A Line In The Sand

Row

Backstage there is wild praise for our duet—and Riley dismisses all of it. He's intent on having the car pulled around and getting us the hell out of here. I am quiet, because I know something is wrong, but I don't know what. The walls Riley is putting up aren't cold; they aren't angry, they are simply...there. Him on one side of his thoughts and feelings, me on the other.

Until Aidan Mostellar steps in front of us in the downstairs lobby of the studio.

He gives Riley a crooked grin. "I get it now. That's some serious chemistry you two have. I shouldn't have gotten in between that. Especially just for fun. But all's well that ends well, right?"

He actually holds out his hand, for Riley to shake.

Riley isn't wearing his glasses, so in all honesty, I'm shocked that he so accurately and fiercely grasps my wrist before my fist makes contact with Aidan's throat. (He's really tall, I would have lost all my leverage trying to punch up toward his face.)

But grab it he does, swinging me around rather forcefully to face him.

"No," Riley growls at me. "We just buried this," He slings his other hand between Aidan and I. "Let it rot, don't light it on fire."

"Fuck," I exhale, but the word helps to expel my anger. I nod. He lets my balled fist go, but he holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he slowly draws me around Aidan without even looking at him.

In the car, he doesn't speak, and I itch all over from indecision. I don't know how to behave. It would be so easy to fall into our old pattern of me apologizing and bowing and scraping in order to appease him. To cry and say that I am sorry, that I was scared and I didn't know what to do, so I went with the strategy than seemed to always work for me—once upon a time—I acted the bad-ass.

But it's not an act. It's just me. There are two kinds of people in this world, when their back is against the wall. The kind that run, and the kind that stand. I stood and fought for us, tonight. Riley has fought for us so many times in the past, and sometimes our fight means we ended up fighting each other. But not tonight. Tonigh, he's retreating behind his walls, and I don't know what that means.

We've barely made it into our suite at the hotel before our phones start ringing off the hook. I power my down. There was a time I wouldn't have, but at least I've learned this—Riley comes first.

"Riley,"

"Yeah. I know. We need to talk," he says, as he declines a call from Trace. But he's about to toss his phone down, but Angelo Moran is calling now.

Angelo Moran has seen our performance. His call has to be good news.

Riley curses. His thumb wavers to decline the call, but I place my hand on his wrist, now. "Take the call, baby. Please."

"Rowan—"

"It's just a call. I promise, I won't ask you to agree to anything. I just want his feedback."

Riley sighs, thumbs and says, "Angelo. You saw?"

"I saw. I just tried to call Row, with my congrats, but you and I need to have a different conversation. What the hell, Riley? That was not the direction we discussed."

"I realize."

"What?" What the hell are they talking about. What direction? Has Riley been talking to Angelo about a possible project for us? Did they have some other launch plans? Why hasn't Riley told me this? Probably because it was just vague conversation and he didn't want to get my hopes up.

Riley looks weary. He pinches his temples. "Angelo, Rowan is on speaker. She's not aware of the conversation we had some weeks ago."

"Well, this is awkward. And entirely your fault, Riley."

Riley nods at the floor. "I realize," he repeats.

"What conversation?"

"Okay, kids, I'm going to let you guys talk and I'll hit you back—"

"Wait, Angelo," I say, snatching the phone from Riley. "What did you think? Of our performance."

"Row, I can't tell you how damn proud I was, seeing you with that guitar, like you'd never quit it. Not to mention, it was an impressive song. Real depth. You two...you've got stage chemistry. It was...something, for sure."

I give Riley a wide smile that he doesn't return. "Something Colossal might want to pursue?"

It's insane how my heart speeds up as the quiet unfurls on Moran's end.

"Southern Gothic is not a Colossal stronghold, Rowan. Not to mention, you are a born and bred LA native, and  Riley is British—those factors bring up questions of authenticity..."

