Comeback

Riley, weeks later

Our housekeeper doesn't know whether to hug me or scold me. On the one hand, she is happy to see me walking with a cane. On the other hand, Row is sitting in my lap this morning, and I'm scandalizing Linda by being a little too handsy at the breakfast table.

I can't help it. Apparently there's nothing like a taboo to create desire. Since our agreement last month not to attempt any more sex until I find right the combination of pain management techniques, and until Row can think about having sex without worry it's going to go all kinds of wrong, we've found that the little moments of flirtation are incredibly erotic. And escalating.

I'm trying to restrain myself, for Linda's sake. I'm failing. Row loves it when I rub her back, massage her shoulders, stroke her gorgeous raven head and ply her with sweet kisses.

I stop just short of fondling her chest and refocus my attention on my Ipad as she takes a fortifying breath of self-control and stirs her yogurt.

We've just gotten the details about the promotional tour for Season Four of Girl Band. Two weeks. Six cities. New York, Chicago, Ontario, LA, Sydney, London. Appearances and a press junket in each.

Once I ingest the plan, I begin to give Row a rundown. To my surprise, she picks up the Ipad and studies the email carefully, specifically the info about the junkets. Typically, Row has never cared about the details such as hotels and schedules. A press junket is the kind of thing where I would simply make sure she was ready on time, lead her down the hall to the hotel room where it was scheduled and make sure she had plenty of water to drink while she gave the same constructed answers to a couple dozen interviewers. A no-brainer for her. She's never before even cast her gaze on such a schedule.

I pull her pretty raven mane off her shoulder and lean my chin on it, reviewing the schedule with her.

"It's still my job to worry about all that," I remind her. "All you have to do is shine..."

She nods absently, opening the attachment which details the interview rounds. She's scanning all around the spreadsheet, looking at different rows and columns for the schedule of her various co-stars. That's when I realize what she's doing.

Checking Mosteller's schedule.

A niggle of doubt arises in me.

Is she looking for an opportunity to see him?

Would it really be surprising if she were?

Women love that brazen, bad boy, take-what-you-please testosterone-driven personality. Ashlynn certainly loves Leed's mojo, but at least Leed's arrogance is tempered by a heart of gold and a loyalty to his loved ones that rivals his bravado.

Mosteller's not like that at all. He's a disingenuous, narcissistic douchebag. He didn't even go to the hospital with Row during her overdose episode. He spent months trying to convince her he cared and that I didn't, but as soon as she gave into his seduction, his conquest was complete, and his true character emerged. He let the first responders cart away her from his bed while he smoked and made frantic calls to his manager. In order to cover his ass with the show, in case Row died.

Surely Row knows, in her heart, what kind of man he is.

Then again, he's an incredibly good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Like a blond Leed with finer cheekbones and more tattoos. I think about that drummer that Row almost eloped with when she was seventeen. Ratch Gorenson. Same kind of character, same kind of good looks.

There is obviously some part of Row that is attracted to a very handsome asshole, even when she knows perfectly well the guy is no good. Does she still fight that attraction for Mosteller? Is there a part of her secretly hoping to see him, just as another part of her adamantly declares her hate for him?

I'm aware of the fear and jealousy and anger washing over me.

But this time, I don't let them soak into my soul.

Forgiveness is a practice of compassion, I remind myself.

I will not drown in these feelings. I will not hold Row beneath the dark water of my jealousy with me. The feelings have come, but they will recede, I remind myself. They always do, because the feelings of love I have for her are greater.

I try to imagine all those hostile feelings rolling away like a tide.

I shift my thoughts, trying to empathize with Row.

If Row were hoping for a clandestine meeting with Mosteller, she obviously wouldn't be checking his schedule right in front of me. What's more, if she even considered I would think that's what she's doing, she also wouldn't do it in front of me, because she would worry I would be angered.

No, she's being completely transparent in this moment. She's checking the schedule because she's worried, and she probably even wants to have a dialogue about that worry, and this is her way of beginning it. It's possible she could be genuinely afraid of the fucker at this point. He did, after all, assault her. Or, perhaps more likely, she's worried that he and I might meet.

We haven't. Not once since they slept together. I only learned of the affair after the wrap of season 3. By the time I arrived in New Zealand amidst Row's overdose, Mosteller's agent had already hustled him back to London to avoid being associated with it. What's more, our dissolution and divorce took place over her hiatus. By the time she returned to work for Season 4, she and I were divorced, and I handled all her business remotely during that time.

