Ian

I’m backstage in my dressing room getting pumped up for another show—our seventh in ten days; we’re in Atlanta now—and I’m nervous as hell. Not because of the show, though. The tour’s been going great. The press has been amazing. We’re sold out of every show, the fans are loving it, Wish Givers is getting a ton of money, and Chelsea and I are closer than ever.

But that’s why I’m so damn nervous. Because everything’s going too good. So good, in fact, that I’m planning on telling her tonight. Telling her that I’m crazy about her—no, more than that, I’m in love with her. She’s incredible. Smart, funny, talented, and insatiable in bed. Not to mention gorgeous and unafraid to call me on my bullshit. I can’t imagine there being a better woman in the world and it’s time I finally tell her.

I know it happened fast, but it hit me hard. And I think she feels the same way. At least I hope she does. I guess tonight I’ll find out for sure.

I still haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to do it, though. Before the show? After? During?

I immediately dismiss that one. There are some people who would make big romantic gestures on stage, and maybe even some girls that would like that kind of thing, but I doubt Chelsea’s one of them. And besides, I don’t want her to feel put on the spot or trapped in front of an audience. The pressure of being in front of the crowd might be enough to force her into agreeing to something more than whatever unlabeled fling we’ve got going on now, but I’m not going to do that to either one of us. I want to know she’s in it for real.

And if she’s not? I don’t want it to ruin the show. So after is the answer. But how I’m going to keep my nerves in check up until that point, I have no idea.

I’ve been pacing restlessly for a while, but now I sit down on the couch and try to get my breathing under control. Do that meditation shit I learned in rehab. But instead of closing my eyes and thinking about nothing, I pull out my phone and scroll through my pictures from the last week and a half.

There are lots of pictures of the two of us at different monuments and sights, but the ones I love the most are the candid shots. The pictures I took of her when she didn’t realize it. Her looking serious at a sound check, laughing with a fan backstage, lit up by the sun on the beach in Miami, curled up on my chest asleep in our hotel room. Each picture makes my heart swell more. I love her so much it almost hurts to keep it to myself, and that’s just crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone. But then again, I’ve never met anyone quite like Chelsea.

She’s it for me, and I know it.

Now I’ve just gotta find a way to tell her.

It’s a few minutes before the show and I still haven’t seen her. I’m waiting for the call out to the stage, but I want my pre-show good luck kiss first and I’m wondering where the hell she is. Probably held up by Rosa again. I know she’s still scheming against me, trying to turn Chelsea away from me “for her own good,” but Chelsea hasn’t given her an inch and it’s led to some tense moments.

The door bursts open and before I can even look up, I’m greeted with the sweet familiar scent of her and it makes me smile.

“There you ar— What’s wrong?” I jump to my feet, hurrying over to her. It’s obvious she’s been crying, her eyes red and puffy, her makeup in streaks. Even her nose is running. My first thoughts are something happened to her parents or her sister’s out of remission or someone said something nasty again about her brother’s death being her fault, but when I get close to her, she holds out a hand to stop me and my blood goes cold.

“Chelsea?”

“Stay away from me,” she cries, her voice cracking as she hurls a plastic baggie at me. I catch it without thinking. Now my whole body’s made of ice. In the baggie, there’s a syringe, a lighter, a spoon, and a length of dirty shoelace—supplies that are all too familiar to me.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else, someone far away from all of this. My hands are shaking just looking at the stuff in that bag and I have to put it down. I can’t just keep holding it while she’s looking at me like I’m a monster.

“In your suitcase, Ian. I went to get a lozenge and found…” She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face again and all I want to do is wrap her in my arms, hold her tight, and tell her it’s all going to be okay. But I can’t do that. Because I’m frozen in place and she’s still hugging herself, shielding herself from me.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Oh, cut the crap. I know how this goes. You deny it and then just go behind my back again anyway. I’m not doing it, Ian. I can’t.”

I don’t know what she’s saying. I’m so confused about what’s happening.

Well, that’s not true. I know what’s happening. My past is coming up to bite me in the ass again and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I try to come up with something to say, some kind of argument to make her see reason, but I know there’s nothing. Nothing I say will sound like truth to her. Not now.

