I head toward Jagger’s room, uncertain what the sound I just heard was. Did he have a bad dream? Did he have to go potty but is scared of the boogeyman under the bed who might grab his feet when he jumps down?
He’s in this big, unfamiliar house with different shadows and creaks than he’s used to. It’s normal for any kid to be a little skittish at that.
But when I reach his room, see his door ajar, and peek in, I find Vince there. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand on Jagger’s back and eyes fixed there.
How many times had I dreamt to have a moment like this? To see Vince with our son? To watch them interact? To realize what mirror images they are of each other and be a little jealous of it at the same time?
To see the love he has for our son even if he can’t or won’t acknowledge it himself?
Oh, Vince. What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Please talk to me. Please yell at me. Please do whatever you have to do—write a song telling me what a piece of shit I am—just to get it all out so we can start somewhere and figure out the next foot forward.
I take a step backward to leave him be, but my movement must catch his attention. He looks up to me before rising and heading out of the room. I stand there, hoping maybe this will be the time to talk to him. The time for healing to start somehow.
But he closes the door softly and says, “I’m going to work in the studio.”
“Vince . . .” His name is a plea, but it’s met with a dead stare before he turns on his heels and heads down the hall to his studio without another word.
I scramble after him and follow him into the studio, blocking the door with my hand when he shuts it as if I’m not there. “You have to talk to me at some point. You have to—”
“I don’t have to do shit,” he says as he starts messing with the small soundboard he has in there, his back to me, his ability to ignore me frustrating as fucking hell.
“Yes. You do,” I say and glance over my shoulder to the open door, worried about Jagger hearing this. “At some point, we need to get it all out.”
“You want to fight?” he shouts and then stalks over to the door and shuts it soundly. “Let’s fucking fight. You’re in a soundproof studio, Bristol. Jagger can’t hear us, so let’s get it all out. Maybe it’ll make you feel better, but I think it’ll take a long fucking time for me to get there.”
“We have to talk. We have a son together—”
“You’re goddamn right we do,” he thunders as he turns on me and gets in my face. “We have a son.” The words are gritted out. The tendons in his neck taut. The hurt he feels almost palpable. “A son you neglected to tell me about, so don’t you tell me what we do or don’t have to do because you lost every right the minute you fucking lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Uh-huh. Not telling me is the same in my book.”
“But I tried. I fucking tried. I called you. I texted you. And I called you again and again. You’re the one who blocked me. You’re the one who checked out—”
“Because it hurt too goddamn much, Bristol. Don’t you get that?” He hangs his head and shakes it. The pain in those words rips into me. “It hurt so fucking much to see you, to get a fucking taste of what could have been, and to know I couldn’t have it.”
“That’s on you, Vincent. Not on me. You’re the one who walked away every fucking time. Not me.”
“So it’s my fault?” He throws his arms out and chuckles. “You want to blame me? Blame me. You want to hate me? Hate me. But don’t throw stones in fucking glass houses if you don’t like picking up shattered pieces of glass that you helped break. You made decisions that had everything to do with me, so don’t act like you fucking didn’t.”
“You’re right. I did.” I step into him, my finger jabbing him in the chest. “And I’d do the same damn fucking thing again if I had to. I’d pick Jagger over you every day of every week because he’s there. He’s mine. And no one can ever take him from me.” I turn my back to him and walk to the window. I meet his eyes through the reflection, my own courage not strong enough to say these next words to him face-to-face. “He was the only part of you I had left, Vince. The only part of the only man I’ve ever loved who didn’t think he was enough to love me himself.” My voice breaks and the first tears fall, but I don’t care. All I care about is the years of hurt and worry and second-guessing finally being over.
“And in doing so you took decisions away from me. Instead, you gave my son the same fucking fate as my mom handed me. You left him to feel like he wasn’t worthy enough to be loved. Like I’d abandoned him. Like his—”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I shout, turning in a flash. His accusation staggers me and stuns me. How did I not think of this? How did I not look through Vince’s eyes and see the correlation he would make? “That little boy has been loved every second of every minute of every day. He deserves nothing less, so I tried to give him everything I could to make up for the decisions I made. Don’t you dare accuse me of not giving him enough love.”
I say the words, but the images of the past few days flash back and gut me. Jagger and Vince on their guitars. Jagger wrestling with Vince on the grass. Jagger falling asleep on Vince’s chest as they watch action movies together.
Guilt. It fucking owns every part of me and makes me fight even harder to prove that I was enough for Jagg. That I didn’t deprive him of his needs because of my fear and selfishness.
“You asked me what derailed my dreams? My plans? It was that love for him. I never left his side. I tried to be both parents and then some, so stop breaking the glass too unless you want to bring the whole goddamn house down.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My chest hurts as I mentally own my mistakes and shortcomings. As I acknowledge the things I deprived them both of.
Vince just stares at me with hollow eyes. All I want to do is hug him. To fight him. To rebel against this history of ours that has done this to us.
“I asked you what set you back, Bristol. I opened the fucking door so wide for you to tell me that it broke off its hinges. Christ, at your house, on the porch, I told you I knew you were holding something back. Why couldn’t you have trusted me then?”
“I nearly did. I was this fucking close,” I say and hold my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “But you know what you said to me?”
He shakes his head. Still so angry. “Nothing that justifies your excuses.”
“You said, ‘It’s okay. You don’t owe it to me. I understand that.’” I close my eyes momentarily but not before I see his shoulders fall and his jaw clench.
“So that’s why you didn’t tell me? Because I gave you fucking permission not to? You’re impossible to fucking love, you know that?” he says.
“Me?” I startle. “You’re the selfish prick who can’t acknowledge—”
“Selfish?” He lets out a growl that echoes off the walls of the studio. “You’re so full of shit. So wrapped up in excuses you can’t see straight.”
“Excuse me for being just like you then . . .”
He stands a foot away from me, with that muscle pulsing in his jaw, his hair a fucking mess, his eyes glaring at me, and everything I’ve ever wanted just within reach.
One second stretches to five.
And on the sixth one, we strike the match and willingly welcome the flames.