So there's been no confrontation, no moment of he and I coming face to face. Yes, most likely, Row is anxious about the idea of the three of us being in the same hotel for the press junkets. She's worried about some big dramatic scene that will cause us to have another set-back in our reconciliation.

Right, so don't be an asshole, mate. Don't make the worry worse for her. Practice compassion.

I pick up the Ipad, calling her attention to the first press junket. "You're here for the day," I point to her row and suite number. "He's...way the bloody fuck down there..." I point to his suite number on a lower floor. "It's like that at every junket. And I have arranged for us to stay in entirely different hotels than where they are scheduled. And we have AJ plus Jackson on the trip. You don't have to worry. A run-in with him shouldn't be a problem. However, if you want to take additional security..."

She's staring at me with wide eyes. There's a tinge of uncertainty in her look. "I wasn't...I'm not...I mean..." Her stammers fade into silence.

I pinch her chin and chomp her mouth open and closed. "Say what you need to say, darling..."

She puts her arms around my neck. "That wasn't my concern. I'm not worried for my safety. I'm only worried about...us. Even though I don't have to share space with him, I don't want you to feel angry or upset by the knowledge that we are in the same hotel, or even city. I wish you didn't have to share the same reality with him. "

I put my forehead to hers. I feel the same way. But I don't have to express that sentiment with bitterness or anger. I can choose to reframe. "Well, perhaps we should look at it like this: I'll be with you and you'll be with me, and we'll make our own reality, where he has no power. Like Marley said."

I feel her grin, though it's hard to see her mouth at the edge of my glasses frame. "I wish we really could make our own reality." She presses her lips to mine. "Just you and me..."

"Well, I can't make us a separate physical reality...but how about a private paradise?" I suggest. "I think after this promotion tour, we could use a little tropical vacation before our time in New Zealand."

She jerks back from me with an elated smile. "Riley! I was so hoping you were thinking what I've been thinking!"

Awww, bloody hell. I was thinking romantic reunion sex in Bali, but Row is talking about Christmas in Hawaii, del Marco style. There is nothing private or sexy about that. It includes the whole family. Plus Skid Marcs. It's basically the late-eighties with lei's and more chaos than three hair-bands should be able to create. Shark bites and panic attacks. Broken instruments and the occasional fist-fight or marital separation, if Skid Marcs gets out of hand during their Christmas Eve private concert.

She's stroking my chest. "Last year sucked without you. You make the best mai-tai's, and organize the best beach games. We were all completely lost without your leadership."

"No one missed me. You had Street on the ukulele and Bridge building legions of Sandmen...and your father tromping around shirtless in red board shorts with a fake Santa beard ignoring the rest of Skid Marcs' alcoholism as best he could. That lot surely had their own beach Olympics—who could drink the most rum and not drown...you know I think the true source of your father's fear of the ocean is his mates' juvenile insistence on driving jet-ski's completely rat-arsed..."

She takes my face in her hands. "Riley I know your idea of paradise isn't a Skid Marcs Christmas with my family. But I want to be with them. And you."

"Are you sure it's wise? Your father isn't really all that approving of us right now. He thinks our reconcilation is following much the same path as before. That I'm controlling you, or distancing you from them. You could go without me, I truly wouldn't mind. I could go East with Soundcrush, and visit Madam. Perhaps TrayKat will still be at their farm..."

It's true, what I say. Her father is fairly unhappy with me, since the argument he and Row had. As if I were to blame.

"I don't want to spend our first Christmas back together, apart. As far as my dad goes, a family Christmas will show him we are doing so much better divorced than we ever did married. Surely, he will be able to relate to that."

I make a distinctly British noise of discontent and rub her silky robe along her thighs. "Row, doesn't a nice private bungalow above the ocean sound much more appealing than a Skid Marcs Christmas at the Hawaii compound? It's six weeks away, you know...we might find ourselves with considerable and happy progress by then..."

"Ems? Please?" Row says. I smile. She hasn't called me "Ems" in a very very long time. "Ems" and even worse, "Emsy" are her silly pet names for me.

In the back of my mind, I can hear Priscilla snort. I would never have tolerated such absurd pet nicknames at nineteen. Perhaps I've grown up enough not to take myself too seriously. Or perhaps it's just that, my love for Row can tolerate a helluva lot. Obviously, because I'm doing this. I'm practicing forgiveness. And I'm going to Hawaii for Christmas.

