toward me, backing me against the wall as he made an attempt to nuzzle my neck. “I could do romantic.”
Sean making a move on me was so startling that I kneed him in the crotch. He doubled over before falling to the floor. I just stood over him, my disgust with the situation reaching levels thus far unexplored in our relationship. I didn’t know what to make of this new development. Was he more drunk than normal? Was this a new tactic to piss me off and push me away?
“What did you do that for?” he moaned.
“I’m not going to bother answering that, since you clearly won’t remember this tomorrow.” I wanted to scream my answers at him, but I harnessed all my zen energy and determined that I’d save it for later. If I was going to expend a bunch of energy chewing him out, I wanted him to be good and sober when I did. “You need to shower. You stink.” I stepped over him as he continued to writhe on the floor and walked through the huge master suite and into the bathroom, turning on the shower before I went to rummage through his clothes. I pulled out boxers and athletic shorts, setting them on the edge of the tub since he’d no doubt fall into bed right after I forced him to clean himself.
As the pathetic state of my life washed over me, I sank down onto the bed, pressing a hand to my forehead. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Not that I’d ever been mighty, but I certainly never thought I’d be reduced to mothering my rich and famous best friend.
Too bad I had no one to blame but myself. After all, I was the one who’d made him record his songs. I was the one who convinced him he needed to make music videos and create a YouTube channel. When the views started piling up and the record label came calling, I’d practically signed the contract for him. I’d thought the world needed his music, and that he needed success. I’d thought it would be good for him.
I heard the hiss of his breath moving through his teeth before he appeared in the doorway, still limping. Maybe I should have felt bad. I didn’t.
Sean didn’t even look angry. Instead there was an odd contrition shining through his drunken haze. He came to sit gingerly beside me where I was slumped on the bed and put his hand over mine. “I’m really sorry, Libby.” He leaned in to hug me.
“No,” I said as I pushed him off and stood up. “I don’t want you apologizing when you’re drunk. It doesn’t count.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’d love to hear all about how sorry you are when you’re sober.” I pointed to the bathroom, which was filling up with steam. “Now go. I wasn’t kidding about the shower.”
He nodded mutely then stood and stumbled toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. “I still love you the most, Libby,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know,” I muttered to myself as I left the room, shutting the door behind me.
I forced a deep breath to keep the tears at bay then walked over to the couch and sank onto it, resting my head in my hands as I berated myself.
I’d been so stupid. So naïve. As a teenager, I’d had star eyes and winged feet, and I used them to push Sean into the limelight. I convinced everyone that it would be good, that he would be great and I’d keep him out of any trouble. And he had been great. He’d been better than great for a couple of years.
And then his twin sister died.
And his mom fell apart.
And Sean clammed up, refusing to talk about it.
And he wrote an entire album in less than two months.
Those songs.
Those. Songs.
The most honest, open-hearted, soul-wrenching songs I’d ever heard—like his bleeding heart lay beating for everyone to see, but in the most beautiful way. People ate them up. Then they wanted more.
And more.
And more.
At first I thought it was a good thing. It was his way of coping. He would work through his grief by writing out his feelings, right?
And it probably would have worked that way. If he hadn’t been a celebrity. If he hadn’t had fans falling over themselves for any scrap of him. If the record label vultures hadn’t constantly demanded more.
If I hadn’t given him to the world, he probably would have