many things, I discovered that part of what I’d been upset with him about all these months was the way he’d denied your existence. Created a world in which I couldn’t talk about you, think about you, come to terms with my own guilt, not just for my stupid actions but for what was in my heart—what was in his heart, too. And perhaps, though I didn’t realize it until just now, I was angry at him for us getting pregnant at all.
I wouldn’t look at him.
“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” he said, finally. His voice was flat. It felt like we had reached the end. There was a cliff, and we had to either hold hands and jump and trust that together we could make it to the other side, or each find our own way down alone.
For the first night in a really long time, we slept in separate beds, in separate rooms, in separate dorms. The next morning I played the keyboard until my hand was burning. An hour and a half. That was all I could do, and even then, I was pushing myself to endure a pain so intense, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle it again. I wasn’t strong enough. My hand wasn’t strong enough. And I knew that if I couldn’t play, we wouldn’t be able to work anything else out. That was the crux of it. That was what bound us together. Our music was our love, and our love was our music. I couldn’t quit the band and still be with him. And I didn’t want to stay in the band if I couldn’t play the keys. I felt like a novelist who had lost the ability to type, an actress who had lost the ability to speak.
I went over to your father’s dorm with a garbage bag filled with the things he’d left in my room. “I think you were right,” I said, when he opened the door.
He took the bag I was holding out to him. “Queenie,” he said, “I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” I told him. “This isn’t going to work, and we’re only hurting each other now.” Tears were gathering in my eyes. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand.
He was quiet, the garbage bag clutched in his hand. I could tell he was trying to figure out what to do, what to say, whether to say anything at all.
“I’ll always love you,” I told him, my voice choked in my throat. “I’ll always love what we had—and what we created.”
“We’re gonna be stars,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’re my Cher, my June Carter Cash. You’re my queen.”
“I can’t be anymore,” I told him. I was trying to keep my voice in check, but I couldn’t. It was wobbling worse than his was. “I’m broken. I’m . . .” I searched for an analogy he would understand. I reached for the Astros, his favorite team. “I’m a pitcher who’s lost her ability to throw.”
“But you can still catch,” he said.
I shook my head. “I’m not a catcher. If Roger Clemens couldn’t pitch anymore, they wouldn’t make him a catcher. They wouldn’t ask him to play outfield. You’re asking me to play outfield. You can get a better outfielder, someone who loves it.”
We stood together in silence, tears quietly flowing down our cheeks.
“I tried,” I said. “I really tried.”
He wiped his nose on the bottom of his T-shirt. “You can keep trying,” he said.
I flexed my fingers. “I can’t,” I said. “It’s too much. I can’t. I wish I could. And it’s not just that. There’s school, too. It’s too fast. It’s too soon. There’s too much pressure. I messed up too much.”
I wrapped my arms around my torso, trying to hold myself together, trying to keep myself upright.
“I wish it were different,” he said.
“Me too,” I said. “I wish it were like before.”
We were both sobbing now. I wanted to hug him, I wanted to comfort him. And I could tell he wanted to do the same for me. His hands were pressed awkwardly against his sides, the garbage bag at his feet.
“I’ll always love you, too,” he choked out.
We stared at each other, neither one of us wanting to be the one who turned away. I knew it had to be me, though. So I did.
He didn’t stop me. He didn’t fight it anymore. It seemed like, as hard as this was for both of us, he knew it was the