So Much It Hurts

by Dawn, Melanie

  Eli looked down at the tabloid, and looked back up again. He did that several times before he finally whispered, “Mom, is that—?”

  “Yes,” I interrupted.

  With stars in his eyes, Eli finally accepted the fact that the lead singer of Fifth Wheel was walking straight toward us.

  Chris smiled. My heart immediately jump started in my chest. Omigod, omigod, omigod. In my mind, I sounded like a silly fan girl, although I could barely hear myself think over the pounding of my heart. I almost looked around for a place to hide. Instead, I pinched myself. Yep. I’m awake.

  Chris strolled up to us without a care in the world, as if he weren’t the same rock star celebrity that was plastered all over the cover of every magazine on the shelf.

  He stopped in front of my cart, slipped his hands into his pockets, and said, “Hi, Kaitlyn.” He pulled the corner of his mouth up into that dreamy grin he had become so accustomed to giving to the paparazzi that followed him everywhere he went. I wondered where the paparazzi were hiding and why they weren’t clicking the camera in our faces yet.

  “Hi,” I said, dropping my chin and grinning bashfully while my cheeks flared. Get a hold of yourself, Kaitlyn.

  “It’s been a while,” he acknowledged, with a quick nod of his head. His beautiful eyes stared deeply into mine. Stop staring.

  “It has.” My mind seemed to have forgotten how to function as I tried in vain to form sentences that were more than just one or two words long.

  I tried to ignore his sexy, seductive (ugh) charming grin.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  Brain, work! Speak. “Pretty good. What are you doing back in town? Don’t you have a concert soon?” I asked when my brain finally shook itself from the dizzying fog.

  “We do, but I figured while we were passing through town on the way to Charlotte that I’d stop in and see my mom. So like a typical mother, she sent me to the grocery store for some food and to the pharmacy for her meds. Leave it to my mom to keep me grounded.”

  I laughed. Chris smiled warmly. My heart did somersaults in my chest. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!

  “Are these your children?” He glanced at Eli and Ethan, but quickly caught my gaze again.

  “Yes,” I said, putting my hand on Eli’s shoulder. “This is Eli. He’s eleven now.” Finally, I was managing sentences longer than two words. I breathed a sigh of relief as Chris held his hand out to Eli.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Chris gripped Eli’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

  “You too, Mr. King,” Eli said, smiling with a star-struck glimmer in his eyes.

  Chris laughed a deep hearty laugh that tingled its way up my spine. “Please, call me Chris.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Chris.” Eli continued shaking his hand, completely enamored by this famous musician whose songs he had downloaded on his iPod and could recite every word.

  Chris just continued to chuckle, then patted him on the shoulder. “Just Chris is fine, young man. Your manners are impeccable.” Chris looked back at me. “You must be so proud of him.”

  I nodded. “Couldn’t be more proud.”

  Just then, Chris looked down at Ethan and tousled his brown hair on top of his head. “And who’s this little fella?”

  Ethan looked up at him and grinned. “Hi,” he said happily.

  I put my arm around my sweet, brown eyed boy. “This is Ethan. He’s five years old.”

  Ethan glared at me as if I had committed a cardinal sin. “I’m five and a half!” he demanded.

  I chuckled. “Excuse me, he’s five and half.”

  “Well,” Chris bent down to look at Ethan on his level, “you’re a handsome little five and a half year old.”

  Now that Chris was standing right in front of Ethan, the similarities were astounding. Michael had always said Ethan looked just like my side of the family, but seeing Chris and Ethan together made me question our decision not to administer a DNA test. Both of them stared at each other with dark brown hair that flipped out on the ends; both had dark brown eyes and thick black eyelashes. With their tan skin, they never had to worry about getting sunburned. Their similarities were so unlike Eli, whose fair features took after Michael’s side of the family. I soaked in the image. Could it be that father and son were meeting each other for the first time, with neither of them knowing their possible relationship to each other? My stomach churned. Maybe Michael and I should revisit the idea of a DNA test.

