21. How To Forgive A Rockstar
21
HOW TO FORGIVE A ROCKSTAR
Breaking: Well, well, well, it seems the rumours were spot-on!
According to sources, our favourite rock god, Kaan, wasn’t just casually holding the drink for someone else—oh no, he was downing it like it was the last bottle of water at Glastonbury. This is the same Kaan who’s been preaching about his journey to sobriety like he’s the Dalai Lama of detox. Guess those detox vibes didn’t quite make it through the encore.
Word on the street is that his wife, best-selling author and maybe baby mama, Miz Meg Martin, is none too thrilled about her hubby’s little relapse. And can you really blame her? We all the rockstar at rock bottom, and it was not pretty!
Kaan, buddy, the stage is all yours… let’s see if you can manage to stay on it without tripping over your own bad decisions.
I’m Pippa Ellis, and this is Fame and No-Sense—where the truth hits harder than a certain rock star’s double bourbon!!
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Kaan steps closer, and the familiar scent of his cologne—a rich blend of musk and sandalwood—envelops me, instantly grounding me like a warm, reassuring hug. His presence alone has a way of soothing the chaos in my mind. “You look exhausted,” he murmurs, concern etched across his face.
I step aside to let him into the room, trying to keep my tone light. “Thanks.”
He winces slightly, realising how it sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You look beautiful, as always.” His eyes drift around the room, taking in the clutter of discarded tissues, clothes, and wet towels strewn haphazardly across the furniture.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost pleading.
Technically, I did eat, but it didn’t exactly stay down. “Yes.”
Kaan pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor as if searching for the right words. “I’ve messed up, Meg. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t.”
His admission hangs in the air between us, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. The rockstar image he projects to the world is nowhere to be found; instead, he’s just Kaan, my husband, struggling to keep it all together.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Kaan pulls me into his embrace, as a whirlwind of emotions stir inside me. Part of me wants to push him away and demand answers, while another part of me wants to comfort him and believe that he didn’t mean to cause me pain. Conflicted, I decide to just let him talk.
“You know what it’s like after the shows,” Kaan begins, his voice rough and low, a clear sign of the hangover he’s battling. “There are always a lot of people, a lot of alcohol… but you know how seriously I take my sobriety.”
“Yes,” I reply, my tone flat, barely masking the irritation that’s been simmering since last night when he stumbled back to the hotel reeking of booze.
He frowns, frustration etched into his tired features. “Am I going to get more than a one-word answer from you?”
The words erupt from me, my voice trembling with the fury I’ve been holding back for far too long. “You want more than one word? Fine. How about this: you’ve been drinking. How about: the fact that me and our baby aren’t enough to keep you sober? Does that sink in? How about: you waltzed in last night reeking of alcohol, like our lives aren’t hanging in the balance of every choice you make. How about: I’m not just tired—I’m exhausted to the bone from holding everything together while you’re out there acting like nothing matters. How about: I’m scared out of my mind, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to have a baby with someone who’s falling apart right in front of me. And how about: I’m so goddamn angry I could scream until I have nothing left inside me! Is that enough words for you? Or do you need me to spell it out even clearer?”
Kaan’s usual calm is shattered by the force of my words. His hands tremble, and for a moment, I think he might try to argue, but instead, he just looks at me, his eyes filled with regret and a deep, aching guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
Now that I’ve exploded, the anger starts to slowly subside, leaving me feeling raw and exposed. But the question still burns in my mind, and I can’t help but ask, my voice softer but still heavy with emotion, “Just tell me why?”
He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes searching for the right words. “I guess, with all the excitement and celebration now that the tour is finished, I let my guard down. All the congratulatory drinks, the party atmosphere... it just got to me.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a sure sign of his frustration. “I swear to you it’s the truth. We were backstage, and someone handed me a drink. They said it was a coconut water. It tasted like coconut. I didn’t even think twice about it. It wasn’t until later that I found out it was actually lambanog.”
“Lambanog?” I raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Isn’t that a wine?”
“Yeah, it is. I didn’t even know what it was until one of the roadies knocked the drink out of my hand. By then, it was too late.” He grimaces. “And because I haven’t had a drink for so long, coupled with my allergy, I guess it hit me really hard.”
“But this wasn’t the first time, was it?”
