Diversions and Denial

Row 4 months later

You'd think I would be used to the cold by now, but as a California girl I've rarely spent this much time in Colorado, where the weather can turn wintry at night despite it being well into spring. I'm waiting by the back door of a bar—I stopped caring about the names of the places we play at least six months ago— bouncing on my toes, all of our equipment at my feet, unpacked from our "bus"—the Aerostream camper we bought a few months ago to save on travel expenses. We're very nearly late to our gig because of bad weather and road hazards. Riley wanted to go in ahead of me to smooth it over with the bar manager.

I don't get that, but whatever.

I chafe my hands together and look down at them. They look pretty bad. Chipped polish, ragged cuticles, raw and red from the cold and the playing and the set-up and break-down. I always kept my nails short but changed the design every couple of weeks. I haven't had a real manicure in...god only knows when. Or a salon haircut. Or a tan.

Not that I've needed a tan.

We didn't go to Hawaii for Christmas this year. Riley kept adding dates and delaying making a solid vacation plan. We didn't even fly home to LA. We kept right on touring, because the gigs paid a little better over the holiday season, on account of not as many people willing to spend the week leading up to Christmas and after playing to a bunch of sad drunks that have nowhere better to go during the holidays than a bar.

My mom wasn't happy that we didn't come to Hawaii, but my dad was, ironically, supportive. He understands now that we have to find our own way. He told my mom it's our time to hustle, and that there will be many more Christmases in the future like the last one.

Christmas weekend, Riley and I rented a cheap BRB cabin in the mountains of West Virginia, and we stayed in bed for three days, eating hot pockets and pizza rolls and watching Christmas movies. Riley gave me a beautiful vintage diamond crest ring that he found an estate sale, and he put it on my left ring finger—like a re-engagment. I gave Riley a guitar owned by Elvis Costello, who is one of his musical heroes.

It wasn't a bad Christmas, but it was way more subdued than I'm used to. As much as I love Riley, and I have to admit...a West Virginia cabin is not the same as Hawaii. I missed my family. I missed the big crazy celebration. But I understand Riley just wasn't up for it this year. He's exhausted. Not so much physically, but emotionally.

I stop myself from thinking of the reasons why. Soon we'll be in Florida for spring break gigs, and that will be fun. The weather will give us both some energy.

Or maybe unexpected events will take us back to LA. That would be good--really good. We haven't stepped foot in our home in a year.

Riley comes out the back door of the bar, pocketing something in his pea coat, his other hand gripping his octopus cane. He manages to get by without it on stage because of the way we enter and exit—our hands tightly wound to the forearms— but he still needs it for balance when navigating steps, ramps and pretty much anywhere that the terrain is unfamiliar. His eyes go wide at the sight of me shivering, shaking, and bounding, with all the equipment scattered around me.

"Silly girl, you didn't have to do this by yourself." His smile is somewhat unfocused as he reaches down while he leans on his cane, picking up a weighty amp with his other hand. He sways but eventually finds his balance.

"Just thought I'd speed things along," I murmur, slipping inside. Riley can do his half of the heavy lifting, but he's not particularly quick about it, and probably will never be. Though lately I've been wondering if his pace really has to do with his injuries anymore.

We make short work of the simple stage set-up and then I lock myself in the tiny dressing room for a quick self-style.

I'm just about done when my stomach clenches with period cramps. I go into the stall with my train case and confirm that indeed, my period is here. It's a couple of days late, and I was starting to obsess about it, even though I'm on the pill and because of Riley's injury it's probably unlikely I could  accidentally get pregnant.

I take care of the necessary business and find myself staring into the bathroom mirror, wondering if Bridge or I will have a child first.

It was six years ago this month that I had the miscarriage. When it first happened, I didn't think too much about what might have been. I was so young. All the emotions I had about what happened were sad and guilty, so it was easier not to think about. Lately, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't lost that pregnancy. Especially knowing it was Riley's. Would I have kept it? Would I have become a mother at twenty years old?

Probably. Strut was on top of the world then, we'd just won a Grammy, the offers were pouring in. A knocked up frontgirl would have only added to our bad-ass reputation. Back then I was too young and stupid to worry whether I could be in a world-famous band and be a good mom. I would have gone with my heart, and my heart had already told me what I needed to know when I fled that abortion clinic weeks before. I loved Riley. I would have loved our child.

He would have, too. He probably would have been somewhat dismayed at first to learn I was pregnant. Okay, who am I kidding, he would have had serious reservations. We might not have made the best parents together back then, me being so young and immature and him being so fearful and controlling, but he would have loved his child very much. I know he would have. He had no father growing up, and I know he's the kind of man that would never have wanted his own child to grow up without a good dad.

