"You already are," she whispers, and I feel my heart tear just a little, somewhere so deep inside it must be the absolute center of me.
She takes a deep breath and then storms into the most painful part of all. At least it is for me.
"I was undone. After we left you at rehab that night, I was undone. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I really thought I was going to die from the pain. And Joss? He was hurting too. I could see it. And I think my pain made his worse. We sort of fed off of each other. I see now, looking back, that what we needed was to be around other people. People who could help us step back, because we were both locked up in there with you. We needed someone to get a set of keys and walk us out of there. The irony is, you had people to help you—therapists, counselors, whatever. But Joss and me? We had no one—except each other—and that’s how it happened. It was like this row of dominoes tumbling, and before I knew it, it was done."
She stops and, for the first time since she started talking, looks directly at me. There is no question—as if there ever were—that she is stricken with remorse, that she hates herself and what she did, that she is as sorry as someone could ever be for that brutal, life-altering mistake.
I know she needs my forgiveness as much as I need hers. And as painful as her actions were, I also know that Tammy loved me, and never would have hurt me on purpose. She was my everything for half my life, and I can’t let her go on thinking that I hate her for one mistaken hour in all our years together.
My voice is rough as I speak, and I clear my throat a few times to get it started. "I understand, Tammy. I really do. I know you wouldn’t have hurt me on purpose. Everything in our lives was always about me. My music, my friends, my disease. It’s no wonder you were so scared of losing me. I kept you tethered to me so tightly you never had a moment to do anything but worry about me. I was really selfish, Tam. For most of my life, I’ve been really selfish. And I’m sorry you paid the price for that as much as I did."
She huffs out a laugh through her sniffles. "I guess we’ve discovered the meaning of ‘codependent,’ haven’t we?"
My breath hitches for a minute as I hear her use the term my counselor in rehab threw at me. Even in the months after I got out, I never said the word to Tammy. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that what had seemed so right for so long had really been wrong. My dependence on her kept her dependent on me. It was all twisted, and it’s why we need to stay away from one another now.
"It was wrong, and we were too young to understand what we were creating, but hopefully we’ve learned now and we can move on to some better things."
"I still love you, Walsh," she whispers.
"And I still love you, sweetheart—"
"So where does that leave us?"
I give her a small smile. She knows the answer to this. I only wish she wouldn’t make me say it out loud.
"Tammy. We harmed each other. Badly. No matter how well we understand the reasons why it all happened, it can’t change the fact that we did that damage. No amount of love prevented it. I think we pretty well proved we shouldn’t be within a fucking mile of each other."
She shakes her head. "No. We made some mistakes, we’ve been working through them, and we took time apart to do that. But now we’re better. We can start fresh. You’re part of me, Walsh. I can’t just leave you behind like I don’t need that part."
I feel the longing well up inside me. As much as I wish I could believe in what she says, I can’t. There is no way I will risk her heart or mine again. We’ve been through too much.
"I’m sorry, Tam. It’s too late. I can’t let either one of us go through that again. Any more might break one of us for good. It’s time to move on. You need to go back to Portland and"—I swallow down the bitter taste that I have in my throat and mouth—"and start a new life. Meet some great guy who doesn’t have all my baggage and takes care of you instead of expecting you to take care of him all the time."
"What?" Her voice is genuinely confused. "Find some great guy? Are you out of your mind, Walsh?" I see a flush come to her cheeks, and her voice rises. "Did you not hear what I just told you? I love you. You. Not some random guy in Portland who I haven’t even met yet. I don’t want someone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else—"
"Tammy," I interrupt. "You have to stop. Stop trying to fix something that can’t be fixed. You and I are done. I came here tonight to apologize, to ask forgiveness, to get it all out there, but we can’t go back. There’s nothing to go back to."
"I don’t want to go back. I want to go forward. With you," she says, her jaw jutting out in a way that is all too familiar. Shit. Tammy DiLorenzo is in the house, and things are about to go from bad to worse.
