“You don’t have to put up with her bullshit. You know that, right? You’re an adult. A very successful and talented adult. You’re not a teenage girl who just lost her father and got into something she maybe wasn’t ready for. You can quit anytime,” I tell her with conviction.
“Did you see all of those people out there today who came to see me?” Layla asks quietly, and I wonder if she’s changing the subject or just ignoring what I’ve said to her. “Forget about the insane stalker I have for just a minute. Did you read any of the other letters I get on a daily basis when you were going through all of my fan mail? Little girls who look up to me, brokenhearted women who say I’ve put a smile on their face for the first time in ages, kids who’ve had horrible childhoods that say I give them hope that they can make their dreams come true.”
Layla slides her hand up my stomach and perches her chin on top of it so she can continue looking at me while she explains.
“Did you know I volunteer at a children’s hospital once a month? I go from room to room and sing to the children who are in there for a few days with pneumonia or the ones who are dying from cancer and know they will never get to go outside and swing on a swing set or play tag with their friends. Those are my fans, Brady. They’re real people and they’re the reason I continue doing what I do. There are so many musicians out there who let their fans down because they just don’t care about them. They don’t realize there are people out there all over the world that depend on them, that need them to help forget about their own troubles for just a little while. If getting up on that stage night after night puts a smile on the face of a little girl or encourages her to get up and dance around the room in unadulterated joy, who am I to complain about my life?”
I have to swallow back the lump in my throat at her words. I feel like a pussy for getting choked up, but I can’t help it. I’m an ass and I never once thought about any of this from her point of view. It’s easy for me to tell her to just stop doing something that makes her miserable because I’m not in her shoes. My parents made me miserable, so I joined the Navy and left. I eliminated the thing in my life that was ruining me, and the only person I let down was Gwen. Just disappointing that one person was enough to gut me. The idea that Layla feels like she would let billions of people down is a heavy pill to swallow and one I obviously know nothing about.
“I’m sorry. You probably think I’m a dick for always telling you to just quit,” I tell her honestly.
She smiles at me sadly and moves her hand from my chest to cup the side of my face, her thumb sliding back and forth over my cheek bone.
“It would be a hell of a lot easier if I did think you were a dick, believe me. This is my life. This is how it has to be; Eve’s made sure of that. It’s legal and it’s binding, and if I go against her, I will let all of those people down. You come in here and you’re strong and confident, and I suddenly want to be a different person because I want to make you proud. I want you to look at me like you did tonight at the edge of that stage. You’re making me question every single thing I’ve ever done. Making me want things I never…”
She pauses, stopping herself before she gives away too much, and I just want to tell her to give me everything. I don’t care about the consequences. Just give me everything you have.
“What the hell are you doing to me, Brady?” she asks brokenly, her voice choked with tears that she tries her hardest to hold back.
There are so many things I want to say to her now, but I know everything will come out wrong. I’m not good with words. I’m not good with the hearts and flowers bullshit. The only thing I know to do is show her what she means