Chapter 21
STEPHANIE
Nineteen months ago
“—and the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to . . . Chase
Collins of Icefall for ‘She’s the One’!”
I leap around the living room of Chase’s Los Angeles house.
On couches, chairs, coffee tables—not caring if I break anything.
I’m screaming so loud that I’m confident I’ll lose my voice.
The cameras pan to Chase taking the stage for his acceptance speech.
I’m so proud of how hard he’s worked in the last year. He absolutely deserves this.
“Wow. This is surreal.” Chase holds the Grammy like it’s the Holy Grail, and his easy Australian accent washes over me.
I still, not wanting to miss a word of what he says.
“I have so many people to thank,” he continues.
I hang on every word of his speech. After his parting line, he blows a kiss into the camera, and a commercial begins.
Tears puddle in my eyes as I reach up to catch his kiss and bring it to my heart.
My chest swells with happiness, and my smile practically splits my face in two.
I clamber to my phone and send him a quick text.
Steph
YOU DID IT!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!! I’m so so so so proud of you and can’t wait to have a SPECIAL CELEbrATION with you once you get home!! I LOVE YOU!!!!
We had two plans based on whether he won or lost, but they were more or less the same: stay out and schmooze or be schmoozed, and then come home.
Either way, I was going to wait at his place until he got home. Now, with the win, I know that won’t be until long after the sun is up tomorrow.
After hours of making what seems like a million phone calls to celebrate with friends and—since I’m the creative manager for the band—business contacts, my body finally gives out.
Around 3:00 a.m., I put on the shirt Chase was wearing earlier today, drinking in the smell of him.
It’s a very distinct smell that reminds me of the ocean and something tropical—not the kind of scent romance authors use for men, but perfect for my Australian, pop star, surfer boyfriend.
Then I curl up on the guestroom bed and fall asleep.
I wake up to the sun streaming through the window and Chase possessively snaking his arms around my waist while kissing behind my ear.
“Chase!” I quickly turn over and notice his shirt is off.
Before I can say more, his lips find mine, and he pulls me into him, our chests molding together.
I try to slip away, but he pulls me back, sliding one hand up my back while the other wanders under my shirt and upward.
“Stop!” I’m finally able to get away and jump out of bed, rattled and confused.
“Don’t!” My shoulders drop along with my heart.
“We’ve talked about this so many times.”
“I’m sorry.” He slowly sits up and lets out a sigh, but I’m not sure if it’s in apology or frustration. “I guess when you said you wanted to have a special celebration when I got home, I thought you had changed your mind.”
“You assumed I had changed my mind because of that? So you took your shirt off and climbed into bed with me? Chase, I’m in the guest bed, not yours! You can’t climb into bed with me. You should have never . . .” I let my words die off and clench my eyes shut. “Please tell me you’re wearing pants.”
He gets out of bed—thankfully with pants on—wraps his arms around me, and tenderly kisses my temple.
“I’m sorry, Love.” We stand in thick tension for several moments before he pulls back, his ocean-blue eyes asking for forgiveness.
“Can we please attribute my bad behavior to a lack of both sleep and food?” I slowly nod my head.
He relaxes slightly. “How about I shower and get cleaned up, and then I make us some breakfast?”
“Yeah. Okay.” I put my hands on both of his cheeks, trying to salvage the situation.
“I really am so proud of you for last night. I was running around the room, screaming and jumping up and down.” My smile is weak, but when he picks me up and spins me around, I find a little more joy in the moment.
I give him a small kiss as he sets me back down, then he leaves to go shower.
I go into the guest bathroom to brush my teeth, wrangle my hair into some kind of submission, change my clothes, and think over the last few minutes.
This was not how I pictured our reunion going.
I really didn’t want to revisit this same issue anytime soon—but I guess we don’t always get what we want. The fact that he climbed into bed with me while I was sleeping, with the intent of us finally . . . well, it leaves me feeling slightly dirty. And like my trust has been violated.
This was a big point of discussion when our relationship got more and more serious.
He knew where I stood on the issue—though I didn’t tell him all of my reasons.
He agreed that we would only share a bed when I was wearing a wedding ring.
I don’t know what’s changed for him, but the last few months, he’s been pressuring me.
Even things that were once sweet and romantic, like words and gifts, now feel like tools of pressure and persuasion—which has been acutely painful.
I had a hunch he’d win, so I had a custom display case made for the Grammy out of jarrah, a wood found only in Western Australia, where he’s from.
It’s been beautifully wrapped and waiting for him in the living room since he left yesterday.
Giving it to him was going to be the special celebration.
The weight of defeat sits on me as I lift it up and take it into the guestroom closet, where it will wait; I’ll give it to him when there’s not so much tension between us.
When I come back to the kitchen, I hear Chase’s phone buzzing on the counter. I look down and don’t recognize the number. “Chase!” I call toward his bedroom. He doesn’t answer, so I slip in and stand outside the closed bathroom door. “Chase, your phone is ringing. Do you want me to answer it?”
“What?” He calls out, his voice echoing off the shower walls.
The phone stops ringing, so I don’t reply and go back to the kitchen. After a few moments, his phone dings. I glance down and see a text from the same number. I have no intention of reading it, but a few words catch my eye.
