The kids spent time with him only once during the two-week period, when he took them to a movie premiere. He recorded a couple of songs on the soundtrack and played a small role in the film. It was the first time his children walked the red carpet with him, and the pictures from that night—him standing with his two youngest in front and his oldest beside him, still made him smile. Only one reporter threw out a question about Charisse, which he ignored. Otherwise, the curiosity surrounding their lives fizzled into oblivion, replaced by the next hot topic du jour.
He missed Charisse, but he stayed away, at least for now. He had questions about her health and the baby, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want to see or hear from him.
He thought back to that Sunday—the teary eyes, the pain in her voice. Yes, he was jealous and possessive. He did want to keep her body for himself, but that was not all. He wanted her smile and laughter for himself. Her kindness and her big heart and her lasagna for himself. But she wouldn’t believe that because his past actions spoke way louder than words.
Hearing her talk about her feelings in the past tense was soul crushing. She said shedidlove him. She hadlovedhim. But he killed her love after years of abusing her trust and mistreating her, instead of cherishing her like the jewel he knew her to be. Now the years stretched out before him like a bottomless pit with no end in sight.
Sipping the tepid beer, he watched a mother sob into a microphone on the late-night news. Her tear-filled eyes faced the camera as she begged for her runaway child to come home. “Please come home. Please. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
He sympathized with the woman. Her words resonated with him.
Without you.
He had everything money could buy—clothes, cars, a SMART condo with every technological advance imaginable. But he didn’t have his family. He didn’t have Charisse, the love of his life. Without her, his life was nothing.
Without you.
He frowned. A beat started in his head and words drifted across his mind’s eye.
“There is no me without you,” he said to the empty room.
He set the beer on the floor and jumped up from the sofa. He pulled open the drawer of one of the side tables and removed a notepad and pen. He kept them stashed all over the condo for moments like this, when inspiration hit him.
He sat back down and started writing. The words flowed out of him. This was the love song he should’ve written to her years ago, instead of that other mess he released. He cringed when he thought about the lyrics of “Wearing My Ring.” To think that had been his idea of a love song to his wife. To think it became one of his biggest hits. He couldn’t count the number of articles that said it showed his softer side. What a joke.
Terrence wrote and wrote. He scratched out a line here, changed a word there, and continued writing.
An hour later, he stopped. He had poured his heart into the song, and it said everything he hadn’t been able to say to Charisse. She’d never hear it though. This one he’d keep to himself. But he needed to record it, even if the song never saw the light of day.
Terrence picked up the beer bottle from the floor and dialed Bo’s number as he walked to the kitchen.
“Hello?” His friend’s groggy voice came over the line.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleep, man. What do you think? I’m in London, remember?” He flew there for the tail end of a hip-hop festival, which meant it was a little after five in the morning.
“I’m sorry, man. I want to get into the studio, and I need you to set it up for me.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“What about Kamisha?”
“She’s not used to working with the studio people. It’ll take her two hours to do what will probably take you fifteen minutes.” Terrence emptied the warm beer down the drain and placed the bottle in the recycling bin.
Bo sighed heavily.
“Spare me the attitude. You got this, right?” Terrence asked.
“Yeah, I got this.”
“Good. Set it up for me within an hour.”
He hung up without waiting for a response. He went into the bedroom and changed into comfortable clothes and a pair of Nikes. Then he exited with the folded pieces of paper tucked into his back pocket.
Within forty-five minutes he entered the studio at the other end of town. Bob, the engineer, was already there and waiting for him.