“I’ve already watched someone I love die from that shit and I won’t do it again,” she says, her voice trembling like a leaf in an earthquake. God, I want to make her feel better. I just want to hold her and tell her it’s not true. But she’s already built that wall up around her again and there’s no way I’m getting past it now.

“Chelsea, I didn’t… It’s not what you think,” I try, but she just shakes her head.

“Save it. We’re through. I hope it’s worth it.” And before I can get another word out, she’s storming from the dressing room, leaving my whole world shattered and upside down.

Not twenty seconds go by before I spot Kandy outside the room smirking and she swoops in, looking sympathetic.

“Ian, when did you start using again?” she says in that hushed tone that people normally reserve for funerals and hospital rooms. That quiet concern that always sounds patronizing.

“I didn’t,” I growl, my head still reeling. “I’ve been clean five years and I wouldn’t throw that away now.”

Kandy tsks and shakes her head. “Addiction is hard. My readers aren’t strangers to the struggle. You can be honest with me,” she coos.

“Great. I. Didn’t. Do. It.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile that somehow feels even more patronizing than before and shakes her head sadly.

“It’s a shame about your relationship with Chelsea. I really thought you two had what it takes to go the distance. I certainly hope you don’t end up alone now. I know how dangerous that can be for someone in your… situation.” She pats me on the shoulder, that pitying look still on her face, but as she turns around, I see it morphing and she looks… satisfied?

But I don’t have time to think about it, because I see Merrill running toward me.

“What are you doing? We need you on stage!” he says, yanking me after him.

I don’t even have a chance to process everything that’s just happened. My head’s spinning, my thoughts racing, shock sinking into every pore. Then I’m being shoved on stage and the crowd is cheering and I’m waiting for Chelsea, hoping this was all some bad dream or something, but she doesn’t show up.

Instead, Rosa comes out and announces that, unfortunately, Chelsea’s fallen ill and won’t be able to perform tonight. It’s a blow to the gut for me. She really meant it. She’s avoiding me now, throwing her professionalism to the wind and leaving me out here hanging.

No one’s here for a solo concert, especially not with me so off my game, but somehow I manage to flub my way through the set. It’s not a complete disaster, but I wouldn’t be surprised if half the audience asks for their money back. But I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think about anything other than Chelsea’s broken expression, the hurt and betrayal in her tear-reddened eyes. I can’t stop thinking about that baggie and where it came from. Could it possibly be left over from before? Did I not clean out my whole suitcase when I got back from rehab?

I don’t know and it’s the not knowing that’s killing me.

For some unknown reason—maybe they’re giving me the benefit of the doubt, or it really wasn’t as bad as I thought—the crowd’s calling for an encore. But I can’t go back out there. I barely made it through the set. There’s no way I can act like everything’s fine for an encore when Chelsea’s not there.

So instead, I race to her dressing room, praying she’s still there, praying she’s ready to listen to what I have to say.

But she’s not. Her dressing room is empty and as I’m walking out, I come face-to-face with Rosa, her face screwed into absolute rage. Her arms are folded and she’s blocking my way.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” she throws at me.

“I haven’t done anything!”

“You’ve done plenty. Chelsea’s reputation is going to take a big hit from this, not to mention the state she’s in because of you. I warned her this would happen and you wormed your way in anyway. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I don’t care what you think. You’ve never liked me and that’s fine, but I’m not lying. Just let me talk to her. Let me explain.”

Rosa narrows her eyes at me and steps closer, a threat in her expression. “If you care about her at all, you’ll back off and let this die down. There are four shows left, and if I’m lucky I can convince Chelsea not to pull out of the rest of the tour. But stay away from her, do you understand me?”

I meet the challenge in her eyes with conviction of my own. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I say, glaring at her.

“Just stay away,” she says, clearly not believing me either as she walks away.

“Goddammit!” I roar, slamming my fist into the wall. It doesn’t give me the satisfying break I hoped for. Instead, my knuckles are bruised and throbbing and the wall is left unblemished, taunting me along with everyone else.

I’m pissed that no one will believe me, but more than that, I’m pissed at myself. Because if I were them, I wouldn’t believe me. Not with my history. Not with what I know about addiction. There’s really no reason for any of them to buy my side of the story, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.