Page 20 of The Rockstar

It’s been two weeks since the day Vivian walked away. Two weeks of me drowning my sorrows by basically living in the studio. Two weeks of barely being able to function. My brain feels like cotton, and there’s a hollowness in my chest that only seems to be getting bigger and bigger.

I’m not proud to say that I had Vivian tracked down. I found her bookstore, parked my car across the street, and spent hours just watching her. I paid someone to restore her minivan and deliver it to her store, and I watched from afar. When she saw it, she cried, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to run toward her.

She didn’t want to be part of my messed-up world, and I would respect that.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to make sure she’s safe from the fans who thought it funny to send death threats to her. I have at least three guards surrounding her, one posing as a barista across the street, a newly hired staff member in the flower shopnext door, and a woman who reads inside her bookstore every day.

It should be enough for me, but fuck, it hurts. The heartbreak has been screaming raw from the inside of my throat. I used to write about it, but it was all pretend. I didn’t know what it was, so I asked my friends, and that’s how I came up with the songs.

This time, it’s a firsthand experience, and I now have enough material for a new album. Twelve songs. The label thought I was working on another punk rock album, but little did they know, this is a passion project for me. A love letter for the only woman I’ve ever loved, because yes, it was only twenty-four hours, but Vivian managed to burrow herself so deep into me, I’d need to claw my heart out to forget her.

It’s another late night,or maybe it’s morning. I don’t know; I’ve lost track.

The studio is dim, lit only by the flicker of my laptop screen and the dull glow of the recording equipment I’m not even using. Oh, wait. There’s a guitar-shaped night lamp by the couch, too, but it doesn’t offer much in the way of lighting anything.

My producer is knocked out in the bedroom next door, more tired of me than the actual work, and it’s just me and my memories of Vivian playing on loop in my head.

Vivian’s fingerprints are everywhere. It’s in the lyrics, some of which were things she said to me in the cabin. It’s in the shirt I’m wearing that says, “Smut Season.” I don’t even know what that means, only that it was one of the best sellers on her website.

My gaze drops to my empty coffee cup—number six tonight—and I sigh as I chuck it into the trash.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I freeze but ignore it. Let them think I’m hyper-focused on recording right now, even if the only thing on my mind is a certain dark-haired woman with a face that men would go to war for.

Another knock. It’s gentle and hesitant. Wait a damn minute. Something about it feels … familiar.

But then again, everything feels like her lately. I saw a girl with a pixie cut at the gas station the other day and nearly tackled her, heart thudding in my ears, only to find out it was a stranger who looked nothing like her. I’ve ordered candles and t-shirts from her online store—multiple times, different aliases, even roped Knox in—just to feel like she’s still somewhere near me.

I’ve officially reached the pathetic stage.

Another knock. A little firmer this time.

“Fuck’s sake.” I drag myself off the stool. My knees crack, and my back hurts like a motherfucker. I’ll have to ask the producer to give me a chair that doesn’t put me at risk for sciatica.

I rub my eyes, wipe my palms down the front of my shirt, and head to the door.

I open it and just blink. Once, twice, thrice.

Because there she is.

Vivian.

A pale yellow beanie, denim jacket and shorts, and a transparent backpack against her chest. Her eyes are wide and uncertain and so goddamn real I swear my heart skips a beat.

No. No, this can’t be real.

I haven’t slept properly in three days. My body’s all caffeine and overthinking. My brain has got to be hallucinating by now. It’s the only proper explanation.

“Vivian?” I rasp, not even sure I said it out loud.

She stands uneasily, darting her gaze to the room behind me. “Hey, Ryder.”

Fuck. It’s her. Really her. I’m so surprised that I don’t realize she’s still standing out in the cold. I step back to let her in.

My mind is on overdrive. Vivian is here in the flesh. As if my body has just realized it, every nerve ending comes alive.

Vivian looks around the studio, and I wonder what she thinks. Normally, she’d make a funny, sarcastic remark by now, but nothing is normal between us anymore.

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