"Tammy," I say with a warning tone in my voice. "I’m sorry if I misled you, but we’re over. We’ve been over for six months now—"
"You need to leave, Walsh," she says curtly. "This conversation isn’t done, not by a long shot, but my therapist warned me that, if I start to feel too angry, I need to take a step back."
I’m floored for a minute. Tammy has never, and I mean never, backed down when she wants her way. I’m stymied. I was gearing up for one our usual sessions of me trying to be reasonable and her bulldozing through any objections I might voice. Now, I don’t know what to say to this rational, albeit angry Tammy.
I realize I’m gaping at her, so I shut my mouth and lean forward in my chair. "Maybe—"
She stands up. "I’m sorry, Walsh. I really need to follow what I’ve been taught about these feelings. I need to be alone for a while right now."
She walks to the door and holds it open, indicating that my visit is over. I shake my head in wonder before standing up and walking to the open doorway. When I reach her, I lean forward to see under the curtain of hair that hangs alongside her face. She’s trying to avoid looking directly at me.
"Have a beautiful life, pretty girl," I tell her softly as I let her hair brush my cheek when I lean in.
Her head pops up and she looks me straight in the eye, our faces close enough to feel each other’s warm breath.
"Don’t be ridiculous, Walsh. We’re not done. We never will be."
I step back and walk out the door, wondering if she’s just made me a promise or delivered a threat.
Tammy
AFTER WALSH leaves the boarding house, I stomp around the parlor for a few minutes, pacing from one end to the other, trying to practice all those things the therapist taught me back in Portland. The first step is figuring out if I’m really angry or just using anger to mask other feelings. I know immediately that I’m hurt. So incredibly hurt that Walsh would try to walk away from me—from us—like that. He makes it seem like the last fourteen years of my life were one big mistake, some sort of blight to overcome.
It’s obvious we had problems, but we were happy most of the time. And in all that time, I got an associate’s degree and learned management and promotions. Walsh went from playing in a garage to being in a mega-successful band. He became a millionaire, we traveled the world, and I managed the daily operations of a staff of anywhere from a dozen to fifty or sixty. He won a damn Grammy. There’s no way he can convince me that we were bad together.
So I’m hurt as much as I’m angry. Now I need to deal with that so the stress from it doesn’t just fester. I don’t want to be on these meds the rest of my life, and to get off of them, I need to learn how to deal with my stress better. I can’t just go ninja on everyone around me until I force them to do what I want. At least that’s what my therapist says. And Mel admitted the point as well, so I guess I’ll have to take their word for it.
I do my breathing exercises and count to ten about five times. I focus on feeling my pulse rate slow. My cheeks cool down, and I know I’ve got it under control. I stop pacing and stand, looking out the window across the front porch to the street, where it is silent and still—like I need my mind to be if I’m going to figure out how to deal with Walsh.
"Well, did he get his head out of his
cute behind?" I hear Mrs. Stallworth say.
I turn around, my jaw dropping open at her language. "Um, he’s, uh…" I’m speechless, and her gleeful expression tells me that she’s loving it.
"Well, don’t stand there like a guppy out of water. Come to the kitchen and tell me all about it," she says as she turns and shuffles away.
I can’t help but grin. They may not have a Starbucks in Cowtown, Texas, but we didn’t have a Mrs. Stallworth in Portland.
I follow her to the other side of the house and into the large old-fashioned kitchen. She doesn’t even have a dishwasher. I’ve already been told that Wednesdays are my day to do dishes. She points to a chair at the kitchen table and I sit. I’m starting to think that Texas women spend a lot of time with visitors in their kitchens.
"He’s a good-lookin’ one," she grunts at me as she flips the switch on an electric tea kettle.
"I think so," I answer.
"And pretty polite for a boy these days."
"He’s a good guy, but he’s had a hard couple of years." I wipe some crumbs off the table into my hand and stand up to brush them off in the trash can near the back door.
"The damn bottle," she laments. "It’s ruined a lot of fine men."
