“Fine.” Dale had squeezed my hand under the table. I remember the manager’s knowing smile. He had clearly done this before. He was anticipated the outcome like a gambler counting cards in Vegas, calm and cool, arms crossed over his chest.
He definitely hadn’t expected Dale to get up and walk away from the table.
Of course, after all the posturing and two more meetings with the manager—he brought Dale’s publicist along to back him up—Dale had finally relented. But not before he asked me if I was okay with it, and I’d lied through my teeth. It was the night before the last meeting and we were in bed. Dale tossed and turned and groaned into his pillow until finally, I just told him, “It’s okay. Let them play their little game. It’s probably better the world doesn’t know about me anyway. We don’t want reporters hanging around outside.”
I’ll never forget what he said.
“Sara, I can’t do it. I can’t live that lie. I love you and I want everyone to know it. All I want to do is play guitar and love you. That’s it. If I can’t have both—then I choose you.”
I couldn’t be responsible for him not living his dream. I just couldn’t. So I lied.
“You can have both. Just do what they say for now. Then when your first album goes platinum and you’re selling out on tour, you’ll have the leverage to say no.”
He was thoughtful. “I’ll walk away from it all right now, Sara. I swear to God I will. All you need to do is say the word. You’re more important to me than anything.”
“I know. You don’t need to prove it to me,” I reminded him.“If our relationship isn’t strong enough to withstand this, then I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
“I love you, Sara. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you how much.”
“So show me.”
And he had.
I stared at the paper in my hand while Dale picked up the phone, remembering that first concession—the first of many. He got tired of fighting, after a while, and just starting giving in. At first he was adamant. He wasn’t going to lie about me, so he said, “I don’t like to talk about it.” The manager and the publicist eventually wore him down and he started saying, “We broke up, I don’t like to talk about it.” Then it was his hair. He refused to cut it. They insisted. Arguments ensued. Finally, they won. By the time they got around to recording the album, I think they believed they’d molded him into something soft and pliable they could bend, but they were wrong.
On the album, Dale refused to compromise. All of the songs were his—and he’d even insisted that I do the cover art. He’d conceded on everything else, even on me, but he wouldn’t compromise his dream. I loved him for that, more than he would ever know.
I put the paper face down on the bed. I didn’t want to see the pictures, read the speculation.
“Greg wants to meet.”
Greg was his manager.
“Now?”
“In two hours. At our house.”
Our house was John’s house. Dale would have to call and let him know.
“I’m sorry, baby.” It was a big mess.
“It’s okay.” He shrugged, looking at me still curled up in bed. “Cheer up—we’ve got time to order room service. And if we hurry, we can still soap each other up in the shower.”
“Why does the rest of the world seem to disappear when I’m with you?” I asked, only half kidding.
“Because I am your world?” Oh that smirky smile, the one that brought out that sweet little dimple.
“That must be it.” I laughed. “I’ll call room service. You get in the shower.”
CHAPTER SIX
We arrived home wearing various designer clothes from the gift shop in the hotel lobby.
They carried several designer lines, marked up of course, which meant they were so expensive none of them even had price tags. Their clientele obviously never asked and I didn’t either—I was too afraid. I just grabbed some Calvin Klein—jeans and sweatshirts—and took them back to our room so we could change. The salesman asked what room we were in as I went to hand over Dale’s card, and then he waved it away and told me he would charge it to the room.
I had lugged the new clothes upstairs, barefoot in my formal bridesmaid dress. After we changed, I was careful to fold Dale’s tux before putting it back into the now empty bag and Dale had laughed at me.
“What? It’s a rental, remember?” I had said, putting my dress in too, along with my one remaining shoe. I’d also picked up two pairs of Nikes and two pairs of Ralph Lauren socks. I didn’t even know he made socks.