How would it be different now? For two days, I've been playing with the idea that there would be no choice to make. Considering Riley's injuries, conception would be a miracle. A joyous surprise. Not at all like last time.

A pregnancy would mean things would have to change. The road is no place to raise a baby. We'd have to take a break from this endless touring. We'd have to regroup, make a different plan. We'd have to let my family help.

And Riley.

He would have to make some changes. He'd have to. I know he'd want to be the best father he could be.

Riley knocks on the door, and I realize he's no longer warming up. I open it, give him a bright smile and he immediately sees through it and says, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I reach for one of the mugs in his hand—a little hot tea, lemon and brandy. He shuffles in with his own hot toddy.

"Fifteen to show time."

I sip and say nothing. He watches me. I try to warm up with some scales, but my throat feels unusually tight. My voice breaks in a near sob. I turn away from him, sipping the tea, looking out the window into the parking lot. Snow is falling.

"You seem upset," he says mildly. "Is it something we need to talk about before the show?"

"I'm not upset. Just...PMS," I mutter.

"PMS would have been five days ago," he says calmly. "I know you're late. Are you...worried?"

"No. I'm not worried about that." I blink back tears, nodding to the open box of tampons in my train case.

"Ah," he says.

Ah. That's all he says. Riley who always knows what to say. Riley who is never at a loss for words.

"That's all you have to say?" I whirl, sloshing the drink onto my hand.

Riley reaches for his nonexistent glasses, changes the motion to raking his shoulder length hair. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Darling, I honestly don't know what to say. Is this relief that you're not pregnant? Is this...anniversary grief? Or..."

"Or. I think. Or," I whisper, putting the mug down on the counter and covering my face.

But I'm no coward, so I draw my hands down to meet his eyes.

His mouth opens slightly, and then he folds his lips together and then opens them again. Then he rubs his hand across his eyes. "What are you saying, Rowan? That you want a child? Now?"

"I don't know, I just thought...maybe I was... and if I was... I know we would make the best of it, you know. We would both want to do things right—"

He nods, almost angrily. The tenseness in his jaw abrupts my speech.

He's looking at the floor. "Rowan, we can't do this right now. We have a show in ten minutes. Do you understand that we have nothing-absolutely nothing—to fall back on but our reputation as professionals at this point?"

I blink. It's been a very long time since he spoke to me with such condescension.

I step toward him, putting both my work-reddened hands on his forearms. "Hey. Don't do that. If you're scared...don't get defensive—"

"It's not that," he says quickly, earnestly, meeting my eyes. "I'm trying to give you everything you say you want, and now you say you want a baby in the middle of this...mess?"

"This is not a mess that can't be fixed, but this mess is maybe not working out. Maybe it's time move on. Slow down, live a simpler life—"

"We are in no position to have a child—"

"I know money is tight but—"

"You have no fucking idea, Row!" he yells at me, the volume and vehemence pushing me back. "We're a million dollars in debt! The gigs don't even cover the mortgage, let alone your security detail. My salary from the agency doesn't cover the loan payments for the album costs—taken out with the business as collateral. Marley has given me six months to square things at the agency or she's going to tell the guys her concerns, and there's no fucking way I can make that happen! You won't do covers, or endorsements without me, we're not writing songs because we're exhausted from touring, it's already been a year since the album release and its dead in terms of airplay—we're going to have to produce another one if we want to get any radio or chart traction, I have no idea how to make that happen creatively or financially. I can't fucking think, I can't fucking sleep, the only relief I get from soul-crushing anxiety is ninety minutes on stage with you or a half hour inside you or...or..."

"Or what!?!?" I yell at him. "Or what? Everything you're saying is complete bullshit! I'm going to be worth twenty-five million dollars in two years and my father is a goddamn billionaire! You're telling me you can't get a loan if I co-sign it? Or that we can't ask my father for a loan to help us out of a jam with your business with money he won't even miss? Of course we fucking can, you just won't because you're so fucking stubborn—still—about me having more resources than you. So you tell me, for real—what this is about? What is the fucking problem about even discussing the idea of having a baby? Because it is not money, Riley. Just tell me the truth! Tell me what your problem is!"

"You know what the problem is!" He yells back.

The problem is what's in the pocket of his coat. What he engineered to go into the bar alone for, leaving me outside in the cold. He knows it, and I know it.

"When I fucked up, I confessed everything to you, Riley. You need to be honest with me now," I whisper, tears streaming freely now.

We glare at each other. He blinks first.

"Fine. The truth? I'm not fit to be a father. Not right now."

Then he pulls a baggie out of his peacoat. It's full of little green pills.

