Page 64 of It Happened on a Sunday
I shrug, because as horrible as it is, I came to terms with it a long time ago. “After that, there was no reasoning with him. He had a song at number one for months. In his mind, whatever he was doing was working, and he didn’t want to hear otherwise. Not from me. Not from his manager or his agent. Not from his family or friends. We tried everything—interventions, rehab, therapy. Nothing worked.
“After one of his stints in rehab, which the label forced him into, Jarrod released a song that didn’t do as well as he’d hoped. One he wrote without the help of any drugs or alcohol. Its failure—and byfailure, I mean it hit number five instead of numberone on the Billboard charts—only served to convince him that these drugs and experiences were the only way he could truly access his art. When I tried to convince him otherwise, he would scream that I was jealous and afraid he’d outgrow me.”
My breath hitches in my throat, and Sly squeezes my hand. He doesn’t suggest that I stop this time, and I appreciate that. I can’t fight him and the memories all at once.
“Things got worse after that. I tried to never be home when he was high, but it got to the point where that was impossible. And that meant that I got hurt—not every time or even close to every time. But twice I had to go to urgent care for stitches, and more than once I had to cover bruises with makeup.”
“What—” Sly starts, but I interrupt him.
“And I know I should have left the minute he decided his drugs and the art they helped him create were more important than my safety. But when he was sober, he was still the amazing guy I had fallen in love with when I was nineteen years old. That doesn’t make it okay—I know that. But I just kept telling myself I’d eventually find the key to get him to stop using and then things would go back to normal, whatever that was. And also, I was the only person who could helpregulatehim, keep him somewhat steady. Everyone—his family, his managers, me—was afraid of what would happen if I actually left.”
“What about you?” Sly asks, his voice low and gruff. “Did no one wonder what the fuck would happen toyouif you stayed?”
“He was a genius, making important music that changed the world. I was just a pop star. Of the two of us, he was definitely more important.”
“To whom?” Sly asks, and when our eyes meet, I can’t miss the shattered look in his. Like his heart is breakingfor me. Because I don’t know how to feel about that, I focus on his question.
“To everyone.”
“That isn’t true,” Sly tells me. “People love you—”
“No. People love toobjectifyme. They love to measure themselves against me and place the weight of their expectations on my shoulders. No matter how bad or stressful their lives are, they come tomyshow, and they listen to great music and they dance it out, confident they’re never the most fucked-up person in the room. Because at the end of the night? They haven’t killed two men. And that would make anyone’s sins look small by comparison. At least they aren’t the Black Widow of pop. At least they aren’t me.”
Again, he looks like he wants to argue, but I know if I stop speaking now I’ll never finish. My stomach is churning, my head aching, and five years of therapy feel like they’re dripping down the drain with each word I say.
“Don’t,” I tell him, pressing my fingers to his lips. “I’m okay with him being the legend who died too soon. I’m content to be the woman who drove him to his death.”
“No one has to be okay with that!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not no one.” But even as I say it, the memories rise up around me. They drag me down, drag me under, until it feels like I’m right back in that bedroom with my life shattering around me and no getaway car in sight.
This is the part I’ve been dreading from the moment I started telling this story. This is the moment when my whole life crumbled.
“You’re shaking,” Sly almost whispers. “We should get you somewhere warmer.”
“I know this isn’t what you planned for this date,” I tell him. “But I want to finish this.”
“The only thing I had planned for this date was getting to know you. And I want to hear whatever you want to tell me. I just don’t want you to have hypothermia by the time you’re done.”
I shake my head. “I’m not cold. I’m just…”
“Overwhelmed?” he supplies. “Exhausted?”
“Sad,” I answer with a sigh. “But I want to get it out now. Who knows if I’ll work up the courage to do this again.”
“Okay.” He nods, then squares his shoulders like he’s preparing for a long drive to the end zone. Maybe he is. God knows, it feels like I’ve been trying to make my way to the other side of this for centuries. “What do you need from me?”
“You’re already doing it.” This time, I’m the one who takes his hands.
I close my eyes, and for a second that one horrible night comes back to me in perfect detail. I feel the breeze from the open balcony door, hear the rain pattering against the windowpanes, taste the sweet raindrops against his skin.
I think I always will.
I take a deep breath and hold it for several seconds before blowing it back out. And then I tell Sly…everything.
“Five years ago, I came home to L.A. from a quick Chicago trip only to hear from my manager that he had gotten another girl pregnant. He hadn’t even had the guts to tell me himself. I remember feeling angry… So fucking pissed and hurt and betrayed. And violated. He hadn’t even cared enough to wear a fucking condom when he was screwing around on me. I just…couldn’t believe it. Except, I also totally could.
“I’d put up with everything he’d pulled, everything he’d done, and he’d cheated on me for what? A quick fuck?”