  Chris looked at me. I wondered if he could read my mind. He stood back up and placed his hand on my grocery cart. After several glances at both boys, his gaze shifted back to me, piercing me with those chocolate brown eyes that always kept me swooning what seemed like a lifetime ago. As if a light bulb switched on in his mind, a sudden awareness crossed his face; the cloud of confusion immediately lifted. The look in Chris’s eyes was unexplainable. Was it hurt? Anger? Fear? Happiness? A combination of many emotions swirled themselves around in his beautiful brown irises. He pursed his lips, attempting to hide a pained smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth, but it still didn’t detract from the other emotions flooding his eyes.

  Click, click, click, click…

  Suddenly, from around the corner, a camera was in our faces and a member of the tabloid media was spouting questions to Chris faster than he could answer them. Ignoring them, he grabbed a pen from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, jerked my grocery list from my hand, jotted something down on it, and thrust it back at me. With the cameraman chasing after him, he darted around a magazine rack and around the cash register, disappearing out the electronic doors.

  Peering down at the paper he had shoved into my hand, I saw a phone number scrawled below the last item written on the list—ten numbers that reminded me of a scrap of paper he had handed to me nearly fifteen years ago outside Club Millennium. Those were numbers I had kept hidden in my jacket pocket that saved me on more than one occasion. These were new numbers that would continue to keep me linked to the man with whom I was once hopelessly in love.

  “Where did he go?” Eli asked, disappointed.

  I stared longingly in the direction of Chris’s disappearance. “He just had to leave, honey.”

  “Can we see him again?”

  I looked down at the ring on my finger, imagining Michael at work every day, crunching number after boring number in order to provide for us—his family. He and I had worked too hard in the last five years to fix our marriage and maintain a stable home for our children. Then, I remembered the heartfelt letter I’d found written to me from my mother in the hat box in her attic. Those thoughts, along with one sidelong glance at the photos plastered on every magazine stacked on the rack of Chris partying it up and getting intimate with numerous women, provided me with my answer: “No, sweetheart. No, we can’t.”

  My heart felt as if I were tearing a piece of it off and stomping it into the ground while my head begrudgingly encouraged me to rip my list, along with Chris’s phone number, into a million tiny shreds. Determined and focused, showing no mercy, I tore the paper into as many pieces as possible. The ache from watching Chris walk away welled up inside me like a balloon ready to burst. I’d done it twice before, and I could do it again. This would be the last time. Oh God, please let this be the last time. My heart can’t handle this kind of torture. I clutched the shredded handful of paper to my chest, my heart clinging to my past until the last possible second. Goodbye Chris. I tossed the final available link I had to him into a nearby garbage can. I didn’t look back—couldn’t look back.

  My heart ached—oh, how my heart ached, but I stood strong knowing I’d made the right decision. I had the ring on my finger and my two precious gifts walking beside me as proof that sometimes in life, you just love someone so much it hurts.

  I love my life. Really I do. I mean, who wouldn’t love the life of a rock star? I’m a world traveler. Everyone kisses my ass to try to get a taste of riches and fame. Women clamor for a piece of me, but I never have to put fo
rth much effort for a piece of them, that’s for damn sure. Never. They just throw themselves at me like greedy, money hungry, fame seeking, attention whores. It’s like an endless buffet of ass, just waiting for me at my beck and call. And, the shows…The flashing lights, the thumping music, the billowing smoke effects—it’s all a trip! I fucking love it. I never get tired of hearing my name being chanted among the crowds. Chris King! Chris King! God, that never gets old. I’m living the dream life. This is what I live for!

  “Shit, who am I kidding?” I grumble as I toss the latest tabloid magazine in the garbage. That shit’s not me. That’s not who I am. No one knows the real me. That self-absorbed rock star shit is just an act. Yeah, I have women throwing themselves at me, and occasionally I take the bait—mostly out of loneliness than anything else. But, everything about me runs much deeper than a quick encounter with some groupie chick willing to put out. No one will ever know the real me. No one, but her.