Riley is carefully watching my face. I can feel it heating with the sting of rejection. Angelo Moran is like a grandfather to me. An indulgent, protective grandfather whom I honestly can't ever remember telling me no, when it came to my musical career. Hell, he was the one who convinced my dad to let Strut sign.

"You don't think we sounded authentic?"

"It's not just about what I think. It's about what they think in Nashville. And Muscle Shoals. And Athens. And Memphis, and New Orleans, and even Atlanta."

"Angelo, all I have to say about that is one name: Keith Urban. When you can bring the goods, it doesn't matter where you're from. Southern gothic, country, folk music fans respond to good music. Period."

Riley is smiling at me, and Angelo chuckles. "Christ, you're morphing into Riley and he's growing more like you. Do you two even know where the talent ends and the management begins?"

"No, but isn't that a good thing?"

"Honestly? I'm not so sure about that. You've already learned how hard this business is on relationships. Do you know how much harder it is when both partners are the talent? As much as I might care about you and Riley, or enjoy seeing your musical explorations on a personal level, I can't develop a project for you two. Because I don't think relationships bear up well under that kind of strain, and I'm not willing to risk that for you, and frankly I'm not willing to invest in another false start with you. I'm a businessman, and I know you have much more potential for Colossal, and maybe even a safer, more predictable future for you and Riley, if I position you in your wheelhouse. What I'm interested in doing for you is reuniting Strut."

I'm shocked. That is...the very last thing I would consider possible. Riley's recovery is a miracle, but in my mind it was much less unlikely than a Strut reunion. Not because I don't love my girls, but because when I was in a bad place, I screwed them all, and they don't exactly have trust for me. Harper and Sadie hardly speak to me, and even though Chili is my best friend and probably always will be, but how could I ever expect Sadie and Harper want me to be their front ever again? Especially when they have their own gig now, and my heart wouldn't be in it. And even if Chili would be willing to get the band back together, she and Riley are never going to work well together again. And I would never even consider another manager. Wherever I'm going, whatever I'm doing, Riley is an intimate part of my personal and professional life.

I look across the room at Riley, who is sitting on the couch, his once again bespectacled eyes following me patiently as I pace. Strut was fun, and I loved our time, but the music I made with them feels like a snake skin I shed long ago. After everything that's happened to me, I can't imagine writing songs about parties and hookups and teenage rebellion. Every creative corpuscle in me burns for the music Riley and I make. It's so much more meaningful to me, and I know it's resonant.

I'm not nineteen and high and mad at the world anymore. I've grown up, and outgrown what I made with Strut.

I shake my head. "I don't think—"

"Give us some time, Angelo? Row and I have been concentrating so much on recovery on so many levels, we haven't seriously discussed her future musical aspirations. I'm not sure how much of Frey you actually saw, but I assure you, the performance was completely impromptu. Row maneuvered it only to keep Frey from...an unpleasant dive into past difficulties. A brilliant redirection, but certainly not a planned strategy for her next career move."

Angelo breathes a sigh of relief. "I was hoping you'd say something like that. Row, this is a serious offer. I would definitely get into a Strut reunion with you."

Riley and I exchange a glance. I shake my head and shrug to show him I'm not into this. He nods in acceptance, but lifts his hand in front of him, as if to prevent me from declining Moran too hastily. "Options, darling," he mouths.

"I'll think about it," I say slowly. "But the girls don't have a whole lot of love for me...and Harper and Sadie are working on some new material with songwriters."

"Harper and Sadie's project is shelved. Our country division?  We're divesting it. They are smart girls. They'll jump at the opportunity of a Strut reunion. With three of you on board and Girl Band in flux, it will be hard for Chili to say no. Beside, she's like you. She's a rocker not an actor, at heart."

Riley is avoiding my gaze. "I hadn't heard about Sadie and Harper," I grit through my teeth.

Jesus Christ, he's releasing Harper and Sadie? That is my fault. They were part of a Grammy-winning band, and now they are a failed country duo. All because I selfishly turned my back on them. Just like I'm doing to Chili, all over. Moran is right. I'm single-handedly responsible for torching all their careers. Maybe I should think about this opportunity. Maybe I owe them that much.

