Breathe. Breathe. This is in the bag, Stella. You can do this, so do it.
I clicked on the camera and quickly glanced at my notes.
One minute.
Electricity shot through my veins and seeped through every pore, reminding me that this was it.
Thirty seconds.
I took a sip of water and set it beside my laptop as I waited.
Ten seconds.
A flicker of doubt processed for mere seconds before I wiped it away.
Five.
I expelled a stressed breath, clicked Go Live, and addressed the camera.
“Womanizer, bully, genius, recluse, and the world’s greatest MC. Even with all those labels, Phillip Preston, also known as Titan, is still a bit of an enigma. Despite the universe he’s constructed with storytelling lyrics, he’s always left it up to us to decipher his truth from his fiction. He burst onto the music scene fifteen years ago, an underdog in the belly of rap, with chaotic and desperate rhymes that resonated and pushed him into an unexpected level of stardom. With one hundred and eighty million records sold, he still holds his title as heavyweight and remains a household staple for his die-hard fans, collecting an army of new followers over the past two decades. I must admit, I was a bit intimidated when I sat down with him this past weekend in his Chicago fortress. I, like millions of others, am a huge fan of his genius. The simplicity of our surroundings in his home studio was shocking, to say the least. The feeling was a bit clinical and there were no platinum records on his walls, no personal photos, and there was no hint of the history he’d made as the world’s most notorious rap star. He sat in a leather chair next to his soundboard, water bottle in hand, and spoke about his love of rap, while subtly redirecting questions about his personal life—though we know he recently broke up with his long-time girlfriend, Jordan Wilson.”
My eyes nearly watered as I watched the live view box tick to a hundred thousand. I had a hundred thousand people watching my podcast in a matter of minutes. I took a deep breath.
“But it seemed my reputation had preceded me because when I sat down with the rap mogul, Phillip appeared ready for the firing squad. We dueled well as I asked the hard questions—the questions of a fan. Questions I know so many of his loyal listeners want answers to, and I think you’ll be surprised to hear his answers. So, without further ado, take a look at my exclusive with the man behind the myths. Feel free to form your own opinions, but above all, remember it’s the music that matters most.”
I linked my pre-recorded interview and watched the ticks explode as soon as his face hit the screen.
That was the moment my career peaked.
With pride, I watched my interview with the white whale, the Moby Dick of the music industry. Gorgeous, brilliant, and highly elusive, Phillip Preston was the hardest artist to get personal with in an interview. And I was the woman he reached out to, to break his silence about his road to success, his parents, his ex-wife, and finally—after some careful eggshell coaxing—he spoke about his recent relationship. He had delivered to me, on a silver platter, highly personal details about his life where so many other journalists had failed, and it was nothing short of miraculous.
It was my greatest accomplishment as a music journalist. I was flying, soaring as my phone began to blow up with message after message. I hadn’t told a soul, not a single person about my exclusive. I was high on adrenaline when the notifications began to ping on my phone. A hundred, two hundred messages, and then I saw the viewer ticks had jumped drastically to half a million. Half a million! I laughed out nervously and checked Phillip’s social media. He had just posted my podcast link to our interview. My jaw dropped. He had over eighty million followers on one forum alone.
And the viewer counts just kept rising. I had done it. I gasped when the ticks went past a million.
A million people were watching my podcast.
A million people were watching my podcast!
“AHHHHHH!” I screamed to no one as I looked around the vacant room. I raised both hands in the air when the ticks rolled past two million. “Oh my GOD!” I shot up from the desk, my eyes full of incredulous water.
I’d never had more than a million views. Ever. And those took months to accrue. It was the greatest career high of my life. I looked back down at my phone, anxious to talk to someone, anyone. Lexi’s middle finger popped up on the screen, and I couldn’t resist answering her call.
“AHHHHHHHH!” I screamed into the phone..
“Stella?”
“Yes! Is it good? You think I asked the right questions? I edited for like nine hours.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? Titan’s interview.”
“You interviewed Titan?”
A small amount of my excitement dispersed. “Yours was the wrong call to answer.”
“You fucking interviewed Titan?”
“Yes. I wanted to surprise everyone.”
“And you didn’t bring me?”
“Sorry. I’ll feel guilty later.”
“Yeah.” Her voice dropped. I heard a toilet flush. “Yeah, Stella, that’s so cool.” Another toilet flushed.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the bathroom at the Marquee.”