I can see the guilt in his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve known for a while that you’ve been drinking.” My voice is steady, but inside, a storm is raging. “Not a lot, not enough to get drunk, but it’s enough for me to know that you haven’t got this addiction under control.”
Kaan runs a hand through his spiky hair, the familiar gesture that signals he’s cornered. “It’s not like that,” he mumbles, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are pleading, but they can’t hide the truth. “It’s just… it’s been hard, okay?”
“Hard?” I echo, incredulous. “We’ve been through hell and back because of your drinking. And you’re telling me it’s been hard?”
He sighs, slumping against the wall. “You don’t understand, Meg. It’s not just about the drinking. It’s everything. The pressure, the expectations, the constant scrutiny. Sometimes it feels like the only way to cope.”
“You know what alcohol does to you. We both do. It’s not just a bad habit; it’s dangerous for you. Even you said it, you’re allergic. It hits you harder than anyone else. Every time you take a drink, you’re playing Russian roulette with your life.”
When Kaan went into rehab, it wasn’t just a battle against addiction—it was a revelation. During his treatment, he discovered that he was actually allergic to alcohol. This wasn’t just a mild intolerance; it was a severe reaction that explained why alcohol hits him so hard and fast. The allergic reactions exacerbated his behaviour, making his drunken episodes more intense and dangerous than the average drinker’s. This newfound knowledge was a game-changer, helping Kaan understand the full scope of his struggle and giving him a clearer path to recovery.
He winces, the words striking a nerve. “I remember. Believe me, I do. But it’s not that simple. You make it sound like I can just switch it off. I wish I could.”
“You should have told me you were having problems.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he admits, his voice breaking. “I didn’t want you to think I’m weak.”
I feel a pang of sadness for the man I love more than anyone in the world. “Kaan, it’s not about weakness. It’s about trust. You’ve been hiding this from me, and that hurts more than anything.”
He looks down, guilt written all over his face. “I’m sorry, Meg. I thought I could handle it on my own. But I can’t. I need help.”
I take a deep breath, reaching out to take his hand. “You don’t have to do it alone. But you have to be honest with me. We can’t move forward if you’re keeping secrets.”
I exhale heavily, torn between my love for him and my frustration at the situation. “Your sobriety is non-negotiable, especially now that we have a baby on the way.”
“I know. I’m going to do whatever it takes to make this right and to make sure I never compromise my sobriety again.”
“Being on tour and being surrounded by temptation is not good for your sobriety… or my mental health, for that matter.”
“I don’t think I’m going to tour again.”
“Ever?”
“For a while anyway. I don’t need to… and I don’t want too either.” His eyes meet mine, full of determination. “I think I’ve reached a point in my career where I can release music and do concerts how and when I choose.” His eyes search mine for understanding. “Let’s stay here, in Istanbul, for a while anyway. We’ll get you home before Kaan Junior?—”
“It’s Peanut.”
“Peanut?”
I nod and place a protective hand on my bump. “I can’t damage my child with Kaan Junior for his name.”
“Ouch.” Kaan winces slightly at my rebuff, but there’s a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll get you and Peanut back to London before he decides it’s time to make his grand entrance.”
I don’t return the smile. “You need to speak to your therapist, Kaan.”
He nods, the seriousness returning to his eyes. “I’ll call now.”
“It’s Christmas Day back at home.”
“Then I’ll find a meeting here,” he says, determination lining his words. “I’ve been to a few in Beyo?lu.”
My eyes mist over at the mention of Beyo?lu, and I have to blink back the tears. Beyo?lu, with its winding streets and hidden cafes, is where Galata Tower stands tall and proud, watching over the city like a sentinel. It’s our place, our sanctuary. Standing at the top of that ancient tower, with the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, is where we found each other again—where we truly saw each other, stripped of all the pretence and pain.
“I need you to know, I’m more committed than ever to staying sober, for both of you. I told you. I’m not my father.”
Kaan’s father struggled with addiction for years before tragically overdosing when Kaan was just 17. It’s a topic Kaan rarely discusses, but the scars from his childhood are evident. Growing up with an addict for a parent must have been incredibly difficult, a constant battle between love and fear, stability and chaos. I’ve seen glimpses of the pain he carries, the way his eyes darken when certain memories surface.
I know that more than anything, Kaan wouldn’t want his own child to endure the same hardships he faced. The thought of our baby growing up in an environment tainted by addiction terrifies him. It’s a fear I share, and it’s why I had to leave.