I struggle to hide my surprise. I told her that I was staying in town because my ex was living nearby and we were working things out, but I never told her about Walsh’s alcoholism.
"What?" she says as she picks up the kettle that’s just clicked off and pours the hot water into cups. She walks over and sets one in front of me before sitting down in a chair across the table. She’s so small that she looks like a tiny child sitting in an adult’s seat. "It was Leanne who called me to get you a room. It wasn’t that hard to figure out your boy must be staying at the Double A. Everyone in town knows Ronny’s got a bunch of lushes out there." She shrugs.
I’m not sure whether to be offended or laugh. I decide that it’s too much work to be offended. Walsh is a lush. He’d say so too.
"So the bottle ruin him or not?" she asks as she gives me the eagle eye.
"No," I say emphatically. "It did not ruin him. He’s stronger than that. He just doesn’t believe we’re stronger yet, so I have to convince him."
"You sure he isn’t just looking for an excuse to dump you?"
God, I wonder if Leanne realizes that little Mrs. Stallworth packs a vicious punch.
"Yes. He loves me. He just thinks we’ve hurt each other so much that we shouldn’t be together anymore."
"And what do you think?"
"I think we need to start fresh, and as long as we love each other, we can overcome anything."
"Men are stupid," she says matter-of-factly. "It’s up to us to tell them that. Sometimes that means using a frying pan over his head, and sometimes that means shaking your moneymaker his direction. Which you gonna do?" She sips her tea as if she hasn’t just suggested I either assault my ex-boyfriend or blatantly seduce him.
I smile. "The moneymaker, Mrs. Stallworth. The moneymaker. I’ve been taking the frying pan to people’s heads for too long."
"Good," she cackles. "You’ve got a grade-A moneymaker, girl. You might as well use it. But you’re gonna freeze it off if you don’t cover it up a little better. Less is more, dear."
I nod my head, looking down at my cleavage spilling out of the halter top I have on. "Yes, ma’am," I say solemnly. Maybe she’s got a point.
Walsh
AFTER I leave Tammy at the boarding house, I decide to go drag Mike’s ass out of The Bronco. Although there are days when it’s a place I shouldn’t be, I do go to The Bronco now and then. There’s not a hell of a lot to do in this town, and Mike and I get tired of working, eating, watching TV, and wallowing in our own crap. As stressful as my conversation with Tammy was, I feel a sense of relief. I’ve admitted my stuff. She’s admitted to hers. Maybe now we can both have a clean start at new lives. I decide that my new, lighter conscience will help me keep it together to go have an O.J. and club soda while Mike finishes chatting up whatever poor farm girl he’s victimizing tonight.
I walk into the big front room of the bar, and it’s packed, cowboys and women in tight denim from wall to wall. As convincing as I may have been with Tammy earlier, the men in this town are actually pretty damn polite to the women. Some sort of old-fashioned Texas-rancher thing. They open doors, pull out chairs, and say, "Yes, ma’am," quite a bit around here.
I can’t help but smile to myself. I shouldn’t have bullshitted Tammy like that, but at least I kept her from parading around town in that getup. I know she’s going to move on and meet someone else, and he’ll be a lucky son of a bitch, but I really hope that I don’t have to see it when it happens. I think I might hurt one of these guys if I saw him touching Tammy.
As I look around, trying to guess where Mike might have gone, that Florida Georgia Line song with Nelly comes on over the sound system. It makes me think of Mike’s truck, and I can’t help but shake my head.
"Hey, cowboy," a voice says next to my ear.
I turn and look down to see one of the waitresses, Marsha, giving me a smug little look, her curly red hair only moderately restrained by a bun on top of her head and her blue eyes crinkled at the corners as she grins.
I roll my eyes. "Hi, Marsha," I sigh.
"Just admit it. You’ve paid Jimmy to give you my schedule and now you’re stalking me."