I want to close my eyes against the sight of those high dose oxycontin, like I have done so many other times in the last few months. So many times, I've witnessed him rise from our bed in the Airstream, or the couch, or dart back inside when we were just leaving, and I always heard the rattle of a pill bottle. Then the rattle stopped, and it became the more subtle shake of a baggie. But I told myself he was just late with his doses, because of our busy schedule. I told myself that Riley is resourceful—of course he would have found a way to get his medication, even though we have been pushing out our return to LA for his doctor's visit and refill prescription.

But I can't deny it now. Not when he's confessing.

"How much?" I whisper.

"Way too much," he admits.

"How often?"

He sighs. "I'm never not high now. I think you know that."

I do. I do know that. I've been in denial about it. It's much easier to fantasize about something else entirely—like a baby—than deal with the reality. And the reality is...our dreams our drowning him.

"Five minutes!" The stage manager yells.

"Will you go to rehab?" I ask quietly.

"It's impossible," he scoffs. "We have dates booked out for two months, we can't cancel—"

"We can."

"We can't," he growls. "This is what you wanted, Row, and I swear to Christ I'm going to make that happen. I'm not going to rehab. We're going out on that stage, and we're going out on the next one, and the next one until we build a real career, and I can play the bloody bills—"

"That's your addiction talking, and you know it," I say quietly.

"You don't get to lecture me on addiction, darling," he says with hatred just like the old days. "I watched you snort coke up your nose for years."

"Yes, when I was younger, I sometimes made bad choices at parties. I never had a coke habit," I remind him. "But that doesn't even matter. All that matters is that I'm clean now, and you're going to get clean."

"That's revisionist bullshit," he spits, "All those diet pills. All those liters of vodka after you cheated on me. Habits. Serious ones. You have no right to condescend."

"Fine, I had a problem with diet pills. And we both drink too much when we are in LA.  Fuck it, let's both get high right now," I snatch the bag from him and shake the pills onto the counter. "I like mine crushed, is that okay with you?" I grab a giant powder brush from my train case and pound two tiny green discs to powder, then I snatch up a metal nail file, scooping it on.

Riley grabs my wrist, preventing me, as I knew he would, from snorting it. "Stop being a child. In one breath you want a baby, the next you decide to do drugs?" He knocks the crushed oxy into the sink turns on the water.

"You don't want me to snort your oxy? Because you're that fucking greedy with your drugs?"

"You know bloody fucking well it's because I love you !" he yells.

"Well, I love you, and you're going to rehab," I snarl and  sweep all the pills onto the floor.

"Goddammit, you—" he bites off the curse he wants to hurl at me. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry.  I really am sorry. For this argument, for letting this get out of hand. Tell you what, darling. I'll cut back. Get down to my prescribed dose. But rehab is not an option," he says firmly. "I have a back injury that's never going away."

"Riley, the way you move? On stage and off? And especially when you make love to me? I don't think you're in pain anymore. Ever. Not for months now. I think you're taking them for the high, the relief from stress. And I think you need to go to rehab and get off them entirely. I mean it," I tell him, opening the door.

"Or what? You'll leave me? We both know that's not true. For better or worse, you know this love is forever. We couldn't quit it if we tried. You're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with this," he shakes the cane at me.

He's not wrong. Leaving him is the last thing on my mind. But I don't know how to fix this. I try reason one more time.

"Riley—if you get clean, maybe the other challenges won't seem so big. Maybe you're just in an emotional spiral brought on by the oxy cycle. You're brilliant, and these financial problems are temporary. I know we can figure this out. But the first step is getting you clear-headed."

"Are you two going to fucking play or what?" the belligerent bar manager yells down the hall.

Riley raises his brow at me. "That's entirely up to you, isn't it? Are you going to get yourself together and perform, or are you going to quit? Again."

It takes everything in me not to tell him to go fuck himself and walk out. I know that's what he wants. He wants me to stomp off to the camper so he can pick those pills up off the floor, and have an excuse to pop a couple more. So instead I take a deep breath and calmly say, "Go introduce us. But we haven't even begun to talk about this. And that's a promise."

He throws his cane down with an angry clatter and pushes past me. Immediately I wonder how he's going to manage the steps to the stage, because we always navigate all those together. I curse. I hastily pick up all the pills, counting them as I go, but I don't flush them down the toilet. What if he does still need his prescribed dose for pain? I curse again and put them back in the baggy, but I tuck it into the pocket of my dress, where he'll literally have to fight me to get it. I remind myself that he did confess his problem to me. He knows he's not living like he wants to. He's just scared. Scared of how he might feel without the pills. And Riley lashes out when he's scared. I wipe my tears. I dab makeup onto the tracks, rapidly ring my eyes with a little more liner, and take a deep breath, wishing very much I could talk to my mother.

If anyone would know what to do, it would be her.

"Nobody said love was easy," I murmur to my sad reflection.

For the first time in a very long time, I have to put on my rockstar to take the stage.