The Happy Ever After Playlist - Abby Jimenez Page 0,92
hotel soap. “You’re staying here today. You’re sick.”
She didn’t argue with me like she usually did when I tried to get her to leave me to do something for herself, and I couldn’t tell if that was a good sign or a bad one.
I stood her up and started to undo the belt of her robe. She looked dazed. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
Her blond hair was tied in a sloppy bun on top of her head. She never wore it down anymore. She rarely put on makeup, she didn’t get her nails done. I didn’t care one ounce how she looked. She was beautiful to me no matter what—but I cared what it meant. She wasn’t taking care of herself.
She was deteriorating out here. I felt like I’d taken an orchid on a road trip and it wasn’t thriving. I was watching it wither, its petals falling off, and there was nothing I could do about it except take it back home and plant it. And now that wasn’t going to be possible.
She coughed miserably and I managed to actually feel worse than I already did.
“I’ll bring your breakfast in here,” I said. “And then you’re going back to bed. Come on.”
I helped her into the tub and went to the room, grabbed the chair from the desk, and rolled it into the bathroom so she could use the seat as a table. Then I ran her food in and set it up. The whole time I was looking at my watch because I was already running late. I needed to be here for her, take care of her—at least be around when she was ready to talk about what had just happened—but I had to be at a fucking radio station instead.
I kissed her forehead goodbye before I left and she didn’t say a word. She didn’t even lean into it.
Zane drove and I called Ernie from the car. I cradled the phone with my shoulder and tried to rub the encroaching headache from my temples.
He picked up on the first ring. “Did you know that you can see the sunrise right through the sliding glass doors of my living room if my wife makes you sleep on the couch?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t have called so early. I’m sorry the wife is mad.”
“One of my wives is always mad. It’s how I know I’m alive. How’s Sloan? She taking it okay?”
I peered out through the window at the rainy streets of Memphis. “No, she’s not. She’s sick. She’s tired. She’s not happy.”
He scoffed. “What the fuck’s there to be happy about? This road shit sucks.”
I rubbed at my eyes tiredly. “It’s like I’ve wanted this my whole life and now I have it and I just want it to fucking be over.”
I pictured him doing his head bob. “Well, you’re a victim of your own success. You have to tour while people wanna hear you play.” He let out a long breath into the phone. “You know, you do have choices here, my friend.”
“I’m not breaking up with her.”
“Well, that’s definitely a choice, but that’s not what I was about to say—and I’m a little offended you think I’d suggest that at this point. That’s your first wife we’re talking about.”
I snorted.
“You can bite the bullet and record the bullshit they wrote for you.”
I groaned.
“Hey, it’ll get you started. Speed up the end date. It’s that or the other thing, and you definitely don’t want the other thing. There are only two ways out of a contract. You fulfill it, or you get dropped. And they’re only gonna drop you if your career’s gone to shit. I don’t see that happening, unless you have some kitten-drowning video out there that I don’t know about.”
I closed my eyes and lolled my head back on the headrest.
“Look,” he said. “Give her a break. Send her home for a few weeks.”
I lifted my head. Send her home?
Even the thought of being on the road without her made my stomach plummet. She was the only thing keeping me sane out here. I was a prisoner of my fame now. Trapped in a bus or a hotel room unless I wanted to sign autographs—which I didn’t. The shine had worn off that months ago. I didn’t mind being sequestered with Sloan, but without her? She was my whole world. My best friend. Sending her away sounded like a jail sentence.