“Okay. Well, I’m buzzing right now, woman. Like, literally, my phone is exploding. Five million hits, Lexi. Five million!”
“I’m so happy for you, Stella.”
I frowned. “Yeah, with that amazing monotone, I can tell.”
“I’m so sorry.” And then her voice broke. My best friend doesn’t cry. Ever.
“Oh, shit. What’s up?”
“I’ll call you back, okay? I don’t want to ruin this.”
“You aren’t ruining anything. You couldn’t ruin this. I promise. I’ll be high for days. So, tell me. Why are you in the bathroom?”
“I’m on a blind date. He took me to a wedding.”
“Okay. You need an excuse? That’s not like you. You’re ballsy. Just give him your usual, it’s not me, it’s you.” I chuckled because she’d used it in front of me on a bass player with a cowlick and halitosis.
“Stella.”
I knew that tone. That tone was the bearer of bad fucking news.
“What? Say it.”
“It’s his wedding.”
I eyed the clock while I zipped my suitcase. I had an hour and a half before my flight. I was cutting it close. “Whose wedding?”
“Stella.”
“I know my name. Damn, who—” Realization struck and my heart met the floor. I stayed mute while she rambled on nervously.
“What are the odds? What are the goddamn odds? I don’t know what to do. Do you want me to leave? There’s no handbook for this. Did you even want to know this? That he’s married? I can’t believe I just watched him get married! Who in the hell ends up at their best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s wedding? I couldn’t not tell you.” She sniffed as the toilets repeatedly flushed around her.
“Stella, please say something.”
I pressed the sting back. “I’m alright, of course. I’m fine. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.” She sniffed. “Ben called me last night, and things are just so fucked up, and today this shit happens, and I know you’re happy. I know you are. But . . . I mean, this is—”
I put my hand up as if she could see it. “Don’t tell me anything else, okay? I’m good.” I looked at my reflection in the mirror from the bed into the adjacent bathroom. Nothing had changed. I wasn’t leaking. I was fine. “I’m okay. I’m glad you told me. I have to leave for the airport now, or I’ll miss my flight.” A slew of questions was on the tip of my tongue. Did he look happy? Was she beautiful? And more questions I hated myself for that Lexi would never be able to answer. Still, my head and heart refused to keep those questions bottled.
Was she prettier than me? Did he look at her the same way? Did he propose to her with half his heart? Did he think of me when he did it? Was any part of him thinking of me now? Was I in his dreams the way he drifted through mine sometimes?
All my thoughts were selfish. All of them. And of all the thoughts I could have had that day, self-loathing was not the one I expected to nudge its way front and center. I forced myself to speak.
“Stay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.”
“This freaky shit always happens. Always with you.”
“I know.”
“It’s like karma or God or someone hates you. It’s so fucked.”
I laughed ironically, though inside my heart was pounding.
Silence passed over the line as we both waited for some sort of solution that wasn’t coming.
“Stella, God, I’m so sorry.”
“About what? Stop. You know I would have told you if the situation were reversed. I should go. Love you.”
“Love y—” I hung up the phone before she could finish, frozen in the middle of the hotel room.
I stared at the large, bronze Buddha that sat behind the front desk while my noisy phone pinged in my tiny backpack. The water behind me trickled down the stone path in the lobby.
Every voice was a blur. Every sound faded as I stared at the statue. The suitcase handle gripped in my hand seemed to be the only thing keeping me from walking toward the inviting Buddha.
“Ma’am.”
Drawn out of my daze, I stared at the man in front of me. He had neatly trimmed, dark brown hair and light brown eyes. He gave me a white smile. “Did you enjoy your stay?”
He wanted words. I only had to give him a few.
“I did, thank you.”
“Where are you headed today?”
“I need a car to the airport.” I realized I hadn’t answered his question, but I could not, for the life of me, bring myself to care.
“The bellman outside will get you a car. Do you have any more bags?”
I shook my head slowly and reverted my gaze back on Buddha while my phone rattled on in my backpack.
“Looks like a busy day for both of us.”
My eyes found his again before he looked past my shoulder to the line that was forming behind me.
Married? Of course, he got married. Why wouldn’t he?
“Have a great flight.”
The front desk clerk carefully dismissed me. That desk clerk had no answers for me. Neither did Buddha. I pulled myself together enough to make it to the curb, where a heavily-coated bellman greeted me.
