Meet Me Backstage

26. Moral of the Story

SKYE

On the flight home to LA, all I could think of was what I was going to say to Greg. So instead of going home, I had Ollie drop me off outside his place and take my bags home.

But now that I'm at his door, I regret coming.

How do I even have this conversation?

Are we breaking up?

I ring the doorbell before I have a chance to chicken out. I hear voices from inside, but they're too low to make out.

The door opens to Greg in a pale green sweater and jeans. His eyes widen with surprise as he sees me, but he looks more confused than happy about it.

"Wha- What are you doing here?"

"I just got back into town and I wanted to see you."

It's true... although why I want to see him is a bit more complicated. He steps out a bit and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving it open by just a few inches.

"Listen, Skye," he says with a sigh, "this is really not a good time. Can we get together later?"

"Not a good time? Jesus Christ, Greg. You haven't seen me in months and I come back and you tell me it's a bad time? What the hell does that mean?"

His eyes glance back at the door before returning to me.

"Skye, can you not make a scene please?"

I look at the door and it dawns on me that he's hiding something—or someone—behind it.

So that's how it is?

"Oh this isn't a scene," I say, pushing past him into the apartment. "This is a scene!"

"Hey, don't-" he tries to say but I interrupt him.

"Hello, whoever's in here!" I shout. "Hi! I'm Greg's girlfriend, Skye!"

He smacks his forehead with his palm and lets out an exasperated sigh.

An older gentleman with brown hair rounds the corner and looks at us both with confusion. I don't recognize him, but he does look familiar.

"Skye," Greg says, cringing slightly, "this is my uncle Carl. Uncle, this is Skye, my... girlfriend."

It dawns on me now what's happening. He wasn't hiding someone from me—he was hiding me from them.

*****

After a relatively awkward conversation with Greg's uncle, he left to give us some time alone. When the door closed behind him, Greg walked back over to me and sighed.

"I'm sorry, okay? I should've introduced you to my family ages ago, I was just nervous about how they would react."

"Is that why you called me a photojournalist when he asked what I did for a living?"

"I mean," he says, scratching his head, "that's kind of what you do, right? I just didn't want to drop the whole rock-n-roll-concert-photographer bomb on him before I've even told my parents about you, okay?"

I cross my arms and lean back in my chair.

"First off, that is not a 'bomb' okay? It's a really great career, one that I've dreamed of for a long time. And secondly, Jackson Ford is not rock n roll. He's pop with a bit of dance and alternative. But he is not rock n roll."

"Does that really matter? There's not even really a difference."

I shake my head rather than dignify that with a response.

"This isn't working. We aren't working, Greg."

As my words hit the air it's as if time stops. Neither of us moves or speaks and there's no sound but the ticking of a clock in the corner.

"I told my uncle, okay? I'll tell my parents too. It'll be fine I just have to figure out the right way to go about it. It had to happen sooner or later anyway."

"That's not the point, Greg. You never have time for me. You're always at work and when you're not you're out clubbing with the guys. You can't even make time to call me when I'm out on tour."

"I really do care about you, Skye. But what am I supposed to do? Give up my career? My friends?"

"I'm not asking you to do any of that. Why does it have to be one or the other? Is it really so unrealistic to ask you to spend time with me?"

"No, you're right," he says, rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry. That's completely fair."

"I don't want to be with someone who acts like giving me their time is a chore."

He shrugs and sits down.

"I can do better. I know you've been asking for more time with me. I can do that for you."

"But that's exactly the point, Greg! It shouldn't just be for me. You should want to spend time with me because it's something you want to do. But you act like it's a favor to me and that sucks."

"Okay, I worded that wrong." He grimaces. "I didn't mean I don't want to spend time with you."

"I just want more than this."

He looks at me with furrowed brows and his head tilted slightly.

"More than what?"

"More than a relationship where I negotiate time and attention with my partner like it's a business transaction."

He lets out a deep breath as his eyes fall to the floor and he nods.

"What do you want to do?"

Part of me wants him to get emotional—angry, heartbroken, sobbing, anything at all. But he's acting like this is just another conversation.

I twist the engagement ring back and forth for a moment before sliding it off my finger.

"I'm not ready to get married," I say, holding out my open palm and handing him the ring. He takes it and shakes his head.

"Okay," he says softly.

"I think we need to take a step back. Rethink why we're in this relationship in the first place."

"Break up?" His eyes are wide and he looks like a scolded puppy.

I can feel guilt creeping in and making me question everything.

"Yeah..."

His shoulders slump and his head falls.

"Do we have to? Can't we just... put things on pause? You're going back on tour again soon. You can take some time... think it over."

I shake my head.

"I don't want to leave this unresolved and hanging over us. I can't spend the rest of this tour waiting by the phone, hoping you'll finally give me an ounce of your attention. That's not who I am and it's not who I want to be."

He takes a breath and seems to be in deep thought for a moment.

"Then don't. We break up, no expectations, but just... leave the door open. Don't give up on me for good."

He looks at me with hopeful eyes. I honestly don't know what I want, but I do know that right now things are not working.

"I'm not making you any promises," I say. He nods. "I just know that I don't want this how it is. I'm not saying never, but I am saying not now."

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