  The bump and rattle of the tour bus, as we travel down the highway, reminds me of my grandfather’s old Cadillac bouncing down the road to his weekly bingo games when I was a kid. I remember lying across the backseat. I was just long enough to fit, head to toe, across the seat. The constant hum of the car usually put me to sleep. Maybe that memory is why I am able to sleep so soundly on this piece of shit tour bus. Endless miles, to nowhere special, leave me feeling a sense of loss for home. There is no home on the road—only hotels. There is no stability—only a different city every night. I miss home. I miss stability. I miss her. God, I miss her.

  I never thought I’d see her again. But, there she was, walking around in that grocery store with her kids. Her kids. The big kid, Eli…I remember her talking about him on our first walk together on the beach, when I found out she was married. She said she had a kid. Hell, at that time, kids were the very last thing on my mind! I’m older now. I’m almost too old for this nomad’s life on the road. There are much younger, shit for talent, but popular teenage heartthrobs making their way to the big stage. I just want to go back home—back to my roots. Not necessarily her town, but somewhere I can call home. Maybe back to the beach. That’s the place I was the happiest, writing songs and playing gigs on the weekends. That was the life—not this shit. This life is the pits. My agent’s riding my ass all the time. I never truly know who my real friends are, or I’m wondering if they’re using me as a stepping stone or whatever. Media pulls me in all different directions, harassing me for interviews and shit. Hell, I’m ready to settle down and possibly even entertain the idea of having kids.

  Speaking of kids, there’s that little kid. What was his name? Ethan? Oh yeah. Cute kid. Brown hair, brown eyes…God, I felt like I was looking in the mirror. Could he be mine? He definitely looked like he could be mine. Well, I guess technically it is a possibility. I mean, it was about six years ago she and I…well, yeah. I’ve had very few regrets in my life. I’m not saying she’s one of them, but I know what we did was wrong. I fucked up. I don’t screw other guys’ chicks, especially married ones. That’s messed up, but damn I loved her. I loved her more than I have ever loved any woman in my life, and I don’t even know why. I can’t explain it. We were young, so young. Maybe it was because we knew we couldn’t be together. Maybe we had this crazy, cosmic soul-connected energy between us. Hell, who knows. All I know is I fucking loved her. More than life. More than anything.

  It was just my luck; I walked around the corner, and there she stood, looking more beautiful than ever. But sad. Or regretful. Or scared. Hell, I don’t know. I just wanted to hug her. She looked like she might bolt at any minute, or throw up. I just wanted to grab her and hug her like I did six years ago, or eight years before that. If I think hard enough I can still remember how she felt against my body. That woman did things to me I can’t even explain, and I don’t mean sexually either. I mean she messed me up inside—messed with my head. I could barely function when I got sent back to juvie. And, I don’t think I slept for weeks after she left the beach six years ago. Ten pounds isn’t a lot to lose, unless you lose it all in a week’s time because you can’t fucking think straight over a girl.

  I saw the sadness in her eyes when she saw me, but I watched her before that. I watched the way she interacted with her kids—the way they adored her. The way her husband smiled at her, she was happy. She is happy. He’s a good man. I remember that dude from high school. Math class fucking sucked, and there was that awkward, nerdy kid who sat in front of me. One time I slammed my fist into my desk, frustrated over some stupid fucking equation. He didn’t even flinch. He didn’t cower like most of the other country club douche bags in that class who had nothing better to do than call me a loser. He just turned around in his desk and asked if I needed help. He broke it down, explaining the equation to me in a way I could understand, and suddenly, it clicked. Dude was a saint—a damn genius! She got herself a good man, I’ll give her that. I can tell he loves her. I can tell he’d do anything for her, just like I would if she were mine. But, she’s not…mine.