“Airport?”
“Yes, please.”
“How was your stay?”
A gust of the North’s version of spring air hit my face as I remained guarded behind a new set of eyes and forcefully collected myself to speak.
“It was great, thank you.”
The older man studied my features, and I averted my gaze, the tension heavy in my body and oozing into my frame. Shoulders slumped and head swirling, I knew he could see the rip in me. I was sure of it. My mother always told me my facial expressions gave me away. But could that bellman see my shame? I had no right to feel the way I did. Absolutely no right. But it didn’t matter. I felt it anyway—the jealousy, the ache, the sharp twist of the knife that repeatedly dug in my chest and refused to be ignored.
His wedding.
I choked on another gust of freezing wind as the bellman stepped off the curb into a patch of dirty snow and opened the cab door for me. The driver took the bag from my hand, and in seconds, we were speeding toward the airport, while the skyscrapers disappeared out of the foggy window.
“Where are you going today?”
My phone erupted again in several distinct chimes, and I reached into my purse to silence it.
“Home.”
He eyed me in the rearview briefly before he took the hint. I was unapologetically rude. My face was burning, my chest on fire.
Get a grip, Stella.
I unbuttoned my tweed coat, suddenly in need of more brisk air. I wanted to be covered in it. I wanted to numb myself, but even in sub-zero temperatures, I knew I would still feel the burn.
Minutes later, at the airport entrance, I studied the people rushing past me to take cover from the bone-chilling wind. Moving at a snail’s pace, I walked through the sliding doors and stood in the center of the chaos. A wave of noise pulsed through the air: voices, the click of heels next to me, the beep of the baggage scanners. I focused on one of the flight attendants, who was whizzing past the chaos, her stride long, her hair in a tidy bun on top of her head. Her perfectly packed luggage glided alongside her. I wondered briefly where she was going as she beat the strollers to the checkpoint. At least fifty people were waiting to be screened, and I didn’t want them to look at me. Any of them. I was incapable of smiling, incapable of polite conversation. Eyes down, I took a step forward and then forced another.
He’s married. Good for him.
Keep walking, Stella.
I pushed out a deep breath, kicked my shoulders back, and figuratively brushed off the dust. I was so incredibly good at doing that. I’d done it my whole life.
Lexi had been right. The coincidences, the happenstance, the cruelty of life, and fate’s sick sense of humor had always played a huge part of everything that had to do with him. With them both. Maybe it was life’s way of letting me know that on this day of all days, I was in the right place in my journey.
So why did it sting so damn much?
I’d come so far from the place where every one of those signs mattered. Where I’d analyzed and overanalyzed to the point that I drove myself insane, until, finally, I just let things be as they were.
And I could do it again. I could do it again so easily if I could just push past this. The life I lived was my consolation.
Because Lexi was right.
I was happy.
Satisfied that I may have been through the worst of it, and no doubt slightly overdramatic, I reached into my purse for my ID. And that’s when I heard the first few notes of the song ring out over the airport speaker.
“MOTHERF—” Stopping myself, I cupped my mouth in horror. Every single head in the line was turned in my direction, as hundreds of eyes swept over me in scrutiny. A few mothers gripped their children tight with disgusted faces, and I saw the smirk of a few guys grouped in front of me. Paralyzed as the song drifted into my ears and detonated in my chest, I mouthed a quick “I’m sorry” before I gripped the handle of my suitcase and scurried away like I’d just screamed “Bomb!”
Humiliated and unwilling to subject myself to any more stares, I wheeled back to the lobby of the airport, my eyes on the floor. Some miles later, with my flight safely in the air without me, sweat poured from my forehead as I scrambled to keep up with my rambling brain. Uncomfortably bundled in my winter coat, I wandered aimlessly through the airport, rolling the burden of my lightweight suitcase, which felt like a case of bricks, with no destination.
It was always the music that hurt me most. It did the most damage. For every single day of my life, I had a song to coincide with it. Some days were repeats. Some days I woke up to the lyrics circling in my head. The lyrics sometimes set the tone for my day, and as a slave, I followed. But some songs were like a sharp fingernail poking into open-wounded thoughts. Because music is the heart’s greatest librarian. A few notes had the ability to transport me back in time, and to the most painful of places. Take any song from the Rolodex of your life, and you can pin it to a memory. It translates, resonates, and there it will remain. And no matter how many of those Rolodex cards you want to rip out and burn like an old phone number to make room for new ones, those songs remain and threaten to repeat.