Thirty minutes later, a clean-shaven and smiling Chase comes into the kitchen looking like the glorious pop star that he is.
“I know I was out of line earlier, but you make it so hard sometimes. Especially when you’re wearing my shirt.
” He thinks he’s being flirtatious, but he stops in his tracks when he sees me pacing, arms tightly folded and tears staining my cheeks.
“Love—” he rushes to me.
“Stop!” I put my hand up to halt his progress. “You call me that all the time, but do you love me?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“We’ve been dating for almost a year, so I thought it was an easy question. Do you love me?”
“Of course.” I think he means it as a statement, but it carries the weight of a question.
“Is this about earlier? Because I said I was sorry. No more pressure from me, I promise.” He sits me down on the couch and kneels before me, wiping one of my tears away with his thumb before I can swat his hand away.
“If I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?” My eyes dig into his, trying to find the man I love.
“Of course. You can always ask me anything.” He tries to hold my hands, but I evade his touch.
“Did you have sex last night?” The air pressure in the room seems to shift.
I could actually choke on the tension between us.
“Because according to Jane, you did.” I hold up his phone, the offending text thread open.
He stands up, turns his back to me, then slowly walks into the kitchen, spreading his hands wide on the counter and dropping his head.
“Chase, I want to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but from looking at this text thread—and your reaction—it seems like you did. It also seems like, from what she said, last night wasn’t the first time. ” I wait for him to respond.
“Stephanie”—it’s not lost on me that he uses my actual name instead of the pet name, Love, that he’s always used—“it’s not an excuse or anything, but you don’t know how hard it is in my line of work.”
“You say it’s not an excuse, but that’s exactly what it sounds like.”
He turns around and extends his hands in a pleading manner.
“Women throw themselves at me wherever I go. And when it’s late or I’m tired or I’ve possibly had a few drinks, I’ve .
. . well, there have been times I’ve not behaved as I should have.
I’m so sorry.” He walks over and drops down on his knees again, eyes pleading.
“You deserve better. I will be better! It will never happen again, I swear it!” He reaches for both of my hands and raises them to his lips for a repentant kiss, keeping hold of them as he looks expectantly at me.
I can’t even look him in the eyes. “How many times have you slept with her?”
Another beat before he answers. “I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t been counting.”
I stand up, which forces him to step away. “But apparently enough times that you’ve lost count?” More silence. “Chase, were you ever faithful to me?” He tries to take my hands again. “Don’t! Don’t touch me. Answer my question. Were you ever faithful to me?”
“Yes! I swear I was! I was until . . . recently.” I watch his shoulders squirm under his shirt.
“How many months, Chase? I mean, you have to remember the first time you cheated on me, right?” My voice is raised, and I begin pacing the room. “Because—I think—you should remember when that was.”
His voice is hesitant. “Probably three months ago.”
I stop walking and face him. “Everything makes so much more sense to me now.” I let out a humorless laugh.
“The tour. That’s when the romantic gestures and gifts started to get more elaborate and you started pressuring me.
Is this why? What was your main goal: getting me into bed or trying to ease your guilt? ”
He stands there, looking the small, weak, defeated man he is, then slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know, Love.”
I meet his eyes. “Was she the only one?”
He’s slow to answer. “No.”
“How many others?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure, or don’t want to tell me?”
“I really don’t know. Maybe ten?” He gives a weak shrug.
“TEN? Ten different women?” He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t appear to even breathe. “Did any of them know about me?”
A barely perceptible shake of his head.
“Does Jane?” I hold out his phone.
He chews on his lower lip for a moment. “She was the only one that did.”
“Were you ever seeing more than one of them at the same time?”
He closes his eyes and looks ashamed of himself. Good. “Yes.”
Bile rises in my throat, and I want to vomit. “Did any of them know you were cheating on them as well?”
He makes a noncommittal gesture that could mean yes or no, but I realize I don’t care what the answer is.
“So my initial request to keep our personal lives private so that my mother wouldn’t see me littering magazines in paparazzi photos has been a great benefit to you, hasn’t it?
” I’m depleted and want to leave, but I need one more answer first. “If you had all of these other women at your disposal, why did you even care about me? Why not kick me to the curb and go on with your life?”
He thinks for a moment before slowly answering. “Because they aren’t you?”
I scoff at the way he says it like a question. “That’s not a reason, Chase.”
His brows pull together, and his face contorts like he’s in pain. “You’re so beautiful?—”
“You wanted to sleep with me because,” I shake my head in disbelief, “I’m so beautiful?” I can barely hear my own voice. He quickly opens his mouth to say more, but I raise my hand to cut him off, and he falls silent.
Every interaction I’ve had with my mother since I was seven runs through my mind. This is the sharpest wound he could have possibly sliced, and my heart shatters into a million pieces.
I walk over to stand in front of him. He tries to speak, but I cut him off again. “What happened to the man I met? He was kind. He used to make me laugh. He’s the one I fell in love with—not the man in front of me now. And you might have loved me once, but you don’t anymore.”
Then I gather as much strength as I can and walk out the door.
I sob the entire way home.