  Dammit! I don’t know what the hell I was thinking giving her my phone number. What did I think she was going to do? Leave her husband and kids to come find me? Bring her kids on the road with me? Be willing to have every aspect of her life scrutinized by the tabloid media? Hell no! I love her, but I love her too much to drag her name through the mud and air her dirty laundry on the front of every magazine cover. No, I would never do that to her. I need to let her live her life, happily, with her husband and her two kids. I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy. I know she still loves me. I have no doubts of that. I could sense it in the way she stared at me, smiled at me even, in front of the cereal aisle. I love her too, still, after all these years. I would do anything for her. Anything. Anything.

  I never stopped loving her, or maybe it was the idea of her, I don’t know. But, I’ve always loved her so much I can barely breathe just thinking about it, but…I have to let her go. Her family needs her. Her kids need her. She needs them. She doesn’t need me and the life I have to offer. She has a husband who would walk across the desert for her. She’s happy. She deserves to stay that way. She doesn’t need me.

  Taking out a pen, I scrawl a handwritten letter. My manager has connections I couldn’t dream of having. I know the letter will get to her. I have no doubts.

  I stare at my phone, pleading silently for it to ring, hoping she’ll be on the other end begging me to come back and get her. But, I know my wish is hopeless, foolish even. I love her so much it hurts right now, but I know what I must do—what I need to do to make things right. I swipe the screen of my phone and call my manager.

  “Beverly, I need a favor. I need you to contact my financial advisor. I want to set up an educational trust fund. I’ll give you the rest of the details later. But, just get the appointment booked for now, okay?…Uh huh…Yeah…Thanks.”

  Listening to her jabber on and on about this or that is mentally exhausting. Most of the time I’m on the other end saying “uh huh, yeah, uh huh, right,” while she sounds just like that teacher from the Peanuts cartoon. Wah, wah, wah. I don’t even know what she’s ranting about today. Something about a switch in venues for an upcoming concert. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. It doesn’t affect me when or where I sing. Just give me a mic and a guitar, and I’m good to go! After a few minutes of drowning out her endless chatter, I finally manage to squeeze a word in edgewise. “All right, Bev, I need to ask another favor.”

  I know I have to follow through on my decision, but I know what the outcome will do to my heart. Regardless, it’s the right thing to do. Jesus, help me get through this. “Listen Beverly, promise me there will be no questions asked about my next request, okay?” With a contemplative pause, I wrestle with the next few words, but manage to spill them out knowing my heart’s in the right place—I’m doing this for her. “I’m gonna need you to change my phone number.”

  Are you or a loved one a victim of domestic/dating violence? You are not alone. You can break the
cycle!

  Domestic/Dating violence is the willful intimidation, physical assault, battery, sexual assault and/or other abusive behavior perpetuated by an intimate partner against another. It is an epidemic affecting individuals in every community, regardless of age, economic status, race, religion, nationality, or educational background. Violence against women, often accompanied by emotionally abusive and controlling behavior, is part of a systematic pattern of dominance and control. Domestic violence results in physical injury, psychological trauma, and sometimes death. The consequences of domestic/dating violence can cross generations and truly last a lifetime.

  One in every four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime.

  One in three teens and young adults experience some form of dating abuse

  An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year

  85% of domestic violence victims are women

  Historically, females have been most often victimized by someone they knew

  Females who are 20-24 years of age are at the greatest risk of non-fatal intimate partner violence

  58% of college students say they don’t know how to help someone who is a victim of dating abuse

  Most cases of domestic violence are never reported to the police

  For more information or to get help, please call:

  The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233

  The National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-4673

  The National Teen Dating Abuse Hotline at 1-800-331-9474

  Additional information, please visit:

  http://www.ncadv.org

  www.breakthecycle.org

  www.loveisrespect.org

  www.rainn.org

  To my readers: THANK YOU! Words cannot express my gratitude. When I first started writing this book I never imagined the first person would read it. I’m so thankful that you have picked it up and given it a shot. I couldn’t do this without the support of my readers and fans! You make this whole process worth every minute!