"You and Riley should talk things over."

"Apparently."

"Row, it really was a great song you two wrote. But the indie market is not for you, okay? Trust me. Shop the song out to a Nashville publishing house, get your girls together and come home to Colossal. You won't regret it."

"Thanks for the advice, Angelo."

"You bet. Call me when you're ready to rock, Sweetheart."

When I hang up, Riley is wiping his glasses, readying himself to be a sharp as possible.

The air in the room is charged in a way I haven't felt in a long, long time. It feels like the edge of a frightening storm about to break between us.

He rises. "I was not keeping the news about Harper and Sadie or about Moran's interest in reuniting Strut from you for any personal, manipulative purpose. Only a professionally strategic one. I planned to tell you after the press tour. When you were feeling more like yourself, more in touch with your career again. I wanted you to be in your own place of your own strength, when you heard was Moran's been thinking. Otherwise, I was worried that you would feel responsible for Sadie and Harper's release, and feel pressured to consider Moran's offer only on their needs and not what you want.  A Strut reunion? It's a decision you must make with your head, and not your heart. You can't rush into that, and hurt your friends all over again, if it's not what you truly want, Rowan."

I prickle with irritation. I am not some fickle, irresponsible artist, dabbling and dismissing everything I try. Okay, maybe I have done that, but I know what I want this time. It's Riley and me and our music. But shit. Moran is right. A Strut reunion would probably be a big deal. It would be the biggest deal of Harper and Sadie and Chili's lives, for sure. And Riley is right. If I bring back Strut, I have to stick. Like at least hardcore for a decade. After that, things might change naturally, but we'd have to work hard just like SkidMarcs, just like Soundcrush did for their defining eras. Dammit. There is so much running through my brain, I've nearly forgotten exactly where Riley and I are, in this tense conversation. Oh, right he was defending his reasons for not telling me about Moran's ideas.

"It was not your call to make, when to deliver Moran's offer."

"It wasn't an offer, not until tonight. It was more a query of where your head might be.And am I wrong? Is guilt and obligation to Harper, Sadie and Chili not the main theme going through your head, right now?"

I take a step toward him. We are right in each other's faces.  "Get out of my head."

He reaches for me, sliding his hand into my hair. "Not the way it works, love. In your corner, in your bed, in your head, I'm here to stay, remember?"

"You kept something from me."

"I have always delivered your options to you at the right time. Have I ever steered you wrong, professionally?"

He hasn't. And he isn't wrong. I do feel guilty about Sadie and Harper and Chili. My head and my heart definitely aren't in the same place, when it comes to thinking about Moran's offer.

And even though he's touching me tenderly, I don't like the way we are squared off, as if for battle.

I pull his hand from my hair, hold it in mine. Reluctantly, he lets me lead him over to the sofa, allows me to be his support as he lowers himself. He hates that—when his cane is not in reach and he has to depend on me for balance. But I don't care right now. I want to get down to what's really causing the tension between us, right now.

"I can't even think about Strut right now. Not until we deal with the elephant in the room. What was going on with you, onstage? Why did you leave me there alone? Were you just freaked out by how huge, how good it was?"

He won't look at me now. He eases back onto the cushions and stares at the ceiling. "No. I loved it. I loved the audience, the way all their focus was drawn down on us. I loved the way it felt—effortless, flawless. I loved the way you sounded and you moved and you looked at me. I loved the whole goddamn world seeing us, seeing how fucking good we are together."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I can't."

"You can't what?"

"I can't do what you want me to do, Rowan. I can't form a band with you. I can't go down that road as an artist with you."

"Because of your injuries? Because of your..." I refuse to call a minor shuffle in his gait a disability. "Because of the way you walk, using a cane? If it's that—"

"It's not that. I'm not that vain or insecure"

I rub his forearm. "I wasn't implying that. I only meant, if you need more time to recover, the music will wait for us."

