“I’m sorry that happened.”
“People fuck up now and then, right? It’s part of being alive.” And all the while, beautiful music keeps flowing from his fingers. It’s some sort of magic for sure. The way it wraps around my heart and squeezes tight. Then he says, “Someone sold photos taken in Mom’s hospital room the day she passed.”
My mouth opens, but I have nothing. What an asshole thing to do. And it doesn’t seem like making a mistake so much as deciding to do something heinous. “I am so sorry that happened.”
“It’s why my brother feels strongly about this,” he says. “There’s a definite downside to fame and shit can fuck you up.”
“Makes sense why you hesitated today in the kitchen…when he talked about it.”
His fingers still and he cocks his head. “I hesitated?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” he says with sudden understanding. “That’s why you’re being all weird and unduly serious.”
“It’s a weird and serious situation. There’s nothing unduly about it. You have a real estate portfolio and I have college debt. We are not the same.”
“Wouldn’t it be boring if we were?”
I smile, and it’s a distracted, halfhearted sort of thing. Mentally rehearsing this conversation for hours has not helped. My emotions are a mess, and my mind is all over the place. “Being honest and caring with each other is how we build trust, right?”
He nods.
“It hurt when you hesitated. But I know this isn’t personal. That you’ve been burned in the past.”
“And you got evicted from your home by your dick of an ex. We both have baggage when it comes to trust.”
“Very true,” I say. “Is the document you’re talking about a cohabitation agreement?”
“That’s what they call it,” he confirms.
“What’s in it?”
And he hesitates again. Yikes.
“Nash…”
“You have to understand,” he says. “I haven’t lived with anyone in the last five years or so. My life was very different back then and so were my relationships. Shit. I don’t know what to say that isn’t going to sound fucking awful.”
“Now you definitely have to tell me what’s in this document.”
He winces. “Some of it was just expectations around living together. How many people they could invite to the house andwhat notice they had to give me. Substances allowed on the property. Noise limits and general tidiness. And absolutely no touching the AC control. That’s a big one for me. Then there was a more involved section on what they were permitted to discuss with other people or post to social media about the relationship.”
“Permitted, huh?”
“Which living expenses I would cover and the amount of the monthly stipend. The fidelity clause, of course. Mandatory forty-eight hours’ notice by text of any serious discussions. Especially those concerning an exploration of feelings and-or the future of the relationship.”
“You cannot be serious.”
He keeps on going. “A minimum of an hour and a half was to be spent together each week. Either by phone if I was on tour or in person if I wasn’t. How public appearances would be handled. Any gifts given were theirs to keep, however, other purchases I made during the period were solely my property. That they would pack their stuff and leave as soon as possible in the event of my requesting them to do so. There was information regarding the final payment, which would be made by myself to help with resettling elsewhere. The amount is based on how long we last, with a bonus sum included if I cheat. And of course, what restrictions there are regarding contact post-breakup.”
I blink.
“That’s a general sort of overview.”
“Huh,” I say. “How many pages is this document?”
“Sixty or so.”
