Chapter Twenty-Two

Savannah

My heart sinks into the depths of my soul as I watch the verdant green landscape of Ireland fade into the distance. I’m closer to Scotland now, and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or stomp my foot in frustration over what I’ve lost.

Sarah, you never really had it. You only had his body. His soul’s not fit for duty.

This is going to go down in infamy as the most fucked up tour of my life. I know that it can’t possibly get any worse. Unless I died. And right now, I feel like I’m going to.

The ferry sways underneath my feet as it chugs slowly through the ocean. Mel stands beside me. He hasn’t really left my side except to drive the bus. He probably thinks another disaster is going to befall us since Mother Nature’s usually not such a bitch. Today, the skies have dawned a brilliant blue, and it looks like it’s going to be smooth sailing until we arrive in the land of plaid kilts and golf.

And I’m not going to partake in either. I don’t even want to see or sample any of the local flavors. All I want is to hole up in my five-star hotel and vegetate. Turn on every single electronic in my room, charge my phone, iPad and laptop and drown myself in room service and technology until I want to throw up from the electromagnetic field.

I left without saying goodbye. That’s right, Sarah. You’re a coward of epic proportions. I slinked away like a love thief in the night. Except I left in broad daylight. The worst part is that he didn’t even try to come after me. I sat in that tiny booth in the back of the Wintervale Inn watching Mel savor his last pint while waiting for Ronan O’Farrell to come after me and tell me he cares about me. That he wants me to stay.

I’m a complete and total idiot.

Now I know how all those dipshits feel that run after me every hour of the day and night, begging for a scrap of my attention. How pathetic and out of control. Not admitting to myself that I wanted him to come after me seems to cause more pain than if I just slipped down to the steel floor of this ferry into a human puddle and cried. Tears prick my eyes right now, but I won’t cry over a man who obviously doesn’t want me. Besides, Mel’s already gone through enough. I don’t want him worrying about my emotional state on top of everything else.

Savannah Starr will pick herself up by her Jimmy Choo bootstraps and move forward. And when this tour’s over, Sarah Strauss will go home and get emotional, drinking vodka and eating Urban Bourbon until I puke.

Ireland shrinks in the background, shifting back to its tiny size from the depths of the ferry. I know that even the memory of Ronan O’Farrell is going to make my knees weak and my panties damp every time I indulge. It won’t feel fair that memories are all I’ll ever have of him and what we shared for a fleeting moment. What’s been destroyed in the blink of an eye.

Maybe he wants to talk about what happened. Maybe he wants to rail at me for not saying goodbye. At the time, the thought of doing that caused so much agony I ran away from it, doing the cowardly thing. Running is what I’m good at. I’m fleet of foot and lack depth of emotion due to the trappings of fame that give the illusion of happiness. But fame isn’t reality. The only part of my life that gets every part of the real Sarah is my songwriting. No one can accuse me of being emotionally unavailable there.

For the next few years, all of my songs are going to pour my heartache out on the page, just like Taylor Swift does whenever she’s going through a public break-up. If you could even call my departure a break. What do you label it when you have a hot fling and you part ways?

The aftermath.

I grip the steel railing until my knuckles turn white. My stomach roils a bit with the motion of the waves, and I try to move with them instead of fighting against them. Kind of a metaphor about how I could be living my life. Rolling with the punches is never a bad strategy.

“A penny for your thoughts, young lady,” Mel’s voice snaps me back to the present as I turn my face toward the sun and the mist of the ocean spray hits my cheeks. I inhale the salty fragrance.

“Just glad to be on the move again with Ireland turning into a dot of land on the horizon,” I say, glad he’s not that observant. “I know we have to go back to Dublin for our final date. After that, if it’s a few years before I hit Europe again, I won’t be sad about it. I think this is the Universe’s way of telling me to keep my feet on US soil.”

Mel chuckles and checks his phone for messages. “You’re not kidding. I think you’ll really like Dublin, though. It’s just like being in any other major city.”

“In and out of there with no fuss is all I’m looking for,” I say, and swipe my hands together as if I can take Ireland and everything that happened there and toss it in the trash.

Along with my broken heart.

And aching body.

The only cure for the latter would be to throw myself overboard. I contemplate it for a minute but then Mel gives me a wink, and I realize that my own joke’s in poor taste. I need to start being kinder to myself. And stop being so damn dramatic. I’m even making myself gag.

If it’s better that Ronan’s in the not so distant past, why then does my body yearn for the man? The urge is so overwhelming I want to swim to shore, hunt him down, and melt into his strong arms again.

A small part of me holds tight to the beautiful memory of sharing our song with the people of Wintervale at the Yule festival. It’s one of my favorite memories of all of my concerts, even gala benefits.

Too bad we’ll never sing our song again.

* * *

I wind my way through the backstage area toward my manager, fitting my Shure ear monitors on so I’ll be able to hear myself over the roar of the crowd and the house noise from my own band. As I glance out into the frenzied crowd, I notice the fingers of overhead lights dancing across their features. It still gets to me that perfect strangers living in another country have shelled out over a hundred dollars apiece to come and see me perform live.

Part of me still feels like that scared little girl from Arcata who shivers at night thinking about how every fan will finally find out that I’m a total fraud. I’m really not that talented of a singer but my heartfelt lyrics and melodies touch people. It’s that special sauce that some musicians have to connect with others on a personal level. I never take it for granted, and tonight’s no different.

“I heard you debuted a new number while you were stuck in that Irish hellhole,” Preach says, putting his hand on the small of my back. “I asked them to change the set list to include it for your encore.”

I stop short, and he practically topples us both over when he runs into me. I whirl on him. “No. I’m not singing that song. Not tonight…not ever.”

In spite of his obvious confusion, I’m not going to tell him why. That if I sing the song that I wrote with Ronan it will gut me, pushing me past the point of no return. I haven’t even begun to grieve the man. I will not rub my own wounds raw with musical Ronan just like I did with physical Ronan. I’m not a masochist.

“Why not? The fans here in Scotland would love it. There’s a lot of those damn heathens here just like there were in Ireland. Fucking pagan worship. I blame that damn Outlander. So many housewives and young girls watching that drivel every week and romanticizing it.”

“Well…let’s not contribute to that then,” I say, holding Helen’s neck to keep from reaching out and slapping him across the face. How dare he trivialize and judge Ronan’s beliefs. It’s the same as saying that Nana Aislan was a crackpot. Pagan rituals may not be traditional but at least he has beliefs and values. Which is more than I can say for many of us on this damn tour.

With a glance behind me, I enter the stage and let the crowd’s adulation drown out Preach’s careless words.