Page 35 of Love on the Tracks
Rowan barely eats.
She says it’s because she’s nervous, but she doesn’t look nervous. She looks as though she wants to get the fuck out of here. A few people have snapped our picture with their cell phones, but aside from that no one’s bothered us, so I don’t think it’s her thing with the press.
When I’ve tried to coax her into a laugh, I got a grimace, and when I try to get her to talk, I get one-word answers. What’s the deal? Maybe she’s telling the truth and she’s nervous, but when I ask if she wants to go back to my hotel for some, uh, stress relief, she shakes her head and looks toward the door.
I lose my own appetite about halfway through my burger—which is frigging delicious and goes crazy well with the very grown-up s’mores milkshake I have. Yeah, vodka and marshmallows—who woulda thought? But it can only tempt me so far when Rowan looks as if she’s folded in on herself like some kind of origami snowflake.
Why is she unhappy? She’s on top of the world. She was expected to do well, but she’s outperforming everyone’s expectations. They thought she might medal, and she’s got a decent hold on first place. I thought she’d want to celebrate, and in a splash of narcissism, I was hoping she’d want to celebrate with me. In bed. Or in the shower. Or on the couch. Or any damn where she wanted to—I’d take her there, I’d make it happen.
Maybe that’s what this is about? Now that she’s riding high, this is as far as she wants things to go with me? I’ve given her a boost and I know the sponsors have been calling, so are we through now she’s looking at gold?
The bison and the graham crackers and the queso fries mix together in this unsettling way in my stomach. This girl who I thought was for real, who I very much admire and thought about making room for in my life even though I don’t have anything to spare . . . is she like the women who just want to bang a star? Maybe she’s been using me and getting her fangirl fix. She never seemed that way, but she did say before that she was a good liar. Maybe she wasn’t lying then.
I pay the bill, and we head back out to the car. I’d hoped getting out of the public eye would settle her some, but she looks as distant as ever. Flinches when I reach for her hand, so I don’t hold on. Make it more of a crazy awkward grandma pat. God I’m a mess.
“Where can I take you?” I’m holding out a slice of hope she’ll say, “home with you,” but it’s dashed.
“Back to the village, please.”
Right. After a twenty-minute drive in near silence with Rowan staring out the window, her reflection untouchable in the tinted glass, we pull up in front of the gate. Or near as we can get anyway. Her dad is waiting for her, and he doesn’t look pleased. How long has he been standing there? Why didn’t she tell me he was waiting?
“Rowan.” She looks as though she was about to make a run for it, and it makes my stomach riot.
“Yeah?” Her hand’s on the door for god’s sake, and though I’d like to pull her into me, rub her back and hold her close, tell her to relax, I don’t.
“Did I do something wrong?” I can see Nicky doing a facepalm in my head—Way to be cool, Rivera. Not.I don’t feel cool. She’s killing me with this, and she’s been straightforward with me up until now.
“No. I need some time. To myself. I don’t want to be with anyone right now.”
Okay. But her dad is standing right there. If she’d said she wanted to be with family or her team, I’d understand, but she didn’t.
“Zane, I don’t think I can see you right now.”
“Yeah, I get that.”Do I ever.“Can I take you to lunch tomorrow? Something?”
She shakes her head. “I meant I don’t think I can see you until my event is over.”
How irritated would my driver be if I puked back here? Probably wouldn’t be the first time a singer’s done that, unfortunately. I should display some poise and not come off as some desperate whiner, but all my chill has flown straight out the window.
“This is clearly working, why do you want to change it?”
Her mouth tightens and her light brows gather. “You told me all this was up to me. Was that a lie?”
Oh, that’s harsh. Using my own words against me. Harsh, but fair. “No, it wasn’t a lie.”
Rowan’s expression is verging on apologetic. I’m an ass. I did promise her, and I should honor my word.
“I know you understand pressure—you must feel it every time you go into the studio, every time you go onstage, just, all the time. It’s a constant for you in a way it’s not for me. Mine comes in spurts, and this . . . this is the mother of all spurts.” The word “spurts” sounds vaguely dirty coming out of her mouth and I’d much rather be having the filthy sex kinds of spurts than this. Even though I get it, and I’ll tell her so, she’s not done yet. “It’s not the same, Zane. You’ve got to let me do this the best way I know how. And the best way I know how is to take a step back. It’s temporary. After my runs are over, we’ll, I don’t know, recalibrate.”
There’s a queasy feeling deep in my gut and I don’t like it at all. Regardless of what she’s said, it doesn’t feel temporary. Perhaps it’s splitting hairs, but it feels like shewantsto take a step back, not just that she needs to. It’s the smallest of differences, and maybe this is the sensitive artist thing people are always talking about that I kinda hoped didn’t apply to me, but it matters. To me.
There’s no way I’m going to make her choose between her life’s ambition and me, though, partly because I know what she’d choose and I can’t honestly fault her. She was right about the pressure. For me, there’s always another concert, there’s always another album, there’s always another appearance on a morning show. For her . . . this is pretty much it. So as much as I hate it, I’ll go along.
“Yeah, of course, Row. Whatever you want.”
She gives me another one of those stomach-churning grimaces, and then climbs out of the car, barely muttering a goodbye. I know I’m being dramatic, but the way she closes the door seems final.
Her dad meets her and they talk for a second before he’s patting her arms and holding a hand up toward the car.
