“For ten years,” I say. “Ten years of shows and tours and interviews and men and lawyers and…everything. You were there.”
“Yes.”
“And you never once let me see you.”
His throat works around the word.
“No,” he says again.
“Why?” I ask. “Not the strategy. Not the protection. The real reason.”
He hesitates.
I wait.
“Because I didn’t trust myself,” he says finally. “Around you. With you. With what I wanted from you.”
The air in the room thins.
I swallow.
“You mean s*x,” I say, because dragging it into the light is easier than sitting in the vague.
“I mean everything,” he says. “I meant it when I said I don’t know how to do halves. If I’d stepped back into your life, then I wouldn’t have been content to be the friend in the corner or the name on a credit. I would have wanted all of