Row is still wheedling. "I actually do hate fighting with my dad. I need to make things better with him. You know how much that means to me, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," I say solemnly.

"So...Christmas in Hawaii? What do you say?"

And what can I say to that? When my gorgeous heathen is cupping my face and biting her lip like a hopeful child?

"Well, I suppose I say...Mele Kalikimaka, darling..."

She squeals and straddles me, peppering my face with kisses. I forget myself and pull her robe down off her shoulder, desiring a taste of sweet, tender skin. Row sighs in bliss and tugs at my hair. Linda throws down her dishcloth and bustles out of the room.

"Oh, Linda! We forgot you were there!" I cry with not a little horror, as I put Row's robe arights, and she drops her head to my shoulder and laughs. "Apologies! We'll be good, I promise."

#

We've moved our nightly guitar ritual from the bedroom to the downstairs sitting area, just outside my office. It's not that we're trying to create a barrier between our music and romance so much as it is...we've added some recording equipment that doesn't fit in our bedroom. Right now, the room is a mass of guitars, sound dampeners, mixing boards, mics, computers, and cables, video camera's and light rings. Navigating it is not quite so perilous for me as Row worries—with the braces I can pick up my feet as long as I'm paying attention, but I never mind holding onto her as we navigate the room to our places opposite each other.

Row pauses as she sees two amps and a rather large equipment case that Javi brought over from storage today. I half expect her to yell at me, but she just stops in her tracks.

"Really?" she says, giving me an eye roll.

"Rowan, you've been telling your hand therapy team for a month that you are going to begin the electric."

She turns to me and embraces me around the waist, slipping beneath my t-shirt, her fingers massaging ever-so-lightly on the sides of my scar. She does that alot now that I'm spending partial days without my back brace. "I know, but it's just not that important to me. I'm much more into these songs we are writing. I want to get back into Lay Down tonight.

I bite my lip. Lay Down is the most recent song we are writing. It's is a metaphor about letting go of the past. Ironically, Row and I have had a number of conversations about Priscilla, as it relates to the song.

I even told her after Priscilla died and  when I was at Uni, long before I met her, I used to have conversations with Priscilla in my head.

Row wept when I told her that. She cried for my loneliness and grief. I kissed her tears away, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her that Priscilla has been back on my mind so much of late. I don't think she would understand. I'm not sure even I fully understand. That's part of the reason Lay Down is emerging—an effort to work out why I need Priscilla now, though I know in my heart my love for Row long ago eclipsed my love for her.

The song is not a sad song. Not a song of grief or longing. If anything, it's a bit...emphatic. It's not just about Priscilla of course. It's all of our demons made metaphor. Row's affair, our mutual experiences with drug abuse, and even my tendency to control and manipulate. It's a stern admonition to self to leave the past in the past.

Still.

Every time I sing the line, "ghost lay down in your grave," I can feel a dark chuckle in the back of my mind. Priscilla doesn't speak to me, though. Not when Row and I are making music. The sound of our shared song is a sacred space my mind will not betray with Priscilla's voice, even if her memory is part of what we are singing about.

Row is still pondering her case of electric guitars.

"I think Lay Down could use a dark, electric riff," I say lightly. "Not anything expansive, just an undertone. You aren't the only one that can play an electric guitar. Do you mind if I try out a few things?"

I walk over and unlatch the case.

Row is standing beside me, rubbing her frozen pinkie. "I do, actually. Mind. If we're going to bring electric guitars into our music, I...I want to know that I can play, Riley. Really play, not just fuck around. So...can we...practice some first? I mean...stuff I know my hands will remember?"

I grin, throwing open the case. "Absolutely. What shall we do first?"

She's still rubbing her frozen pinkie, but I see her frantically wiggling that ring finger that was also frozen, and now moves easily.

"How about the first song I ever learned to play on electric? My signature cover?"

I whistle. "That's ambitious..."

She means Skid Marcs iconic Halfway There. When she was a young teen, her dad taught her a melody solo while he played backing guitar. Consequently, when Row formed Strut, they developed their own version of the song. Row doesn't sing it—it's an instrumental and she lets her guitar perform the melody, just like her dad taught her. It was included in every full set Strut ever performed, both as an homage to her famous father, and as a way to give her voice a break from Strut's strenuous rock anthems.

"I've played it more than any other song, ever. It's the thing that will come back to me easiest," she mutters.