"It's not that, either."

Even in profile, I can see the abstraction in his eyes. He's playing some scene out upon the ceiling. He gulps in air painfully, as if someone had just punched him in the gut. That's when I realize what ever he's thinking, it's not about him. Or me.

"Why?" I ask flatly.

"I just...can't," he says.

"Riley. That's not good enough. You know that's not good enough. Help me understand—"

"I promised," he whispers.

I don't understand.

"Promised who? Trace, you mean? I know you have a contract, but you don't owe Soundcrush your life. If anyone would understand the music running through you, it's those five people. Trace especially."

He shakes his head. "It's not about them. It's about me. I vowed."

"Riley, what in our vows have anything to do with this? Besides aren't you the one always saying that we're building a new pact?"

"That's not what I mean. I'm trying to tell you, I made a vow."

"What did you vow to me that prevents us from pursuing our music?"

He's still staring at the ceiling. "Not to you, darling. To Priscilla."

He has never said her name to me in conversation, and it's hard to describe the way her name hits me now. It's easiest and truest to say, it hurts all over my body.

When I've asked about her, he only says her or she or sometimes, if absolutely required in conversation with other people, my former bandmate.

I've heard him speak more openly of her only once. To Dev, drunk in a club, when he he had no idea I'd come up to the bar and was standing behind him. Dev was giving him a hard time for checking out another, much younger woman, and Riley said, "Sod off. I'm not hot for her. I'm considering whether to drag her round to her mum's flat to get her out of her. She can't be more than sixteen, and she looks for all the wold just like Sil."

"Ah, your...first love? Sil? Priscilla was her name, then?"

Riley had nodded, "Sweet 'Silla. The one I loved to death."

He'd tossed back his entire drink, turned round, saw me there, and said. "Row. Bloody hell, you look awful. Don't chunder on the bar, darling, it will make the tabloids by morning. Dev, find Bridge, I'm calling for the car, Row's done for."

I finally understand why he never says her name. He must be aware of how he sounds, when he says it. He forms her name with such attention, such sweet precision. Not like my name, the Row he uses so casually, or the Rowan he uses to get my attention.

Her name is only love on his lips.

I feel like chundering right now.

"I don't understand. You won't consider making music with me, because you did it with her?"

"I've been there, done that, and it was beyond a disaster, Rowan. It was a goddamn tragedy. I vowed on her grave, I was leaving that life behind. All of it. The music, the drugs, the craving of the stage and the crowd and the adoration. The need to stoke my creativity with highs and the awful hurts I inflicted with the lows. I vowed I'd never risk another friend, another lover, by getting lost in that world. It's why I do what I do from the other side. To protect the people I care about, to keep them safe. It's why I do what I do for you, darling. I can't do that from the spotlight."

So much makes sense to me now. Riley's extreme care-taking. His controlling behavior. His frantic need to see me clean, free from drugs, and full of health. He feels responsible for Priscilla's death, and therefore he feels responsible for my life.

"Riley, I am not Priscilla." I say gently.

"I know that," he snaps. "You are stronger, Rowan. But perhaps I'm not. What happens if I let go, become the old Rye? You have no clue what I was, Rowan. I was an addict. I was egotistical. I was self-absorbed. I was destructive. To myself. To...everyone around me."

"Riley, you've simmered in the same sinful places as rockstars for fifteen years. Worked harder, been under more stress than your clients. You haven't willingly taken anything stronger than a drink or an aspirin in fifteen years. You know who you are—"

"You're bloody damn right I know who I am. I'm a man who does not break my promises. I promised her, Rowan. I vowed on her grave."

He's hurting me. Oh my god, he's hurting me so much right now. I finally understand the visceral pain I've caused him with my affair. Because right now, I feel utterly betrayed. But I need to understand exactly what he's trying to tell me.

"What exactly did you promise Priscilla, Riley?"

