Page 66 of One More Time
‘Not right now.’
‘If not now, when?When, Lucy?’ he demanded, jogging to catch up.
He scrambled in ahead of her.
She tried dodging him, looking down at her feet.
He tried again. ‘What is this about? Why are you crying?’
Nickyknew. Really, he did. But he needed her to say it.
‘I can’t,’ she said, walking by.
Nicky raced to the door of his suite and opened it.
When she reached him, he demanded, ‘Get in. We’re doing thisnow.’
Lucy looked away, down the hall toward her own room. Then –thank fuck– huffed loudly, and walked through his door.
When the lock snicked home, he threw the security latch and the deadbolt for good measure.
Nicky followed Lucy into the living room. He watched her pace in front of the picture windows and their vibrant view of the desert sky. She was an avenging angel, up in the clouds, working herself into a frenzy, if the color in her cheeks was any indication.
‘This isn’t about “Little Wing,” is it?’ he asked calmly. ‘It’s about “The Breathing Room.”’
‘Of course, it is! Of course!’ she railed.
Fucking finally.
She continued, ‘It’salwaysabout “The Breathing Room”!’ She stepped closer to him, her eyes blazing with fire and red-rimmed from crying. ‘You want to know why I don’t think “The Breathing Room” is one of the greatest rock love songs of all time? Do you?’
‘I really do.’
Lucy’s blue eyes locked on his, silently commanding him to him to pay close attention. ‘Because to me it’s not a love song. It’s a fucking tragedy.’
Nicky actually staggered back a step, like he’d been punched. She knocked the wind right out of him.
Lucy went on, her face reddening with anger, ‘Of course, I knew it was about me. I was there. How could Inotknow? I wasthere, Nicky. And you made all these promises. Lit up all these fucking fantasies. And then you were gone.Just –poof– vanished. Leaving me with all this stupid useless hope. Like you’d cracked open a treasure chest and then just buried it again with no map.’
Nicky tried, ‘I’m—’
‘No,’ Lucy commanded. ‘You want to hear it? Let me get it out.’
Nicky bit his tongue – literally – to keep himself from interrupting.
‘When you didn’t show up that day. When I had to walk to work on the Boardwalk, I was convinced that you were dead. I was absolutely sure you’d crashed on the highway and were in a morgue somewhere. Then, when yourobituarydidn’t appear in the papers I kept buying every morning, I wished you were dead. Because if you were dead, it would mean that it wasn’t me. That you didn’t just lie to me. Or use me. Or simply not care enough to come back or call me orsomething.’ She inhaled and sighed. ‘Because I cared so much.’
Nicky pleaded, ‘Lucy—’
‘Let me finish!’ she snapped. ‘And then, once I’d finally gotten over it – after waiting and wishing and wondering – there was this fucking song on the radio. And I had to rewrite and question all the things I thought about you. Maybe you didn’t lie to me. Maybe I wasn’t just some notch on your bedpost. But by then you were this rock star on the cover of magazines, selling out Madison Square Garden.’
‘You could have reached out—’
Lucy tutted, frenzied. ‘I didn’t even have a proper email account until two years after the song came out. It was the damn dark ages. What was I going to do? Writeyou a fan letter? Mail it to “Nicky Broome, Rock Star, Care of Hollywood, USA”? Stand outside the stage door somewhere and say, “Remember me?”’
‘I don’t know. I—’
‘No, you don’t know. Youdon’t.’ Her voice got quieter, sadder. Nicky wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, but she backed away from him, crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window. She groaned, ‘“The Breathing Room” was always there.’ Lucy turned to him, arms still covering herself. ‘I was on my honeymoon with Brandon, in this backward town in Spain that didn’t even have a gas station. We were walking through the town square, bright sunshine, a fountain. It was beautiful. Serene. There was a kid, maybe fifteen years old, playing a beat-up old classical guitar, busking. You know what he played?’