She sits down at the card table holding the computers. Within a couple minutes she's found the old files she's looking for from our home server. Tracks of Halfway There that Strut had layed down in the studio at some point. She uses the application to remove all the guitars, leaving only Chili's drum pattern and a synthesizer track that Mac layed down for them, because Strut as a rule didn't use synthesizers. Row puts the backing tracks on a loop, then she drops to her knees, hauling cables and pedals out of the bottom of the case. She tosses out a package of polypropylene tubing at me.

It's the tube for a talk box...the guitar pedal-amp-tube feedback apparatus that Skid Marcs made famous in the late eighties.

"Ever used it?"

"No," I admit.

"You know you want to..."

"Yes," I smile.

"Great. You're my new backing guitarist," she beams at me, pulling out the specialized guitar pedal and beginning the set-up at a stool for me.

I know how it works, of course. The electric guitar gets plugged into the foot pedal, and the tube is attached to the foot pedal. The foot pedal has a small amplifier inside it, but instead of amplifying sound into a speaker, in pushes the sound up the plastic tube. You put the plastic tube in your mouth, so the guitar sound fills your mouth as you manipulate it by using your lips on the tube. You push the sound back out into a vocal mic, which further alters the sound.

I have a fairly good idea how to play the backing guitar—what kid with an electric guitar hasn't learned something of this song? In a matter of minutes, I have the guitar tuned and my part roughed out. Row rolls up a stool beside mine and takes the neck of my guitar, teaching me the exact fingering Harper would use to begin the opening with the talk box. I practice the measures over and over with the talk box as she unfurls more cables with a practiced maneuver that any roadie would respect.

Christ. I can feel my heart beating faster as she pulls out her Les Paul. She's really going to do this. After weeks and weeks of putting it off, Row has finally found her courage. If she's pulling out her favorite guitar, she's not planning on fucking around, either. She plugs it into our suitcase amp—the same PA that's feeding out the backing tracks of the song that I'm already playing along to.

She rakes hard across the strings. I wince at the discord, but she is unperturbed. She leaves the backing track playing as she tunes. She has no problem hearing her instrument despite the sounds going on around her, and it's a testament to her ear. She could have easily been a classical musician, just like her sister.

But my beautiful heathen likes to rock it hard.

She's finished tuning and the track ends. She walks in a circle, the guitar hanging by her strap while she stretches her fingers. As the synthesizer and drum track begins again, she raises a hand toward me like a conductor, and I come in with the talk box on cue. She doesn't look at me but turns her back. I see her grasp the fret, and slide her fingers down it in a way I've seen her begin this song hundreds of times.

A Skid Marcs fan would expect to hear Matt come in with the opening line, but I close my eyes, waiting for Row's guitar to sing to me.

She hits the opening measures perfectly. What would be the first verse of the song sounds flawless, just like a Strut performance. There's a complicated bit as she goes into the second verse and she flubs it.

"Fuck," she growls.

I grin. Her mistake had nothing to do with her left, injured strumming hand. She messed up the fret fingering because she's out of practice. She closes her eyes and feeds back into the first chorus, which is actually an easier part of the song. The first part of the bridge sounds amazing, but when she begins to shred she loses her fingering again.

"Goddamitt!" She yells, flouncing to the computer, and restarting the track.

"Again!" she yells at me, her face furious. She points an accusatory finger as if I'm the one that fucked up.

I simply raise my eyebrows at her. That's all I can do, and manage the talk box at the same time.

She makes mistakes earlier, the second time we play. The third time, she makes it to the big shred before losing her place. After that, she kicks over a microphone stand and declares she's not leaving the room until she can play "the fucking goddamn annoying song every one in my stupid family who has ever touched a guitar can play. Because I can shred better than any of them with only nine working fingers!!! I'm just out of fucking practice is all!!!"

"Atta girl," I tell her, putting my mouth back on the tube, but I soon regret starting this.

Over and over, for hours and hours, she paces and plays, struggling to regain her fluency in her favorite language. She's more stoked than I remember seeing her in a long time. She screams and cusses. She keeps playing long after my mouth is completely numb, and I have to take a break from the talk box. She grabs my guitar from me in irritation, and records the talk box track herself—flawlessly, in one take, because it's so simple for her. She adds that part to the backing track and tells me to get out and leave her the hell alone.

She's a woman obsessed. I'm actually getting concerned. I listen from upstairs, my gut wrenching at every mistake and every scream.

I don't even pretend to use the tonic. I sit on the couch, hurting for her, guzzling gin, because my nerves can't take one more heartbreaking restart of the song. I'm dying by degrees with her.

