Page 62 of It Happened on a Sunday
“And it was amazing. Jarrod was always the one to get the party started. People—women especially—gravitated toward him whenever he was in the vicinity. He was charming and funny and always super kind to everyone he met. No matter how tired he was or how many things he still had to get through in his day, if someone wanted to talk to him, he always stopped and gave them a few minutes. It was actually one of his best traits. And he had a lot of really good traits.”
Until he didn’t.
My heart starts beating faster as I let myself think about Jarrod, my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in even though it’s been five years since I last saw him. Then again, those five years have been rife with times I wanted to flee…and times I had to fight instead.
“Somewhere around our two-year mark, things started to change for the both of us. The album I put out that year really took off, and the accompanying tour sold out all over the world. Between merch and ticket sales, it became one of the highest grossing tours of the year, beating out almost everyone else…including Jarrod.
“He was happy for me—he wasn’t the type to care about which of us was doing better as long as we were doing what we loved. That never changed, or at least, if it did, he never acted like it. Jarrod had a lot of flaws, but professional jealousy wasn’t one ofthem. He loved his job, and he loved that I loved mine.”
It’s hard to think about that time for so many reasons. Not just because I was young and in love, but because it was back before I had stage fright. Back when I couldn’t write fast enough. When I couldn’t wait to get onstage every night and share the energy of the crowd.
Still, I force myself to fight through the pain and the memories to the truth beneath.
“But those jobs started taking us away from each other for longer and longer periods of time. We tried to coordinate our tours so I could accompany him and he could accompany me. Eventually, though, it became impossible. There were too many places to be—photo shoots, interviews, tours, appearances, the recording studio. We were apart a lot more than we were together, and though we lived together at his place in California and my place in Chicago, it wasn’t the same.”
A gust of wind whips through the trees around us. It’s warm and dry, but it has goosebumps pricking my skin and a shiver working its way down my spine. “You okay?” Sly drops my hand, and I immediately feel the loss—until he pulls me into his arms so he can rub his hands up and down my back. “Do you want to go have a cup of coffee or tea somewhere?”
“I can’t imagine anything worse than sitting in public while I’m trying to tell you this story,” I say, ducking my head to avoid his eyes—and whatever he must currently be thinking of me. “The fact that you’re here while I’m telling it is already two more people talking about this than I’m comfortable with.”
“We can stop, then.” He puts a hand under my chin and tilts my gaze up just so, until I can’t help but meet his soulful brown eyes. “I feel like you’ve been hurt enough. The last thing I want to do is hurt you any more.”
I scan his face, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth. I find nothing but sincerity in the kind look he directs my way.Sincerity and concern and a willingness to let me lead the way through the minefield of my past.
It’s that concern that gives me the strength to say, “I’d rather tell you everything now. You deserve to hear the truth from me instead of reading some gossip site’s version of it.”
My stomach revolts, my whole body turning to ice at just the thought of going back there. But I know if I don’t do it now, I’ll never tell him. And that silence will rot whatever might become of this before it ever has the chance to become.
“That’s what I’m telling you, Sloane. I’m not going to look this up on some gossip site. I can wait for whenever you’re ready—”
“That’s whatI’mtellingyou,” I interrupt, because my gut tells me it’s now or never. I’d rather blow the mines all at once than wait for them to go off one by one. “I’m ready now.”
“Okay, then.” He slowly pulls away. “You want to keep walking?”
What I really want is for him to put his arms around me again. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for someone who’s spent years perfecting the art of not being touched.
I don’t need Sly, but I do wanthim. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
So instead of asking him to hold me again, I simply nod and start down the path before us. I’ve barely taken two steps before Sly reaches for my hand, locking our fingers together. “Just because you have to do this,” he tells me, “doesn’t mean you need to do it alone.”
Considering that’s pretty much the opposite of what I’ve believed for my entire career, I don’t know what to say. So I just nod again and keep walking.
Above us, wind dances through the trees, making the leaves chitter and the branches sway. But I’m already lost in the past, in those last terrifying and terrible years.
“Long-distance relationships are hard,” Sly prompts when acouple of minutes pass without me saying anything.
“It’s not the long distance that was hard. It’s that Jarrod…wasn’t okay. Like really not okay. For a long time, I didn’t know anything about it.”
“He didn’t tell you?” Sly asks. “Or he didn’t know?”
“I wish I knew. I mean, he walked the line between fast and too fast, drunk and too drunk. Reckless and really, really fucking dangerous. He told me it made him feel alive, like he wasn’t so alone in the world.”
“Alone?” Sly repeats. “How could he feel alone when he was with you?”
Chapter 27
Sloane
The question—and the way he asks it—melts another layer of ice deep inside me. It’s what I used to ask Jarrod when he let himself get too out of control and I had to try to reel him back in.
