Decades

Getting Older Too

Lindsey and Stevie, arriving back at the house after their walk, decided to bring a bottle of wine out on the porch before going back in to record. The night was too nice to give up just yet.

Linsey didn't know if the walk or the wine had brought color to her cheeks, but he couldn't stop himself from noticing how pretty she still was after all of these years, flushed and glowing. Her eyes so full of life.

They sat in companionable silence and let the night descend upon them. Stevie had lit some candles and turned on the radio because she was one of those people who never failed to make the extra effort it took to make things magical. Lindsey had succumbed to her spell again and again.

She was magic, and she was music to him.

Stevie had made herself comfortable, with her legs folded beneath her, wine glass in hand, balancing on her knee. When she glanced up and noticed him observing her, she felt self-conscious all of a sudden. He sensed the shift in her demeanor and hoped the next thing he did wouldn't cause her to retreat from him. But he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Very quietly, Lindsey began to speak. "You don't have to say anything. I don't expect you to," he hesitated. "But, you know, it never stopped...." he couldn't decide how to best put his feelings into so few words. He cleared his throat and began again, "I've never stopped."

She looked at him questioningly, "Stopped what, Linds?" she shyly asked.

He whispered, "You, Stevie." Lindsey sadly shook his head and looked at Stevie so tenderly and with so much longing that she felt a lump in her throat.

This was too personal, too exposed, too raw. She wouldn't ask him to explain any further.

They weren't going to do this. They'd agreed they would not do this. But, against her better judgment, Stevie chose not to run away, not to interrupt and redirect him. She knew she should, but she could not.

She'd always overridden her better judgment with Lindsey Buckingham. There were poor choices aplenty and horrendous consequences she could offer as evidence of this.

Stevie turned to Lindsey and rested her hand on his cheek, only briefly, afraid of this kind of intimacy. She did not want to get incinerated in the coming heat it would summon if she allowed the spark to catch fire. She'd been burned so badly in the past. So had he. Their lives had been spent playing with fire and healing from the burns.

Why were they like moths to the flame when it came to each other? Would they ever be old enough to learn?

Lindsey had the ability to love her like no one else ever had. He also possessed the ability to hurt her in ways that no one else could or would. The humiliating jabs he'd made after being ousted from Fleetwood Mac had hurt.

She understood. He was hurting and felt she had fired him, not just from the band but from her life. When he'd indicated that she was still in love with him and was lonely with no family, it devastated her. She felt humiliated.

When he compared himself to her by fawning about how lucky he'd been since he had found his soulmate and had this wonderful family late in life, it stung badly. He'd implied all she was left with was her career because she'd passed her prime and, couldn't have a family and was incapable in her advanced years of finding someone and having a personal life.

It made her feel like he didn't see her value anymore, and he wanted to discount her value to the world as well. He had a beautiful, young wife and had glommed onto eternal youth with a houseful of family. In contrast, she was some barren, old crone.

At that time, she sincerely hoped she'd never see his face again.

He spoke of her professional life like it didn't matter, as if the sacrifices she'd made were poor choices that left her unfulfilled. However, being an independent woman and not taking on the role he had in mind for her had fulfilled her, and she knew that this hurt him.

His words were coming from a place of hurt. He wanted to punish Stevie. His ego was in tatters, and she knew he was living through her rejection of him again, and the same urge to punish her as had flared when she broke up with him the first time had reared its ugly head again.

Did she have it all? No. But she'd made her choices on her own. And if she had chosen to settle down and have a family with him, that wouldn't have been everything to her either. The choices she'd made hadn't been easy for her.

She knew that either way she chose to go, she would have had regrets to live with. Everything she'd gained meant something else she'd given up. The most painful trade-off had been Lindsey. But, she had resisted conforming to his plans by running from him instead of communicating and compromising. Their rekindlings and their working relationship over the years had kept that loss way too fresh all her life.

She was reluctant to add anything to what he had said. After the way he'd discussed her personal life and feelings for him in the media, she didn't trust what she said to stay private. And she didn't want to give him ammunition to use against her if things went sour again, as they so often did.

But, as always, she was drawn back in. He'd been the Lindsey from their Buckingham Nicks days lately. She could trust that man. Before all of the pain, sorrow, and injury had entered their relationship, she had trusted him with her life. Through the fog of resentment and anger, she couldn't always see that man, but he was present with her now. And for now, she trusted that. She trusted him.

There had been so much bad for so long, but maybe they were past that. There had been enough good to make her want to let down her walls. Lindsey's words had spurred her on. She poured herself another glass of wine and took a big sip, staring out into the night before speaking, consciously forcing herself not to say too much.

"It's always been you," she said so quietly he questioned that he'd heard her correctly. She bit her tongue to keep herself from adding more.

They found themselves looking out into the blackness, shoulder to shoulder, but not touching, on the outdoor sofa, candles flickering and the wine softening their edges. It felt as if they were looking through time at all the chances they'd had and squandered, peering back through the decades with regret and forgiveness, anger and sadness, love and tenderness.

While they often saw this eternal impasse they had chosen to dwell in as rather hopeless, there was always a glimmer of "maybe someday." That tiny spark of hope that they never mercifully extinguished.

They'd always be something to each other. Lovers or adversaries. They just kept redefining what they were to each other into unsatisfying roles. Perhaps there was still time for things to turn out right. After all, here they were, side by side, against all odds.