When asked if it was a difficult decision, Cherry says it was a no-brainer. “Tours are pretty terrible,” she admits. She sits on the patio of her ten thousand foot custom built house overlooking an Olympic sized pool. A platter of fresh fruit, meat and cheeses are laid out. Linc is on the phone with his label telling them about the progress of the most important thing in his life. No, it’s not the album; it’s his wife’s pregnancy. “She’s twenty-four weeks and the baby’s kicking,” he’s telling his label president. I can’t hear what Andy Treats’ response is, but from the wide grin on Linc’s face, it must be good.
“It’s sort of ridiculous, isn’t it?” Cherry says to me, waving a hand toward the pool and the extensively manicured grounds.
“Not at all.”
“Property in Shindale doesn’t cost as much as in LA.” She’s apologetic about the excess, but it doesn’t look gaudy. It’s a big house and a big pool and a green lawn, but it’s cozy. I like it a lot. I wouldn’t want to leave this paradise either. I ask her if she plans to stay here if the band tours again.
“No.” It’s Linc who replies. He’s done with the phone call and has returned to Cherry’s side. The two are like magnets. No matter how far away they stray, they always return to each other.
I lay down the magazine article on my lap and rub my stomach.
“Did you like the write-up?” Linc asks me. He’s sprawled across my feet, pen in hand, the latest track from Nick playing through the phone’s speaker.
“It’s nice.” I was so nervous about it. I worried I’d be misquoted or portrayed as the evil wife keeping Linc from his music, but that’s not how it read at all. I’d been written as Linc’s savior and his muse, which is weird but nice. Reading about our break-up and the secret I’d kept from Linc didn’t hurt like I thought it would. I’ve gotten over it. We were young and have learned from it. It’s part of growing up together.
When people ask you how are you doing, you always give a social response, right? “I’m doing good, thanks for asking,” you say even when you aren’t doing good. Like, during that year when I was pregnant with Bailey, I’d wake up and see news about Linc killing it on stage, hanging out at strip clubs, being inundated with offers to suck his dick until his eyeballs rolled out of his head. I’d go to the grocery store and while I was picking up my cans of tomato and boxes of pasta, someone would ask if I was doing okay. I’d always say I was fine, but I think everyone knew I wasn’t fine.
How could I be when my only lover, my best friend, and my other best friends were living the greatest life ever and I was stuck at home, unwanted, with a bun in the oven?
Nope, I was not fine at all. Neither was Linc.
But now I’m married to the biggest rock star on the planet. I’ve got a house larger than the country club in the county seat. My man’s lying shirtless just two feet away and our second child is only a few weeks from being born. These days, when anyone asks how I’m doing, I give the same response: “I’m good, thanks.” But now the reply is honest. I am doing good.
I rub my belly again. For a time there, I worried that I’d be alone, but I guess the reporter is right. Linc and I are magnets. We’ll always find our way to each other’s side.