I’m a coward, I know. But at the same time, we haven’t spent much time together in the last several years. I pushed him away little by little when I ran to Nashville.
“What foods do you miss the most? Wait, let me guess . . . I know it’s not your dad’s pathetic attempt at a meatloaf. I’m not trying to be an ass, but that was the worst meal I’ve ever had.”
My face wrinkles in disgust on instinct, giving Jax his answer. I do my best to push the memories of that awkward night to the back of my mind.
“Alright, alright. Oh, I know! You used to love it when my mom made tater tot hotdish.” He claps his hands in celebration whenhe sees the dreamy look on my face at the thought of his mom’s hotdish. He’s not wrong, I’d love a hearty serving of that.
I wonder if Alexa has had his mom’s hotdish. His mom adored me when we were together, but I haven’t had the chance to talk to her since being back in Minnesota because she went straight from Paris to California to help Walker move her things back home—something that Jackson was not thrilled to learn.
Kyle interrupts my spiral, reminding me I’ve got to get my soundcheck over with before the next performer gets here. Turning, I shout, “Okay boys, I’ve selected the cover we’re going to play this morning.”
Pressing send in the BandPlay app, each band member’s phone pings a moment later. With a hand on the very lowest part of my back, Kyle leads me over to the piano, and once I’m seated on the bench, he comes up beside me to adjust my mic as if I’m not perfectly capable of doing so on my own.
“You’re sure about the song choice?” Kyle questions me in a hushed voice.
“There are no fans here. It’s what I’m feeling right now, Kyle.” With a quick nod, he gives me a soft smile, one I haven’t had aimed my way in far too long.
My stomach twists when he brushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear and leans in to whisper, “You’re always right. I should know that by now.”
Only after he’s standing offstage do I take a deep breath and shake my hands out before giving my lead guitarist, Sterling, a nod.
My band begins to play a slightly alternative version of Britney Spears’s “Everytime” as my fingers fly over the ivories.
Closing my eyes, I get lost in the song as the lyrics pour out of me. I’m unable to hold back the rush of feelings that swell to the surface. Overwhelming anxiety and fear consumes me as I think about my upcoming hysterectomy. There are so manyunknowns that I won’t know the answers to until after surgery, and then if I’m able to keep my ovaries, after the egg retrieval. What’s worse is that’s all before I start chemotherapy. And don’t even get me started on my soapbox about how cruel it is that I’m to go through this all while living with my ex, who just so happens to not be my ex, and is indeed still very much so legally my husband. My husband, who is dating the most wonderful woman, and I can’t even be mad about it because I’d date her too if I was into women.
Instead of stewing on that tidbit, I do the only thing that brings me relief and put my everything into singing this song. I shouldn’t push my vocal chords, but I do. I shouldn’t pound my fingers into the keys, but I do. I shouldn’t break in front of him, but I do. Pouring all of my fear, doubt, and anxiety into the song, I break on stage.
My vocal chords pull tight from the emotions welling in my throat, especially when I open my glassy eyes and look offstage to find Jackson with his arms crossed, only breaking his stance when he drags his thumb beneath his eye as if to wipe a stray tear away.
The damn bursts open as tears stream down my cheeks. Straining, I manage to sing the last lines of the song through the thick emotion closing my throat. My choked sobs echo through the microphone, and within seconds Kyle rushes over to me from offstage and Ollie, my bass player, is beside me asking what’s wrong.
Ollie, being the manchild he is, doesn’t know what the hell to do when a woman cries in front of him. Kyle, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate to scoot onto the piano bench beside me, wrapping me in his arms. He rubs his hand up and down my back in a way that I’m sure he means to be soothing, but actually leaves my skin crawling. His touch feels all wrong—always has.
Aside from Ryan, there’s only one other person who has ever been able to be my anchor in the storms that threaten to pull me under.
“I’m going to need you to get your hands off my wife. And unless you never want to be able to use them again, I suggest you keep them to yourself from here on out.” Lifting my gaze from Jackson’s fist clenching at his side, I revel in the way his jaw feathers in tempo with his fist. His murderous gaze is laser focused on Kyle’s hand resting on my shoulder.
So much for a quiet divorce that’ll be kept out of the media because no one knew about our marriage in the first place. I’m still not sure how Bennett and his bride were able to keep that tidbit under wraps after Jax declared I was his wife in front of their wedding guests, but so far there hasn’t been a single story about it.
While I can trust my bandmates, I can’t say the same for the festival staff assisting with soundchecks. My speculations are valid, I realize, when I see one of the stagehands hugging a clipboard to her chest with her jaw nearly touching the floor.
Kyle’s body stiffens beside me and I turn in time to see his head shoot back as if he’s been struck, eyes briefly widening before narrowing on Jackson. “Down boy. No need to mark your territory.” He pauses, turning to look at me. “But it’s the oddest thing, I don’t see a ring on her finger.”
My former—yet apparently current—bodyguard, Braidy, rushes to the stage to deescalate the situation, but I raise my hand to stop him and tell him, “Braidy, we’re fine here. I’ll deal with this. Thanks.”
Letting out a deep sigh, I shrug Kyle’s hand off my shoulder and take out my in-ear monitors as Kyle helps take off my wireless pack from where it’s attached to the back of my top. Pushing to stand, I go toe-to-toe with myhusband. I grab him bythe wrist and he placates me, allowing me to drag him offstage and through the back lot where my tour bus is parked.
I drop his hand and round on him, shoving my palms against his muscular chest. He doesn’t move an inch and that only seems to fuel my unbridled anger.
“Let’s get a few things straight,Jaxy Bear. One, I’m not your wife in anything but name.” Holding up my hand in his face, I lift a second finger. “Two, you’ve gone and pissed me right the fuck off with that caveman claiming bullshit you just pulled. What the fuck was that, J?!”
“What the fuck was that?” he repeats my question, his voice filled with condescension as he lets out a low chuckle. Throwing his hand up, gesturing toward the stage, Jax growls out, “Thatwas me being nice.Thatwas me showing restraint.Thatwas me letting fuckingKyle—” He pauses to make a face of disgust as if saying his name alone might make him sick before continuing, “—off the hook far too easily after he dared to touch what’smine.”
I scoff, hoping my own growing disgust is evident. “So that’s what this is about? A pissing match so you can puff out your chest and lay claim to me? Well guess what? I haven’t beenyoursin ten years, Jackson Wilson!” I’m screaming the words at this point. Even knowing we’re likely causing a scene, I’m unable to let this go. “I’m not just another one of your one night stands you can use and discard, Jax. I’m in the spotlight twenty-four-seven. Do you even realize what you just did back there? You may as well have called the tabloids yourself to tell them we’re married. God, how could you be so selfish?”
Narrowing his eyes, his chest heaves as he points his finger at his chest. “Me? Selfish? No, darling, if that’s either of us, that’s you. Or did you forget that you broke my goddamn heart to move onto bigger and better things when we were supposed to live out our dreams together?”
My heart cracks down the center, reopening old wounds almost as if they’d never healed at all.