I chuckle. It seems that I have an unnatural knack for only coming to The Bronco when Marsha’s working. The fourth or fifth time in a row that I showed up during one of her shifts, she started giving me shit about it, and she’s never let up. Day or night, workday or weekend, if I come to The Bronco, Marsha will be there. I’ve accused her of living here, but the owner, Jimmy, swears that she only works a standard forty-hour week. I’m not sure I believe him.
"You seen Mike around here?" I ask, scanning the crowd over as many heads as I can.
She gives me an odd look then purses her lips. "Yeah, I’ve seen him," she answers.
"Oh shit. What’s he done?" I ask, bracing myself to hear about his latest asshole maneuver.
"Come on over to the bar and I’ll get you your juice," she answers, shimmying between a couple of guys who take the opportunity to check her out and whistle as she goes by.
I give them a head tip but no smile as I follow her. I won’t be standing by if either of them decides to touch her instead of just look. But they seem to be just enough on the right side of loaded that they keep their paws in check.
When we reach the bar, Marsha motions to the old guy on the end stool, and he grunts at her and leaves. Then she tells me, "Have a seat, cowboy."
"You’ll make a lot more money off of him than you will me, you know," I chide her. "O.J. and club isn’t going to work out to much of a tip no matter how generous I am."
"I thought you famous rock stars just threw around thousand-dollar bills like they were candy.” She winks as she steps behind the bar and starts to mix my drink.
"Sshhh." I scowl at her as I look around to see who might be listening.
Mike and I didn’t know what was going to happen the first few times we went into town after we’d been on the ranch for a few weeks. We went to a lot of trouble and did all the clichéd things—wearing ball caps and sunglasses, slouching around in the dark corners of stores. Imagine how stupid we felt when we realized that no one here listens to our music or knows a damn thing about Lush at all. A few people like Marsha figured it out after a while, but they’ve kept quiet, and we’ve kept off the paparazzi’s radar for going on six months. I figure a little longer and we’ll be such has-beens that no one will care anymore. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
"Oh just relax," she sasses me. "No one here listens to anything but Luke Bryan and Zac Brown Band. You’re safe, rock star."
"So you were going to tell me what Mike’s managed to get himself into now." I change the subject abruptly as I realize I still haven’t seen my roomie.
She sighs and leans forw
ard across the bar top. Marsha’s well-endowed, and I work really hard at keeping my eyes topside as her cleavage sort of splays across the wooden surface. All seeing it would do is make me long for Tammy’s anyway.
"He’s been chatting up one of the local gals."
I take a swig of O.J. and crunch the ice that slides into my mouth. "Nothing new about that," I answer.
"Well, this girl is different."
I raise an eyebrow. "What is she, like a virgin or something?" I slap the bar top and laugh my ass off at the very idea.
Marsha stands back and watches me, arms crossed, a disapproving look on her face.
As I see that she’s not laughing with me, I settle down. "Seriously, Marsha, what’s up? Is she older? Because I can tell you that’s never stopped him. Younger? Unless she’s lied to him about her age, I know he won’t go below eighteen. He may not have many scruples, but he’s got a deep aversion to prison."
Finally, she leans forward again and hisses out, "She’s the pastor’s daughter, you moron."
I swallow my O.J. the wrong way and start to cough. I pound myself on the chest as juice sprays out of my mouth, and the dude on the next barstool gets pissed off and turns his back to me. Marsha looks disgusted and pulls a bar towel from underneath the counter then wipes up the mess I’ve made.
"Well at least you get the seriousness of the situation," she mutters. "Pastor Turner will run him out of here with a shotgun up his ass if he messes with Jenny."
"Holy crap. Does he know? I mean, does he know who she is?"
"Yes, Walsh. I told him right away," she grits out.
"Well why the hell is he still playing with fire?
"How should I know? You’re his friend. I’m just the damn waitress that’s served them three separate times when they’ve been here all cozy in the back corner."
"Aw shit. Where are they? You’d better take me over there."
"Come on then." She motions for me to follow. "I’m sure he’ll be about as happy to hear it from you as he was from me last week."
For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2) Page 5