I drink a good two thirds of the bottle before passing out.

Sometime in the gray before dawn, Row wakes me. I'm still drunk. She looks calm but she does not look exhausted like I would expect. She's gotten herself all made up in a little black dress. She's completely straightened her dark hair and parted it down the center. It shines like a mink pelt. Her makeup is soft but she's put on false eyelashes for drama.

"Are we going somewhere, darling?" I say, grinning in awe at her stunning beauty.

"Just to Instagram, I think...a comeback track..."

She pulls me gently to my feet, asking me over and over as we walk downstairs how my back is. She feels terrible that I slept on the couch. She thought I had gone to one of the guest beds to escape her noise.

I'm stiff and sore, but not in terrible pain. Perhaps the drug change, acupuncture and hypnosis are beginning to make a difference.

I've been around rock stars long enough to know my way around filming a bit of social media content. When I begin to attend to the lighting, she gives me an irritated look.

"I've got that. Go get ready," she shoos me.

"What?"

"Put on a decent shirt and do something with your hair," she says. "You can't go on my Instagram looking like that."

"What!?!? No..." I scoff.

"Fuck, yes," she hisses, pushing me very gently toward the bedroom. "You're my back-up guitarist. I can't do this alone."

When I come back out with a different Smiths t-shirt on and absolutely nothing done to my hair, she marches me back into our bedroom and styles it. Then she chooses my clothes herself— a charcoal suit. While I protest, she completely overrides me. "You look so good like this...it's my favorite look for you."

"We'll look like a Robert Palmer video," I complain. "You in a tiny dress with a guitar, and me, utterly ridiculous..."

"Do you trust me?" she asks.

I sigh. "Yes, about a great many things, but to my knowledge you aren't a music video director."

"Put on the goddamn suit!" she yells.

I put on the goddamn suit.

To my own knowledge I've never been filmed playing, although there's probably someone out there with a cell phone recording of my old band. I'm slightly disconcerted about the camera, but frankly I'm too drunk to be that freaked. My part is simple and if Row wants a comeback, I won't let her down. The synthesizers begin and I put my lips on the tube, cutting her a side-eye as my part begins.

She gives me one wink, but otherwise her face is rock star cool. Her body however, plays to me. I relax into the rhythm, my head swimming in gin and my soul souring with Row's every perfect note and the give and take of our body language.

One dark night was all it took. She's shredding her way through a great big sound and an even bigger joy. Thank god my part is simple because I'm completely absorbed by her skill, by her beauty, by the effortless way she's reclaiming her sound and her audience. I've never seen her look more...regal than when she hits the bridge. She streaks to a close. It's only then that she makes one mistake, and it has nothing to do with her playing.

Her expression of pure joy is directed not at the camera, but at me.

I take her hand in mine, the gesture of a high five and caution, "Remember your audience, darling..."

She puts down her guitar and sits lightly on my knee, draping herself over me as she says, "No one get too excited. This video doesn't really mean anything. It's just for fun...and to show the world, I'm finding my playing groove again. Also...I just want to say...that's it's really due to my dad that I can announce that I'm playing a guitar again. Most people know I had a hand injury a few years back and couldn't play after that. Well, Matt del Marco doesn't take no for an answer. He finally found a treatment that has helped me recover the strength and mobility to play again. So...thanks, Daddy. I love you very much." She turns from the camera and gives me a thoughtful look and a smile. She hugs me. "And last but in no way least...I want everyone to know that this man is my favorite guitarist. Riley Emsworth. There's no way I would have tried to play again these last few months, if he hadn't inspired me and believed in me and given me a few loving shoves. Thank you, Ems..." She kisses me, then turns to the camera again, sticks out her tongue playfully and gives camera the sign of the horns. "Rock on."

I use a remote to turn off the camera.

"All right, shall we edit it?" I say. I have a mind to edit out her dedications. Maybe keep the part about her dad and the cute little way she gave the rock star sign, but definitely cut her focus on me. And the kiss.

She shakes her head, advancing on the camera. "No, if I see one flaw, I'll delete it..." She presses buttons and then sighs.

"Did you just post that?" I laugh in disbelief.

She nods. "You managed to avoid my Instagram for five years, but you've been outed now. Seven million people will know you're still my man. Not to mention how fucking hot you look playing guitar," she helps me rise, unlatches my guitar and kisses me again even as she holds it in her hand.

