It's Not Easy

That's why I'm here

May 23rd is here. We left Sara at Stevie's parents, because we knew just how many interviews we would have to go through in just two days, both concerning the reunion and our life together. All the time I kept thinking about backing off from The Dance, but I understand I can’t, she can’t, not now, so I didn’t even mention it.

We still have almost three hours before the show. The band has rehearsed already and there’s nothing left to do now besides waiting and I hate that, I become very jumpy and nervous. I can’t put on my stage clothes yet because I might ruin them, I’m sure I’d do that until the show time. I didn't think I would be so anxious.

I’m standing in the middle of my dressing room. I know it's so different from Stevie's, wherever she goes, she likes having things of comfort, something to remind her about home. I start thinking if I could give this up. Of course, I would still have my solo act, but Fleetwood Mac is so dear to me, I love Mick, John and Christine, they all hold such special places in my heart, but what matters more? They or my relationship with Stevie and us bringing up Sara?

I go to see Stevie. She smiles opening the door. “Hey, you.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She steps out of the way and I enter. “I just came here to check on how you’re dealing with your nerves.”

“You know how bad I am with free time before shows.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here, baby.” I sit down on the couch, she goes over to the floor length mirror.

She's taking in her appearance. The make up was applied so carefully, to showcase her nice features and hide the faults, that's what she thinks she has. She touches the skin under her chin, she traces her cheeks with her fingertips, she looks at her face from every possible angle and then smiles. I know she's proud of her changes. When she was using cocaine she looked sick, way too thin and so tragically fragile. When she was prescribed Klonopin, she went from just over a hundred pounds to almost two hundred and she couldn’t look at herself. She would wake up and cry, she took the dosage the way she saw fit, she ate, she stopped exercising, she looked a mess, I have to admit. She used to take beautiful polaroids and the last one she took, she tore it to little pieces, I remember because I was with her then. She said she was not pretty anymore, that she looked terrible. It probably hit her then. She had to do whatever it took to ditch the prescription pills and lose all the weight. And she did, and she was able to wear a gorgeous black dress again, and she able to take a beautiful picture again.

After examining herself in the mirror, she turns to look at me. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m a little uneasy myself.” I admit, taking a bag from inside my jacket.

“Lindsey...”

“Mm?”

“You gotta be kidding…”

“Come on, Stevie, it will do us good.”

“Lindsey, you’re not actually rolling a joint.”

“I’m almost finished.” I show her and light up the pot, carefully wrapped in paper. I take a long drag of the joint and pass it to her.

“I’ll be alright, I think.” Despite saying that, I can just tell she's really tempted, seeing how I immediately relax on the couch. I smoke pot to this day the same way she used cocaine almost. It’s definitely not as harmful, but she has told me many times she hate seeing my gorgeous blue-grey eyes being clouded.

“It’s burning out, Stevie.”

"Oh what the hell, it’s better to go out on stage high than drunk." Although I know she will have a shot of tequila no matter what, she's always done that. She lifts it to her lips and inhales deeply, then lets out the smoke slowly and gives the joint back to me.