"I vowed I'd never love another the way I loved her—with the abandon of the stage, the musician's life. The only thing that remains of me that was hers and not yours? Is the man I was, sharing her stage. He died with her. He's buried in her grave."

"That is not true!" I yell at him. "The man with the guitar in my bed, making love to me with his song. You are not hers! You are mine."

He reaches for me because he knows the tears are coming, maybe before I do. He pulls me close, cupping my face, forcing me to look at him.

"Listen to me, darling. The songs we write, is a different thing. A private thing. An expression of our love. But I can't be what you what me to be on the stage, on the road, in the business. I can't be the artist, the talent, the one without cold hard perspective. If I do, I'm terrified of what might happen. Of who I might become.  Of what I might do to you. I can't protect you from inside the bubble. Can you not understand?"

I shake my head hard, wrenching from his grasp. "I understand, Riley. I understand better than you. I understand that you have to choose. Her or me." I leap up, ripping my jacket off, flinging it across the room. I feel too hot, too confined. I'm having a heart attack or something. God, I feel like I could throw myself off the balcony just to make this stop. It's worse even than the moment the doctor told me my baby was dead in that same moment I knew I actually wanted my baby. This is worse than the moment I realized I loved my husband while another man was screwing me from behind.

This is like the moment the nurse told me that Riley was in emergency surgery for life-threatening injuries, and all the moments I sat in the waiting room without word if he was dead or alive.

This hurts like that. Our love feels broken, bleeding, threatened.

I pace and pace, trying to walk off the pain.

Why is it so hard when the person you love has loved someone else? I understand Kat now, in a way I maybe never had. This awful feeling of not being the one. Of feeling like a substitute, a replacement. At least Kat does know for sure that Trace chose her. He surrendered what he had with Ashlynn willingly. But looking at Riley staring at me with such pity, I know the truth. He was angry with Priscilla when she died, but he would have forgiven her cheating, just like he forgave me. He would be with her now, maybe rich and famous, sharing her stage, but he won't share a stage with me.

"Darling'," Riley says, rising.

"Riley, don't spin this. Just... be with me like you know we are supposed to be."

"I am with you."

"In a band. You and me."

He holds his hands out to me. "I can't."

"You won't. You're choosing a promise you made to a dead girl over a life with me."

Riley nods, takes his glasses off.

He nods? What does the nod mean? How can he be so calmly cleaning his lens? While I'm stand here dying?

"Rowan, you abused drugs from the moment I met you, and I couldn't stop myself from loving you, even though it was my one trigger, the one thing I believed I couldn't tolerate in a lover ever again. Then your habits got worse and you put your health in danger with starvation and diet pills, when you knew I was terrified you'd end up like my dead fiancée, and I fought you constantly, to make you see the dangers,  because I love you you so much I would rather be in constant conflict with you than see you dead on a bathroom floor. You partied over and over, recklessly, while I begged you from another country to curb your behavior before it broke us, and you ignored me. Every goddamn time, I excused your behavior, enabled you. Loved you despite it. Then you fucked another man, and even that wasn't enough to kill my love for you. Darling, you aren't second best. You are the one I can't stop loving, but you can't ask me to erase Priscilla, how I once felt about her,  what happened, and what it made me. Either you love me for the man I am today, standing here in front of you, or you don't. You must choose me as I am—what I am and am not capable of giving you—or I'm not the love of your life. I'm not the one drawing the line in the sand here. That's you."

There is a long moment where all the air falls flat of the charge in the room, and I consider everything he's said. There's truth in it, but there is no truth that can stop the pain I feel right now.

"Riley, I need you to answer one question for me, okay? With absolute honesty."

"Alright," he says, and I almost want to laugh at how reasonable he sounds. Can he not understand that he's breaking my heart?

"With absolute honesty. You swear?"

"Yes. I swear to you, Rowan."

"Priscilla—do you still think about her? Feel her?"

He blinks. That wasn't the question he thought I was going to ask. I see his eyes moving side to side.

