My stomach rolls. “And?”
He rubs his hand over his mouth as he stares out into the backyard. “I beat the shit out of him,” he states dryly, like he’s talking about something as simple as the weather, and my stomach clenches at the pain in his voice. “I’d just found out about Lana’s HIV diagnosis, and I was livid. I wanted to make him suffer for infecting her, but also for taking her life. For selling her the drugs that killed her.”
I remain silent, feeling like he needs to get this out more than he needs to hear me respond.
Segan’s face twists into a sneer. “You know, the anger that filled me was all-consuming. It was vile and dark, and it made me feel out of control constantly. Like I wasn’t myself anymore. I woke up angry. Went to work angry. Came home and went to bed angry. I didn’t know how to feel anything other than rage. Red-hot and blinding rage. And I think a sick part of me relished the anger because it meant I felt something other than deep, black nothingness.
“The worst part of this whole story,” he goes on, shaking his head, “is after I smashed his face in, I didn’t feel any better. Not even marginally. And I got to learn that it wasn’t only her drug dealer who Lana so happily spread her legs for. The list was long, man. It was long, and it didn’t discriminate.”
Discomfort churns in my gut, bile sitting at the back of my throat. I hate the anguish plaguing Segan’s every feature. I want to take it away. Make it better. But I don’t know how, nor does he give me the chance.
“She didn’t get the HIV from her dealer,” he mutters, practically under his breath, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pre-rolled joint and a purple lighter. He takes a drag before passing it to me.
Taking it from him, I ask before bringing it to my lips, “How do you know?”
“He got tested regularly. At least that’s what he told me, and honestly, he had no reason to lie. I’d already kicked the shit out of him, and he fessed up to fucking her before that. So, who knows who gave it to her. Hell, it could’ve very well been a dirty needle that infected her.” Segan peers over at me, holding my gaze for a single moment before returning his attention to the yard. Then so quietly, I almost miss it entirely, he breathes, “There were so many nights I needed you, but you weren’t there.”
I’d like to pretend he meant it for Lana. That he needed her. But that isn’t what he means, and I feel the truth of those words in every last bone in my body. I feel it in my soul. It’s crippling, those words.
Segan needed me, and I. Wasn’t. There.
“I’m so sorry, Segan, that you had to go through all of this alone.” It’s not the first time I’ve said it, sounding like a broken record at this point, but I need him to know how regretful I am.
“Stop.” He shakes his head. “You had no way of knowing how shit was going to turn out any more than I did. We made mistakes, but at the end of the day, both of us tried to do the very best with what we had. It took a lot of time and therapy for me to see that.”
Deep down, I know he’s right, but I can’t help but wonder how things would be now if I could’ve been there for himthen. The overwhelming urge to reach out and drag Segan into me right now, to hold him, kiss him, comfort him like I wasn’t able to for years, is so strong. My chest aches for the day when I’m able to do that without hesitation.
30
SEGAN
“Hey, you guys are on in two,” Fitz murmurs to me and the guys, holding up two fingers for emphasis, as he stands in the doorway to my dressing room.
Tonight, I’m performing at the Ryman Auditorium for their annual charity event, along with several other big country music names. This is a huge event that NCMS, and other wealthy donors, put on each year. It’s my third year being in the line-up, and I’m always so honored to be a part of it. A new charity is chosen each time, and this year, all proceeds raised go to the Elton John AIDS Foundation.
It's a charity that is very near and dear to my heart for obvious reasons, and one that I helped pick this year.
“You guys ready?” I ask the band, as we all stand to our feet.
“Let’s do this,” Voss booms.
Taking the stage, the crowd roars. The energy and excitement in the room is palpable, the screaming deafening. The lights beaming down on the stage are so bright, I can barely make out the crowd, but what I can see is that it’s packed. There isn’t an empty seat in the house, and I love that. Despite not being able to make out a single person, that doesn’t stop my eyes from scanning the area anyway.
Searching.
Hoping.
After our very weird dinner-turned-dark-conversation the other night, I mentioned this show to Josiah, and told him if he wanted to come, I could get him a couple of tickets. I tried to keep it as nonchalant as I could, but deep down, I wasn’t fooling nobody. There isn’t a single soul I want in the audience right now more than I want him.
As much as I’d like to continue to pretend his presence back in my life isn’t affecting me, it is. It’s unnerving, to say the least. My heart and my mind are in a battle of wills lately when it comes to Josiah. An angel and devil resting on my shoulders, pulling me in two different directions.
I’ve grown so much from the boy he left. The boy he broke. That time in my life seems like a lifetime ago, yet the hurt is still there. I feel it trying to crush my windpipe whenever he looks at me the same way he used to. It’s a dull ache deep in my chest that I’m sure will never fully dissipate. I’m not who I once was… but I am at the same time.
Singing song after song, with lyrics filled with so much meaning, so much truth, so much heartache, I’m reminded all over again how it felt that night by the barn. How devastating it felt watching him walk away. And then again, the night of Lana’s funeral. How it felt beneath Josiah. How his breath on my neck felt hot and so right. And how gutted I felt when he left—when I kicked him out.
He broke me first, that night he walked away, but I broke myself all over again when I pushed him away. Now, he’s here, back in my life, and I’m terrified I’m going to push him away again. As much as I’ve grown, as much as I’ve healed, I can’t help but wonder if I’m still the same broken boy I once was, who can’t accept love, who can’t let him in, who can’t move beyond the past.
But then I remember how it felt to find out he was the one who found me. The one whosavedme. How it felt to find out that he knew my deepest, darkest, and for many years, my most shameful, secret, and he didn’t think any less of me. It didn’t make him want me any less.
