shreds. Determined and focused, showing no mercy, I tore the paper into as many pieces as possible. The ache from watching Chris walk away welled up inside me like a balloon ready to burst. I’d done it twice before, and I could do it again. This would be the last time.
Oh God, please let this be the last time.
My heart can’t handle this kind of torture. I clutched the shredded handful of paper to my chest, my heart clinging to my past until the last possible second.
Goodbye Chris.
I tossed the final available link I had to him into a nearby garbage can. I didn’t look back—
couldn’t
look back.

My heart ached—oh, how my heart ached, but I stood strong knowing I’d made the right decision. I had the ring on my finger and my two precious gifts walking beside me as proof that sometimes in life, you just love someone so much it hurts.

I love my life. Really I do. I mean, who wouldn’t love the life of a rock star? I’m a world traveler. Everyone kisses my ass to try to get a taste of riches and fame. Women clamor for a piece of me, but I never have to put forth much effort for a piece of them, that’s for damn sure.
Never.
They just throw themselves at me like greedy, money hungry, fame seeking, attention whores. It’s like an endless buffet of ass, just waiting for me at my beck and call.
And, the shows…
The flashing lights, the thumping music, the billowing smoke effects—it’s all a trip! I fucking love it. I never get tired of hearing my name being chanted among the crowds.
Chris King! Chris King!
God, that never gets old. I’m living the dream life. This is what I live for!

“Shit, who am I kidding?” I grumble as I toss the latest tabloid magazine in the garbage. That shit’s not me. That’s not who I am. No one knows the real me. That self-absorbed rock star shit is just an act. Yeah, I have women throwing themselves at me, and occasionally I take the bait—mostly out of loneliness than anything else. But, everything about me runs much deeper than a quick encounter with some groupie chick willing to put out. No one will ever know the real me. No one, but
her
.

The bump and rattle of the tour bus, as we travel down the highway, reminds me of my grandfather’s old Cadillac bouncing down the road to his weekly bingo games when I was a kid. I remember lying across the backseat. I was just long enough to fit, head to toe, across the seat. The constant hum of the car usually put me to sleep. Maybe that memory is why I am able to sleep so soundly on this piece of shit tour bus. Endless miles, to nowhere special, leave me feeling a sense of loss for
home
. There is no
home
on the road—only hotels. There is no stability—only a different city every night. I miss home. I miss stability. I miss her.
God, I miss her.

I never thought I’d see her again. But, there she was, walking around in that grocery store with her kids. Her
kids
. The big kid, Eli…I remember her talking about him on our first walk together on the beach, when I found out she was married. She said she had a kid. Hell, at that time, kids were the very last thing on my mind! I’m older now. I’m almost too old for this nomad’s life on the road. There are much younger, shit for talent, but popular teenage heartthrobs making their way to the big stage. I just want to go back home—back to my roots. Not necessarily her town, but somewhere I can call home. Maybe back to the beach. That’s the place I was the happiest, writing songs and playing gigs on the weekends. That was the life—not this shit. This life is the pits. My agent’s riding my ass all the time. I never truly know who my real friends are, or I’m wondering if they’re using me as a stepping stone or whatever. Media pulls me in all different directions, harassing me for interviews and shit. Hell, I’m ready to settle down and possibly even entertain the idea of having kids.

Speaking of kids, there’s that little kid. What was his name? Ethan? Oh yeah. Cute kid. Brown hair, brown eyes…God, I felt like I was looking in the mirror. Could he be mine? He definitely looked like he could be mine. Well, I guess technically it
is
a possibility. I mean, it was about six years ago she and I…well, yeah. I’ve had very few regrets in my life. I’m not saying she’s one of them, but I know what we did was wrong. I fucked up. I don’t screw other guys’ chicks, especially married ones. That’s messed up, but damn I loved her. I loved her more than I have ever loved any woman in my life, and I don’t even know why. I can’t explain it. We were young, so young. Maybe it was because we knew we couldn’t be together. Maybe we had this crazy, cosmic soul-connected energy between us. Hell, who knows. All I know is I fucking loved her. More than life. More than
anything
.

It was just my luck; I walked around the corner, and there she stood, looking more beautiful than ever. But sad. Or regretful. Or scared. Hell, I don’t know. I just wanted to hug her. She looked like she might bolt at any minute, or throw up. I just wanted to grab her and hug her like I did six years ago, or eight years before that. If I think hard enough I can still remember how she felt against my body. That woman did things to me I can’t even explain, and I don’t mean sexually either. I mean she messed me up inside—messed with my head. I could barely function when I got sent back to juvie. And, I don’t think I slept for weeks after she left the beach six years ago. Ten pounds isn’t a lot to lose, unless you lose it all in a week’s time because you can’t fucking think straight over a girl.

I saw the sadness in her eyes when she saw me, but I watched her before that. I watched the way she interacted with her kids—the way they adored her. The way her husband smiled at her, she was happy. She
is
happy. He’s a good man. I remember that dude from high school. Math class fucking sucked, and there was that awkward, nerdy kid who sat in front of me. One time I slammed my fist into my desk, frustrated over some stupid fucking equation. He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t cower like most of the other country club douche bags in that class who had nothing better to do than call me a loser. He just turned around in his desk and asked if I needed help. He broke it down, explaining the equation to me in a way I could understand, and suddenly, it clicked. Dude was a saint—a damn genius! She got herself a good man, I’ll give her that. I can tell he loves her. I can tell he’d do anything for her, just like I would if she were mine. But, she’s
not
…
mine.

Dammit!
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking giving her my phone number. What did I think she was going to do? Leave her husband and kids to come find me? Bring her kids on the road with me? Be willing to have every aspect of her life scrutinized by the tabloid media? Hell no! I love her, but I love her too much to drag her name through the mud and air her dirty laundry on the front of every magazine cover. No, I would never do that to her. I need to let her live her life, happily, with her husband and her two kids. I want her to be happy. She
deserves
to be happy. I know she still loves me. I have no doubts of that. I could sense it in the way she stared at me, smiled at me even, in front of the cereal aisle. I love her too,
still
, after all these years. I would do anything for her. Anything.
Anything.

I never stopped loving her, or maybe it was the idea of her, I don’t know. But, I’ve always loved her so much I can barely breathe just thinking about it, but…
I have to let her go.
Her family needs her. Her kids need her. She needs them. She doesn’t need me and the life I have to offer. She has a husband who would walk across the desert for her. She’s happy. She deserves to stay that way. She doesn’t need me.

Taking out a pen, I scrawl a handwritten letter. My manager has connections I couldn’t dream of having. I know the letter will get to her. I have no doubts.