“I want to believe you, Kaan, but the truth is, I don’t know if I can ever really trust you.”
Kaan looks at me with desperate eyes, his voice cracking as he pleads, “Please, Nutmeg. I know I messed up, but I’m begging you for another chance. I can do better. I will do better.”
I shake my head, and I have to wipe away the hot tears now free falling down my face. “You’ve said that before, Kaan. Every time you promise it will be different, and every time you break that promise. How am I supposed to believe you this time?”
He takes a step closer, reaching for my hand, but I pull away. The pain in his eyes deepens, but I can’t let myself be swayed by his sadness. I have to think about our baby, about the future.
“I’ll do whatever it takes. Just don’t give up on me.”
Part of me wants to believe him, to hold onto the hope that he can change. But the other part, the part that has seen him fall time and time again, knows better.
“Do you know how hard it is to watch you destroy yourself?”
“I don’t want to lose you. And I don’t want our child to grow up without a father. Please, just give me one more chance. I’ll prove to you that I can be the man you need me to be.”
I close my eyes, the tears spilling over. “I want to believe you. I really do. But trust isn’t something you can just ask for, Kaan. It has to be earned, and right now, I don’t know if you’re capable of earning it.”
He drops to his knees, his hands clasped together in a gesture of supplication. “I’ll do anything, Nutmeg. Anything. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose our family.”
The sight of him so broken, so vulnerable, tugs at my heart. I want to reach out, to hold him and tell him everything will be okay. But I know that words are meaningless without action.
“I need time,” I say finally, my voice shaky but firm. “Time to see if you can really change. Time to see if I can trust you again. I’m not saying it’s over, but I can’t keep putting myself through this cycle of hope and disappointment.”
I see a glimmer of determination in his eyes, but I know that only time will tell if he can truly keep his promise. For now, all I can do is hope that this time, he means it.
“I understand.” Kaan smiles at me. “But you need to promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Never leave me again, not even for a minute,” Kaan says, his gaze locking intensely with mine. “When I woke up and found you gone, I felt a terror I can’t even begin to describe. I had the entire crew frantically searching for you. At one point, I even feared the worst—that you had been kidnapped… or worse.”
My eyes widen at the implication. “Kaan!”
“You hadn’t used our credit card, and there was no trace of you anywhere.” His voice trembles slightly, and he runs a hand through his spiky hair. “What else was I supposed to think? My mind went to the darkest places, and I was terrified that I might never see you again.”
“I’m so sorry.” I reach out to touch his arm. “I never meant to scare you. I just needed some space. And with Ginny doing Christmas, I figured it was perfect. I headed straight to the airport and caught the next flight out.”
He pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around me as if he’s afraid I might slip away again. His breath is warm against my hair as he whispers, “I love you, Nutmeg. More than anything. But I can’t do this alone. I need you with me, always.”
I can’t deny it—I love him too, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, even when everything feels like it’s falling apart. But, loving someone isn’t just about the easy moments; it’s about the hard ones too. It’s about trusting them, even when they stumble, and giving them a chance to prove that they can stand tall again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Kaan’s breath brushes against my lips as he leans in, his words sending a shiver down my spine, electric and undeniable. His voice is low, rough with desire. “Good,” he murmurs, “because all I want right now is to screw my sexy, pregnant wife.”
His lips hover over mine, teasingly close, and I find myself closing the distance, my heart pounding in my chest. The room fades away, leaving only the warmth of his body against mine, the rough edge of his stubble against my skin, the intoxicating mix of his scent—musky and familiar.
The moment his lips touch mine, the tight coil of anger I’ve been holding onto begins to unravel. The weight of his relapse, the sharp edge of our argument, all of it fades into the background, eclipsed by the warmth of his embrace, the familiar pull that I’ve never been able to resist.
His hands cradle my face, his thumbs tracing soft, soothing circles on my cheeks, and the tension in my shoulders starts to melt away. My fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt, clutching it as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
His lips trail from mine, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses along my jawline and down my neck. A soft gasp escapes my lips as he nibbles on my sensitive skin, his warm breath sending tingles of pleasure throughout my body.
My fingers trace the curve of his neck. “You always have a way with words.”
“And actions,” he says, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Actions speak louder than words, don’t they?”