He rubs a hand over his lips. That's his tell, when he doesn't want to answer a question.

"You swore!" I nearly yell at him.

He tosses his glasses down on the table. He closes his eyes. "I talk to her. In my head. Over the years...she comes and goes. But yes, something of her is still with me."

"You talk to her?"

"Sometimes."

"She talks back?"

"I'm not insane, Rowan," he snaps. "It's a comfort mechanism."

I can't stop the tears that are streaming down my face. In a million years, I would never expected him to say that. He talks to her? In his head? Does she talk back? Of course she does. I know exactly what he means. Sometimes I can hear my dad's voice in my head so plainly, advising me, cautioning me. The people we love best are a part of a us, and we carry them with us, know them so well we can predict their help, their support, their unconditional love.

Riley and Priscilla had a love like that. So strong that she remains with him, even after all these years.

"I know you're not insane. I get it. She was the love of your life."

He shakes his head. His voice is hoarse. "I don't think that's fair, darling."

"Fair?!?!" I scream at him. "Fair!?!!"

"No, it's not fair for you to say that. I understand that you've truly only ever loved me, since nineteen. But I had another life. I loved her, and she died, and she made me who I am in this new life."

"The man who won't love me to the fullest? The man that saves his song for another woman?"

"No, the man that loves you better than I loved her."

"How can you say that when you know you're holding a part of yourself back from me? You're breaking my heart, Riley," I cry, gripping my chest. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

"I'm sorry, darling. But breaks can heal. We know this, better than most. We can get past this. You can accept this limitation of mine, like I have accepted your betrayal. You can have a musical career. With Strut, or as a solo artist. Just not with me."

"Because you still love Priscilla more than you love me."

He sighs. "Because I loved her, and I made a vow never to repeat the mistakes I made with her. I won't break it. My love for you is the very thing that requires I keep it."

That's when I realize, he's not going to yield. He's not even sorry that he loves Priscilla too much to betray his vow to her. I have to accept her driving influence in his life, just like he accepted my affair forever changed our relationship.

"I never knew. I never knew you still...exist with her, in your mind. You're putting her above me, you realize that? I can't even look at you right now, Riley. I feel like I might go insane or die or... murder." I whisper.

"I do understand how you feel right now, Rowan. It's the way I felt, after Mosteller. Shall I leave?" he says quietly.

I nod, and I trudge into the bedroom of the suite, and close the door. He gets his things. And he goes.

And he doesn't come back. Not that night.

I lie awake in the bed I thought we'd be making love in. Instead I cry all night because the man I love is faithful to his dead fiancée. He would share her stage but he won't share mine.

In the morning he texts me. He wants to know if I want him on the private flight.

Go home, I tell him. I need time.

He tries to send Ari or his PA to accompany me on the rest of the tour, but I refuse.

Don't worry, Riley. I'm not going to cheat on you with Aidan. But you can tell Priscilla I said hi, when you talk to her. I shoot off in rapid thumbing of bitterness.

He doesn't reply immediately but when he does, he says, We've come so far. You are my life, Rowan. Please try to forgive me. Stay with me in this better love.

Me: You don't get to direct how I feel right now.

Him: I suppose that's true. When you want me, I am right here waiting.

I put on dark sunglasses to hide my puffy eyes and a hat to keep me anonymous. I meet Chili on the elevator—she's stayed here, too, becuase of the Girl Band press junket we did yesterday, before my appearance on Frey. She glares suspiciously at my glasses.

"Where's Riley?"

"Gone," I manage to whisper.

"You had a fight?"

I simply nod.

"Because of that bullshit on Frey last night? Oh my god, did he punch you? Is that what the glasses and hat are about?"

"Of course not," I hiss.

She snatches of the glasses, easily reads my night of despair, curses and says, "He punched you alright, even if he didn't do it with his fists. Wanna share a ride to the airport?"

I nod silently. We take a limo with a fully stocked bar cart. In ten minutes, I'm telling Chili and a bottle of vodka all my woes.