Page 22 of The Rockstar

Ayear ago, when news of Ryder playing at a small music festival and getting it on with a virtual unknown broke, his label wasn’t happy. They called him to the office at a time when he was equally furious and heartbroken.

A bad time for all the executives, especially since they had forgotten that he was contractually obligated to churn out just one more album for them. After a full decade, Ryder transferred and signed to Jensen’s label. His contract wasn’t as toxic and suffocating, and Ryder made sure no one held him by the throat anymore.

Before the release of his studio album, “V”, which he dedicated to me, he posted a video. He asked his fans not to follow me, hound me, or send me hate mail.

“Her only crime,” he said, “is loving me. So if you’re a real fan, please let her be.”

It went viral. And slowly, they listened. Some hate comments on my bookstore’s Instagram account haven't stopped, but his own fans defend me. That’s something.

So now, he does what he wants. He performs at small, intimate venues. There’s not even an announcement. Patrons and diners would be surprised to find that the one serenading them is none other than Ryder Cross. A fan made an account, posting videos of where Ryder was recently spotted.

He was true to his word, too. He pulled back from every photoshoot, every talk show, every late-night guest appearance he didn’t absolutely need. All because he wanted to protect me—out of sight, out of mind, and all that.

He still breathes music. But the public rarely hears about him unless he’s had another surprise performance.

His new album drops next week. I’ve heard it, every single track, and I can’t wait for everyone else to listen to it.

We’re at a charity event, where he’s teasing a few of his new songs. Just like his last release, this album is stripped down.

He finishes the last note of “You”, the album closer and the one he wrote on the night I came back to him, but he doesn’t step down from the stage. Ryder has this look of uncertainty I haven’t seen before as he stands and leans his guitar against the stool.

Wrapping a hand around the mic, he smiles at the audience. “I haven’t been this nervous since fifth grade when I had to sing while dressed as a cabbage.”

The audience laughs, but Ryder doesn’t smile. With one deep breath, he walks down the stage, heading to me. The spotlight trails his every step, and the closer he gets, the more difficult it is to breathe.

What is he doing?

The murmurs around us dim, and I’m only aware of him. Of the way he reaches into his jacket pocket. Of the slight tremble in his hands. Of the way he drops to one knee, right there in front of me.

Gasps ripple through the audience.

I’m frozen, shaking to my core, sweat dotting my forehead.

“Vivian,” he says, voice thick. “I knew it the second I saw you wet and shivering and pissed off. And I was a goner the second you told me you didn’t like me. You’re the home I didn’t know I was looking for. Will you marry me?”

Tears blur everything. My lips tremble.

I nod wildly before I can speak. “Yes,” I whisper, then louder, “Yes!”

He stands, slides the ring on my finger, his arms around me. He kisses me in that way of his that makes me melt. And when he pulls back, he smiles the smile that cracks me open. “I love you, Vivian Lane. You just made the best decision of your life.”

“I love you too, Ryder. And it better be.”

The End

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