The moment we find our place backstage, the live music captures my attention. Cora works us closer and closer behind the curtain, where roadies await potential problems and others hold guitars, ready to switch them out between songs. There’s an organized chaos to it all, but the biggest show is standing center stage.
My eyes find Trent, and once they do I cannot drag them away.
He’s the star. He commands every eye in this arena.
It’s mesmerizing.
It’s addicting.
This is his life.
I let myself enjoy the show, sinking into the lyrics he owns, watching him dance and move. I almost feel guilty for the way my eyes eat him up—like a voyeur—taking in everything about him and the way he works the crowd. He wanders to the edge of the stage, moves his hips in an illicit, delicious manner, and the screams of the crowd increase. Between songs, a woman at the edge of the crowd screams, “Fuck me, Trent Donavan!” and lifts her shirt, flashing the stage as well as anyone else standing near.
Trent’s chuckle washes over the crowd, a sound that breathes sex and intimacy. A sound that should be reserved for the woman he’s fucking. For my ears. And that’s when it hits me ...
The fame, the fans, the notoriety, it will always be Number One for him. It’s so damn tempting to get caught up in the rush of it all, of the band, of Trent. But ...
I’d be exactly like my mother.
That attacks like a sucker punch to the face.
What the fuck am I doing?
I swore I’d never be like her. I’d never fall for someone like him. Yet isn’t that exactly what I’ve done?
Fuck.
They start the next song and Cora shouts along to the chorus, dancing with the wailing guitars, but she’s not the only one. Thousands and thousands of women in the audience do the exact same thing. They all regard Trent with that same infatuation, that same look of desire, and instead of jealous, I feel ... defeated. Because part of me wants to do the same thing. Wants to cheer and smile and sing with the famous rock star. There is power in his presence, in the way he owns that microphone. It’s sexual, the way he belts out lyrics, his voice filling me up from the inside out.
But the other part of me, the one thatknowswhat happens next, she’s not fooled by the grandeur of this scene or the man onstage.
She knows this only ends one way.
I can’t leave the stadium fast enough. My boots almost snag on the mounds of electrical cord when I turn to run, and Daryl, one of the roadies, steadies me with a hand. I mutter my thanks and dodge the seemingly closing walls of this space. Trent’s lyrics haunt me and follow me as I escape. I wish they wouldn’t. I wish I could go back and erase all the moments that led me here. The promises made. The affection I feel for him in my heart. It’s all crippled by fear and the acute knowledge that this man will break me. He won’t be able to help himself, and I’ll be left. Just like my mother.
But I’m stronger than her.
I am stronger.
That’s the mantra I repeat all the way back to the bus. The words I repeat as I wipe the charcoal liner from my eyes and the lipstick from my mouth. As I wash away the makeup and slip from my skintight clothes and into my oldest, baggiest, most comfortable sweats, I repeat the words.
I am stronger. I am strong. I am not her.
I won’t be.
It’s the promise I make to myself. Consequences be damned, I will not waver. I will not become someone I do not recognize or respect. I steel myself for his smile, his charm, his beauty, and honestly spoken words that are sure to put my resolution to the test.
While I wait, I go to the place I know best. My music.
Pulling out my acoustic, paper and pen, I settle into the kitchen nook under one shining spotlight and pour out my soul onto the page, into the notes, and all over the melody that chants along with my breaking heart.
I’m lost in the creative madness that lets me flee a reality I don’t want to face, feeling stronger by the second, when my phone wails from the kitchen counter. Letting it go to voicemail, I attempt to get back in the groove but the damn thing goes off again.
“Fucking hell!” I shout aloud to no one. My concentration is history as I stomp to where I have the device charging.
My mom’s face lights up the screen and I debate picking up. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to talk to her after tonight’s realization, when my thoughts and hurt are fresh. But her persistence gets the better of me.
“Mom.”
