Page 173 of The Comedown

Her hands find my throat, automatically feeling for my pulse.

“What’s on your mind?” I muffle against her shirt.

“This.”

I rotate my head to the side.

This. Why’d she say it like that? Like what we have—what we are—can be summed up in one word.

“If this was just a tour-mance, I’d have Bruce keep adding dates for the rest of my life so I can stay on tour with you forever.”

Her stomach heaves under my ear with a small laugh. “He asked me about staying on for more stops.”

I lift my head, looking her in the eye.

“What’d you say?”

She sucks in a breath, and in that one inhalation, I hear what she’s been doing a damn good job of hiding—guilt. Fuck. I’m not gonna like this.

“I can’t. I already committed to touring with someone else after The Mousais.”

Where does that leave us? Does that even leave an us? Or are we really just “this”?

“So what about—”

“I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work, Julian. It’s going to be a lot of effort and patience on both our ends, and I just… I don’t know.”

“We’ll make it work.” We have to. I refuse to accept anything less. Anything less than being with Collette isn’t worth having. I already tried it for the first twenty-seven years of my life, I’m not about to go any more without her. Fuck that shit.

She sighs, and I can tell she’s thought about it, probably been over it many times in her own head already. Why hasn’t she said anything to me then?

“You can’t promise that. You can’t promise—”

I sit back on my haunches, telling her for what feels like the hundredth time, “Watch me. Tell me you’re in, and I’ll do whatever it takes, Collette.”

“Julian.”

“Whatever. It. Takes.”

She watches me for a bit, then asks, “What about your…habits?”

Habits? I don’t crave alcohol or drugs or anything other than Collette anymore.

I don’t crave them as often.

I don’t crave them as strongly.

I crave them, but it’s…it’s hard to explain. It’s the edges. They’re too sharp sometimes and I need them dulled, just a little, not much.

If I hadn’t smoked that J on my way over here, I wouldn’t be able to handle this conversation the way I am now. This shit is…

What exactly is this?

“Once the tour ends, it’ll be better,” I lie, knowing damn well the last time I came off tour, that slingshot out of the spotlight hurt like a motherfucker. To go from too-bright fame to basic anonymity, it’s the quickest, strongest, sharpest whiplash there is. A comedown—like Collette described. Now that I know what to expect, it probably won’t even be as bad this time. I’ll just be missing my woman on top of it.

And Holter.

“I’ll be better,” I tell her, praying I’m not lying.