“Don’t do this, Atlas,” he said, a coldness to his voice. “You don’t want to lose me.”
I scoffed. What, exactly, was I losing here?
The tattered remains of my heart he’d stomped on with those ugly-ass, studded black boots with the two-inch heel because he was insecure about being shorter than me?
Midnight arguments and sleep deprivation because Raleigh thought it was funny when I made a fool of myself in interviews, and he liked to use that as punishment when he felt like I was mouthing off too much.
Or the long nights of drinking myself to sleep because god only knew where he was.
Or how about the gifts that didn’t quite hit the mark. Like the cheap ring he got me when I pressed him on commitment and he wanted to shut me up. Or the mugs he picked up at a gas station when I pointed out he’d forgotten our anniversary for the fifth year in a row. Oh, and the clothes he bought me that weren’t my style and never fit right, and the flowers that died on hotel balconies because I was allergic to roses, and he always—always—fucking got me roses when he wanted to apologize.
God, what was I even doing here? Why had I let this go on for so long?
“I think you broke him,” the mesh-covered arm candy said. I’d forgotten Raleigh had brought his side piece into the room to witness the breakup.
I smiled at Raleigh, and he eased back a bit, looking a little…oh, was heworried? “I’ll have someone bring you your shit from the loft.”
He stared. “What do you?—”
“It’s not me,” I parroted back, “it’s you. Right? Tonight feels like a good night to pack your things in boxes.” I stood up and headed for the dressing room door. He managed to catch my sleeve of the god-awful blouse he’d picked out.
The lace made my skin itch so badly I wanted to pull it all off. I tore at the buttons while he watched.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he finally demanded as I made my way to the dressing room door.
I turned and stared at him like the fool he was. “I thought that was obvious. I’m going home to pack your shit.”
“We have a fucking show in thirty minutes!”
Right. We had a show. Thousands of fans were out there waiting for us to go on. This was the last leg in a tour that would culminate in one massive performance on New Year’s Eve to ring in another twelve months. But twelve months of what? More of this bullshit?
I laughed again while he took a step back.
He probably thought I was losing it, which was fine. Maybe I was losing it.
But hell, that was better than being sad about him. I wasn’t wasting another tear on this man. Not one single drop.
“You can’t just go,” he said when I dropped the lace shirt and reached for the door handle.
“Yes I can.”
“The show!” he repeated, like that was going to make a difference.
I looked over my shoulder and shrugged. It was a six-hour drive back to our—no,my—loft, and if I started now, I could get there before dawn.
“Good luck with that. I quit.”
“You can’t just quit.Atlas?—”
I grabbed my sweater, then slammed the door behind me before he could finish speaking. That felt good, especially knowing that for the first time in years, I wouldn’t have to pay for that later. I think he’d wanted to break me, but the only thing he’d shattered was the illusion that all of this was okay.
Or necessary.
I didn’t need this life. I hadn’twantedany of this life. Fame had never been the point. I wanted to do what I loved, write music that made me feel something, and spend the rest of my life with someone who loved me as much as I loved them.
Fame had been a consequence of our chemistry onstage. I just wish I’d realized how superficial it all was before I’d signed my soul away on studio contracts with execs who would always choose him because he was the pretty face.
But I was done. I didn’t care what it cost me. I’d pay it for this all to be over.