"I was nothing. You were...glorious. How does it feel to be back?" I pull her close to me, running my hands up her back and into her hair.

"That was just to prove that I can. I have bigger plans...but first...I plan to sleep," she slides my guitar all the way to the floor. "Unzip me. I had the hardest time getting into the dress alone..."

I tug at the zipper and follow it down with my hands. I am immediately aware that she's wearing nothing underneath.

Good Christ, is she trying to kill me?

Yes, she is, because she tries to lead me to bed with her dress half off. "I've slept, remember?" I say.

Partly because it's true, but partly because there's no way I can sleep beside her naked, after that. Not unless we are going to break our agreement. Which we're not, because even though I'm painfully aware that I'm more than capable of making love to her at this moment, and even if she's now emotionally ready—which I'm not sure she is—I am sure that the pinch in my back tells me we'll end up struggling again. We still don't have all the kinks worked out.

It's alright, I remind myself. It will get better. Just like Row's playing.

She gives me bedroom eyes beneath the heavy lashes while she runs her hands up my lapels. "Suit yourself."

Yes. She's definitely trying to kill me.

"I think you suited me...and I'm unsuiting you" I remind her, reaching down into her unzipped dress, feeling the perfection of her bare bottom.

She sighs. "No. You suit me, Riley. Perfectly."

We engage in a serious kiss, which I finally break to ask a serious question.

"Darling, if you could have it all back, would you want it?" The arenas? The sound? The...band?"

"There's nothing like knowing I can play like that again," she admits, but then she shrugs. "But the past is the past."

She slips out of the dress and saunters away into our bedroom, leaving me longing for her and determined more than ever, to make her dreams come true.

Before Rowan is even asleep, my phone is blowing up.

Matt is probably elated, but his text to me is demanding to know why Row isn't answering her phone.

Trace pretends to be irate that I'm his sister's favorite guitarist and gives me shit about my talk box performance in a suit.

Marcy wants to know if we're putting out a press statement about our reconciliation.

And Angelo Moran says we should talk again soon.

All of Soundcrush follows Trace's lead, ribbing me in some form or fashion, except for Adam. He says,

I texted Row about her amazing guitar comeback. But there's something else you should know, Riley. The camera loves you two all dressed up and vibin' each other like that. You've got real intensity together. Bodie says you guys are songwriting, and your sound is amazing. Hope to hear some originals soon.

I let Matt know she's sleeping now. I let Soundcrush know they can suck it, except for Adam to whom I reply : Thanks.  I'm enjoying the music but we're just messing about while Row finds her focus.

Adam texts back. Messin' around? I heard it SOUNDS pretty serious.

I text back. What's serious is my determination to get Row her musical career back, if she wants it.

Adam replies. Maybe she wants a new type of musical career. Anyway.... great to see you looking healthy and strong. And very natural with a guitar.

I let Marcy know to remain quiet about all personal and professional matters for now.

Until I know what musical dream Rowan is actually dreaming for herself, it's my job to keep her options open.

What about your musical dreams, Rye? Priscilla says.

I layed those down, love. Like the song says. In your grave.

I think you need different lyrics for that one, she snarks back.  After all, there's not much at all of me in my grave.  Why should your great joy lie there with my rotting corpse?

I feel a shiver down my back, that ends as always, at my injury. I wonder if she really is haunting me. I can't imagine my own subconscious would speak to me of the girl I once loved in such a way, giving me such a horrible image.

Worse than that, Priscilla's corpse brings to mind a sudden imagining of Row in a hospital bed in New Zealand. So still, so pale when I finally reached her.

I feel quite ill suddenly, knowing that there is no way I could survive Row's death as I did Priscilla's. The hangover finally hits me and I barely make it to the patio door before vomiting.

I'm sorry,  she whispers. That was rather gruesome, wasn't it? Don't worry. I think you'll have a long life with Rowan. If you don't mess it up by refusing to be her true partner, in every way...

I refuse to speak to Priscilla anymore. I can't get caught up in the artist's life again. Being the creative, instead of the disciplined. Riding the dragon with Priscilla is exactly how I lost her.  I climb the stairs and examine the mostly drunk bottle of gin. The booze that I drank until I passed out because I was caught up in Row's artistry instead of safeguarding her career and her health and her safety.

No, I can't afford to succumb to this fantasy. No matter what Bodie or Adam may think.

I pour the rest of the gin down the sink and  I let Moran know that I agree. We should talk again.