Page 18 of That Weekend in Paris
“My pleasure. I’m heading over at six-thirty. The show starts at eight. Do you want to ride with me, or—”
I want to. I very much want to. But somehow I feel like maybe it will be better for him to be alone in the ride over, have the time to mentally prep for the show. “I’d love to,” I say. “But I have a few things I need to do. Emails and stuff.”
“Oh. Okay. No problem. So wish me luck?”
“Good luck,” I say. “Not that you need it. Okay, then. See you.” And Ihead for my room before I can change my mind.
Klein
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
?Mark Twain
IT AMAZES ME that I still get this nervous before a show.
I don’t know why, really, because I can mostly do it with my eyes closed I’ve done it so many times. I think what gets me is the expectation of giving people what they’ve come for, and I have to admit I’m never one hundred percent certain I’ll be able to do that. It’s as if every time is the first time.
Inside my room, I consider taking a nap first but then decide on the shower since I feel completely wide awake now. I stand beneath the pulsating spray, letting it beat against my face, trying to blank my mind of everything except what’s before me tonight.
But my thoughts go immediately to Riley, and then I realize that for most of the time I have been with Dillon today, the awful sense of anguish I’ve been feeling got put on hold for a little while at least. Thinly veiled, but still not at the front of my thoughts as it has been for weeks now.
The finality of Riley’s decision is the weight I can’t seem to get off my chest. I recognize the emotion as grief. As full-blown and devastating as if I had actually known and held in my arms the child the two of us made together. Somehow, not having known that small life seems worse.
I get out of the shower, towel off, and walk back into the bedroom. I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, contemplating the one thing I know I should not be considering doing before a concert. But of its own volition, my hand reaches for my phone on the nightstand. I click into the Home screen, tap phone, and then Riley’s name in the list of recent calls. My heart pounds as I listen to it ring. I want her to pick up and yet dread the fact that she might do so.
“Hello.”
When her voice comes across the line, I close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she says. It’s clear that she’s not happy to hear from me.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” I ask.
“What is there to talk about, Klein? I think everything has been said, hasn’t it?”
“No, actually, it hasn’t.”
“You’ve said everything you needed to say, right?”
“Riley, I don’t want to fight with you. That’s not why I called.”
“Then why?”
“Because. . .I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about—”
“Just stop, Klein. There’s nothing to think about. It’s done. Over. There’s nothing you can do to change it.”
I press my lips together, suppressing the instant knife of rage that slices through my chest. What I really want to do is ask her how she could have done such a thing. But I know that won’t change anything, so I say in as even a voice as I can manage, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Klein. It’s not as if you care about me. If this is about your guilt, you need to just let it go. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t give you a choice in the matter.”
“It doesn’t make me feel better at all,” I say.
“You’re at the top of the world, Klein. You don’t need me. You made that very clear. Enjoy your life. Enjoy what you made for yourself. And don’t call me again. Please.”
The resounding click in my ear tells me she’s hung up. “Damn.” I shout the word, hurling my phone across the room where it bounces off the far wall and lands on the rug-covered floor with a thud.
My chest tightens, and it feels as if my heart will beat a hole in my chest. What had I expected, though? I’m the one who broke up with her. I’m the one who told her we didn’t have a future.
