I type out congratulations and tell her how happy I am. Then I sign off Love Auntie Luna with a smiley emoji, but inside, slithering jealousy takes place in my gut. Sandy has everything I really want. Men who love her. A home that’s safe and secure. A family on the way. Her life is illuminated with a soft yellow warmth that I want to climb into. By contrast, my life feels as though its tinged with icy blue. Glancing around the vehicle, I’m struck by the emptiness, the coldness, and the absence of all the things I crave.
Where is the fun, the warmth, the laughter, the love, and the affection? Where is the safety and security? Where are the people to rely on when times get tough or to giggle with when life is great? I’m back to being alone.
Drawing in a shaky breath, I keep scrolling. Beneath is a message from Greg, Tyler’s friend. He’s a hulking great man who’s covered in tattoos and has eyes as dark as hell itself, but underneath the fierce exterior, he’s a stand-up guy with a heart of gold. Luna, girl, I hope you’re looking after yourself. Let me know if I need to break any bones. Remember that you’re a queen and that any man who comes near you should be treating you like royalty.
As I said, he’s the kind of guy that every girl should have in their lives.
No bone-breaking required, I reply, but thanks for the offer. Do relationships ever get any easier?
Even though it’s the middle of the night back home, I see Greg begin to reply. Baby girl, relationships are a journey, not a destination. All we can hope is that we’ll find the right person or people to walk next to. You okay? Those men in suits treating you well?
Blueday fired them, I type. Relationships in the public eye are a whole different ball game.
I’m sorry about that, he replies. Your focus has to be on your job right now, but you have time. Look at me. I just found my girl.
You’re gonna make a great dad, I tell him. I’m so excited to hear your news. I sign off, blaming my schedule, but really, it’s because I can’t deal with the feelings of longing for home and for people who are familiar to me.
At the hotel, it gets even worse. My new security detail doesn’t consult me on our food order. They just use the nutritionist’s plan. I end up with an avocado and chicken salad, which I want to throw out the window more than I want to eat. Just the smell makes my stomach turn. What I’m craving is a green tea and a plate of steak and fries. They talk among themselves as if I’m not even there, so I leave the plate on the table and return to my room, closing the door behind me.
There’s no Jax to make me laugh or Asher to draw something pretty. There’s no Mo to make me see the philosophical side of life or Connor to step in like a big brother to sort out any situation. There’s no Ben with his kind hands or Hudson with his voice like silk. There’s no Elijah to encourage me to stick up for myself. The Steel 7 men made me feel at home wherever I went in the world. Knowing they were around made this tour bearable, but now I’m out on my own.
I glance at my phone, tabbing through my contacts and looking at the profile pictures for each of the Steel 7 men, longing to be in their arms again and wishing that they’d contact me. Just one little message to find out how I’m doing. That’s all it would take for me to know they care.
But there’s nothing.
Then the phone lights up. It’s a Blueday Records number. My heart skitters, knowing that when I pick up this call, I’m going to have to face up to what’s being said about me. I’m going to hear how disappointed the record company is about my behavior. I’m going to be told how much I’ve damaged my reputation.
But I can’t put it off any longer.
The next ten minutes are the worst of my life. I have to bite my lip until it bleeds to stop myself from telling the five balding assholes on the conference call to fuck off. My manager doesn’t support me. It’s clear all he’s interested in is securing his percentage. I want to tell them that they loved making me into some kind of ingénue sex object, but when I actually have sex, they don’t like it. I want to scream that my body is mine to decide what to do with. They might contractually own my singing voice and my performances, but they don’t own me. I want to tell them to shove their contract up their asses. I want to rage and sob and throw expensive objects in my hotel room and take no responsibility for my anger.