And the song that circled through the deep recesses of my brain—while I tried my best to rip it from the Rolodex—bruised me well thanks to my good friend coincidence, and was cruelly pulling up every memory associated with it. It filtered like a burn through my nose and out of my lungs while I stomped along the white tiled floor of the airport in my heavily abused Chucks and stared at the Sharpie-stained lyrics I’d scribbled all over them.
The song that played was a tattoo over my heart, like several others. And for the second time in my life, I wanted the music to stop. I needed the repeat to cease. I didn’t want to feel that burn. It was too absolute.
And that logic was ridiculous.
There were a few things I knew as I worked up a sweat, staring at the small cracks and stains on the surface of the floor beneath me.
The first was: I was not getting on a plane that day.
The second was: I was not going to call Lexi back and ask her a single question.
And the third: I refused to acknowledge. The hurt was far too present.
What was it about a woman’s psyche that refuses to let us ignore the old aches, the ancient pains, and the memories of the men we bind ourselves to?
I used to think men were experts at forgetting about the past and moving on, but I was finally old enough to know better. Their memories were just as vivid, just as painful. They were just better at letting go.
Exhausted, I stopped in the middle of my walk, and a man slammed into me.
“Sorry!” I quickly apologized as he gripped my arm to steady us both. He was prematurely balding, had soft green eyes, and was dressed from head to foot in Army camouflage, his pants tucked into boots. A soldier.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly as he readjusted the bag on his shoulder and gave me a quick wink before taking off toward a group of others dressed like him. I moved away from the steady flow of human traffic, my back against the wall as seconds ticked past.
What in the hell are you doing, Stella? Go home!
Furious with myself, I resigned to transfer my ticket to a later flight and stop the madness before I looked up to see a neon sign directly above me. I winced at the flickering, bright yellow letters that stood out blatantly, blinking at me like a fucking wink.
Drive. Drive. Drive.
Alamo. Drive happy.
My feet moved before I had a chance to think it through—before I could reason with myself that I was being overly dramatic and that the news didn’t make a bit of difference in my life. I was in charge of myself and my reaction. All of these thoughts filtered through my sense of reason and were batted away by the slow leak of disappointment in my chest.
When it came to the men in my life, my emotions were my kryptonite, and so was my indecision.
And that day at the airport, I was, again, crippled by both.
I was driving.
I rolled my suitcase down to slot fifty-two and unlocked the Nissan Altima with the fob before I threw my suitcase in the trunk. Inside the musty cabin, I pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, started the car, and rolled down the window. The cool air hit me, waking me up from my exhausted stupor. I looked at the clock on the dash. It had only been three hours since I did my podcast.
Three hours.
Buckling up, I pulled my phone from my backpack to start directions. I already had more notifications than I could handle in a week, and the emails just kept coming in. Six hundred unanswered texts were waiting, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at any of it. I prompted Siri and gave her my home address and put the car in gear while she sounded out the first of the directions.
My five-hour flight turned into over twenty hours of driving. I was pissed at myself, pissed at Lexi, just . . . pissed. I slammed the car back into park and banged on the steering wheel. Even in the silent car, the music wouldn’t stop. It refused to loosen its tight hold. The noose was around my heart, squeezing like a vise. The wound was opening, and I was helpless to stop it. It bled as a reminder of where I’d been. And if I couldn’t stop it, then I would embrace it. Whatever I had left, whatever part of me needed closure had revealed I would have to relive it, piece-by-piece, song-by-song.
But I didn’t really believe in closure.
No, closure was an excuse for some, a scapegoat for others. But, that myth didn’t do anything but temporarily stifle the ache of missing someone. And after that phone call, that text, that brief meeting, that moment in time where it was assumed you could move on, realization strikes that all it really did was reset the timer on the heartbreak.
Love doesn’t die, even when you stop feeding it. There is no expiration date on the ache of missing someone you shared your heart, life, and body with.
Pulling my phone from the seat, I hesitated only a second before I flipped to the playlist I had made years ago. If I was going to indulge myself, I was going to do it properly.
White-knuckling the wheel, I fought traffic for a solid half hour before I finally hit the freeway and made it safely out of the city. I had hundreds of miles of open highway until I took my first exit.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pushed play.