I Always Will

Tenerife

Riley

It's been seventy-tour hours since I've known for sure where Row is and who she is with. With the exception of her recent trip to London for her hand therapy...the very last time I didn't know exactly where she was? She was doing lines of coke in Mosteller's bed.

Even after we were divorced, I still knew. She was my artist, my responsibility. Her panic bracelet has the tracking device. I could ping her location with with three thumb presses on my phone. If she took it off, well, there were the trackers on her cars. She never asked me to remove them, and I never did.

I'm staring at the locater app, my thumb hovering. It would be so simple to ping her panic button. Then I would know for sure if she was tucked up in her hotel bed in London, safe and sound, or if she's out somewhere, with AJ half-ass watching out for her like last time she was there and got battered in a bathroom stall. And if she were out, well then. I could call up AJ and remind him of his last mistake, and the one before that when he took the night off she gave him, and he she ended up kidnapped, terrorized and stabbed.

I pause, my thumb still over the button.

I don't know what I'm expecting. Priscilla, I think, to scold me for even considering a return to such controlling ways.

But Priscilla isn't talking to me. She's as disappointed in me as Row, I suppose.

I sigh, text my living lover instead.

Hello there. Just checking in. Still pissed?

Her reply is immediate: Do you mean drunk or angry?

Me: Angry.

Her: Then, no.

Which means she's drunk, of course.

Me: Bloody glad to hear that, though I'd much prefer you were drunk with me, darling. Here. Now. I miss you.

Her: I prefer it when you sing with me.

Me: When you get home, I shall. In our bed. With the wine and candles and guitars and hopefully, a bit more than that.

Her: I don't know how you can say no to this THING between us on stage, and expect that we're okay.

Me: So you are still angry.

Her: No, Riley. I'm fucking devastated.

In less than a second I've dialed her. She answers, says nothing. I have the distinct feeling she's crying.

"Rowan, I love you. I want to spend my life with you." I say the words as tenderly as I can. "You make me happy, and I want to make you happy. In all things, darling. Please believe me."

"Then...make me.... Happy. Make...yerself." Her words are are slurry, anguished, and terrifying to me.

Where is she? Is she somewhere safe? Is she somewhere crying and oblivious and completely vulnerable because we are apart and arguing?

I want simply, more than anything, to just say yes. Alright darling, let's shop a demo. Muscle Shoals is the place for us to find the right producer don't you think?

But I can't.

What if I agree to this and we fail? What if I can't deliver as an artist? What if I let her down? What if I'm the reason her dreams don't come true? What if the reality of being in a band together with me is a nightmare instead?

How much might we argue if we tried to make a marriage of our hearts and minds and song-writing souls? If the pressures of albums and tours and creative decisions were born equally between us? We failed to keep our balance act in separate arenas of her career. That is nothing to the passion of trying to create art together. What might happen the first time we disagree about on a song to put on an album, a set list to play, a backing musician's performance? Will she does this—kick me out, get wasted—every time we have a creative disagreement?