“Touring is hard. I love playing live, love the roar of the audience, love hearing them sing our songs back to us, but it’s exhausting, and everyone wants a piece of you. This part here is what I truly love best. Writing and recording new material. Having a permanent base for a while.” He hooks his pinky finger in mine. “I’m not overly materialistic, and a lot of times I feel guilty about the money, but I indulged with this place because I wanted someplace special to call home, and I love coming here. I love the privacy and the solitude, and it just speaks to my soul. If I could live here year-round I would, but it’s not practical or possible.”
“Why do you feel guilty about the money? You’ve worked hard for it. And I know you donate a lot to charity.”
His chest inflates and deflates, and his jaw flexes, as he stares out at the ocean. Ryder and I were always comfortable with silence, and I know he’ll talk when he’s ready, so I patiently wait him out.
“It feels wrong,” he says in a low tone a few minutes later. “It feels wrong to have so much when I was responsible for someone losing their life prematurely.”
Pain is etched across his face, and I just want to erase it. I thread my fingers through his and he clasps my hand firmly. “You were only a kid, it was an accident, and you weren’t the only one involved.”
“None of that matters though.” He turns to me with tears in his eyes. “I still relive it all the time, and the guilt never goes away. I don’t think it ever will.”
My eyes search his and I can’t bear to see him hurting, so I fling my arms around him, without any hesitation, holding him tight.
Friends hug friends, right?
He leans his head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arms tighter around him. “Some days, I think all the guilt I’m carrying will eat me alive. Some days, it’s a struggle to get out of bed. After I lost you, music became my only salvation. I honestly don’t know if I’d still be here if I wasn’t a musician.”
“Don’t say that.” I hug him closer. “I can’t bear to think of a world without you in it.”
“I can say the same of you, and I don’t ever want you to leave, Zeta, but I’m a selfish prick like that.”
“I’m here now.” I press a kiss to the top of his head, and he sighs. “Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?”
“I’ve seen tons of them over the years. I make some inroads, and then I have to go on tour, and all the progress is undone.”
“A good therapist will give you tools to use when things get too much. And even having them at the end of a phone can help. Maybe you just haven’t found the right one. I can give you my therapist’s details if you like?”
He lifts his head. “You still see a therapist?”
I nod, running my fingers through the soft hairs at the base of his neck. “I go every month, and I think I most likely always will.”
“Because of me?” His features are pinched, his mouth turned down.
“We have discussed you,” I admit, “but it’s mainly my fucked-up childhood and issues with my mom that are my main problems.”
“What about your stepdad?”
“He’s still locked up, thank fuck, and hopefully, they’ve thrown away the key.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. “That feels nice,” he murmurs as I thread my fingers through his hair.
“Lie down,” I suggest, and he repositions himself so his head is in my lap. He’s staring up at me, and I weave my fingers through his hair as we talk. “I mourned your long hair when you cut it, but it suits you short like this too.”
He frowns. “I almost cried the day I had it cut off, but I had no choice. Some bitch decided it’d be fun to give me a DIY haircut when I was passed out drunk. I woke up looking like something from a horror movie. My hair was all different lengths and hacked to bits at the sides. Gar laughed so hard he pissed himself.”
“That’s what you get for screwing groupies. She probably wanted your hair as a souvenir, or she sold it to the highest bidder on eBay.”
“Oh my fucking God. I never thought of that!”
I continue winding my fingers through his hair as the gentle ebb and flow of the sea echoes in the background. It’s dark now, and we’re the only people on the beach.
“Is my history with women going to be an issue for you?” he asks, tracing the tip of one finger up my arm.
“I won’t lie. Seeing you with so many women has hurt me in the past. And let’s not even get started on the sex tapes.” A look of abject horror appears on his face, and I know why. “I haven’t watched them,” I blurt, shuddering at the thought. “But just knowing they existed was enough to destroy me.”
“I’m sorry, and I wish I could take it back, but by your own admission, you haven’t been a saint either.”
“I know, and I’m not being judgmental. You were single and free to fuck who you wanted, but I hate the groupies that hang around the music scene, because they all have an agenda. They’re trying to trap a rock star with a baby, or they want bragging rights or photo or video footage they can sell to a tabloid. They’re manipulative and taking advantage, and I despise those kind of girls, but I admire girls who take control of their sexuality and aren’t afraid to embrace it,” I add, just so he understands the point I’m trying to make.
