"Come here, darling," he says softly, kindly, as he sits with his back against the headboard. He pulls me onto his lap, nearly cradling me, letting me purge the grief, the pain, the ache, the shame.
He whispers sweet words and holds me while I cry.
"I-I'm sorry," I sob.
"Hush. Don't you dare apologize for being human," he replies.
I hate that I'm doing this after we just had sex. I don't want him to think it's about him. This has everything to do with me and the fact I gave myself to someone other than my estranged husband—the love of my life, the one I forced out of my life.
Finally, the tears let up and I look at Dante, my makeup likely smeared everywhere.
"I don't want you to think I'm crying because of you or what we just did. It's not."
"Shh," he whispers, taking a tissue and wiping beneath my eyes. "I know, Tera. I know you. I know your heart. So, I know what the tears are about."
"I did this," I sniffle. "I told him to go. I want him to be happy."
"Darling, what makes you think he wasn't happy with you?" Dante asks, sliding us down so we're lying face-to-face, hands held as if we're about to arm wrestle.
"The photos. The fact that he couldn't live the rockstar life—not completely, like the others are. It's unfair for him. He deserves to experience all of that. The groupies, the parties, the other musicians, the fame, the fortune, and the sex. That's what the rocker life is all about, right? Sex, drugs, and rock and roll—especially to those who are young like Xander is," I confess.
"Did you talk to him about this?" Dante asks patiently.
"I have. Multiple times."
"And?"
"And he always gives me the same answer—the one he knows I need to hear. After everything that we've been through, after the distance between us physically, emotionally, and geographically, I don't know if he's still being honest with himself."
"You think he'd want to live the life his friends are, but he wouldn't want to tell you because it would hurt you?"
I nod.
"I want more for him. I want him to have everything, to experience everything, as a true rockstar should. They made it to number one and they let themselves, for just one night, enjoy themselves. They didn't have to think about the media. They didn't have to worry aboutme. They shouldn't have to," I admit.
"But—"
"Ben was right, Dante. I heard him ask why it was wrong for them to be able to enjoy one night. They worked so hard for this. Theyearnedthe right to party however they want to party and without restrictions. Their security, their crew—they all deserved that night. And, because of me, they woke up in a panic when they saw the images. That memory, the one of them hitting number one for the first time, will forever be tainted because of their obligation to me. I don't want that for them and I sure as hell don't want to be an obligation to anyone."
"I can understand that, Tera. But what I'm hearing here is you talking about what everyone else deserves. What about you? What do you deserve? Don't you deserve for your husband and family to respect you enough to not have you humiliated in the press? Don't you deserve the happiness and peace I know you find with Xander?"
"No. Not right now," I admit.
"Why not, Darling?"
"I need to figure out who I am before I can deserve any of that, before I have the right to demand it. I need to know if I'm still the girl who loves Xander as I once did. I need to know I want to step into that spotlight with him one day. I need to know that one day, I'll be strong enough to do that very thing, but right now, I'm not. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve his sacrifice if I can't make one for him, too," I say aloud, realizing the real reason I let Xander go.
"So, is that it then? For you and Xander?" Dante asks me softly.
"For now. I need to be who he fell in love with and I need to be strong enough to face the chaos that goes with his lifestyle. I'm neither of those."
"You're so much stronger than you think."
"Not really. I'm pretty much a coward. It'd be different if I knew without a doubt nothing like the attack would happen to me again, but no one knows that. That fear paralyzes me, Dante. It terrifies me to feel someone's eyes on me, to have anyone standing behind me, to feel a stranger's breath on the back of my neck."
He looks at me questioningly.
"One night in the gallery, I was helping Angelina set up for a show. One of the workers asked me if the painting was straight. I could see a slant to the left. He meant no harm, only to see what I saw, so he stood behind me to get that perspective. IknewI was safe. I knew he wasn't going to hurt me, but I flashed back to that night when I was on my stomach and his alcohol-drenched breath filled my nostrils—well, that and the metallic scent of my blood," I hiccup, recovering from my ugly cry.
