The end of a tour is the worst. It hurts. There is relief that comes with being able to sleep and write again, but mostly it's lonely. Soul-crushingly lonely. I pretend I'm not. I send my friends pictures from Maui or Paris and tell them that I'm recovering and writing.
It's all bullshit.
I tried to write. That much is true. But it didn't work out well. I would just stare at the pages and freeze up. All of the words that have flowed so easily have slowly started to get all jumbled up and nothing really makes sense. Maybe my well has finally run dry.
Another glass of wine finds it's way into my hand and I slide the curtain to the side before I step onto the balcony, overlooking the water. My soul feels a little less broken here. In a way, it's been my signal to him. "This is where I come when I hurt. Come make it better." He stopped coming years ago. It got too complicated. I said I understood because that was the mature thing to do. That was bullshit, too.
I have a fleeting urge to call him. That usually passes pretty quickly, if I can manage to distract myself for a few minutes. A joint would be wonderful right now.
Lindsey would have one for me.
God damn it. This is when I get weak. He's probably at home being normal. He's living the life I know he always wanted to live and I'm truly happy for him. At one time in my life, I thought that's what I wanted. When we found out I was never going to be able to have kids, reality sunk in pretty quickly. As much as I believed at the time that I could settle down and be a wife and mom, it was just not going to happen. He said he didn't care – that he wanted me more than he wanted kids. It wasn't true. I could see it every time a crew member brought a baby to rehearsal. Every time a fan handed him a baby to get a photo taken.
I set him free. It was the only thing I could do. I convinced myself it was noble. 20 years later, I'm just alone and he's not and I spend more time than I'll ever admit to anyone wishing that I'd made some different choices.
Sometimes, though, I let myself pretend that he wishes he'd made different choices, too. I let myself believe that he doesn't resent me sending him away. I know it isn't true. I know he doesn't regret what he has for a second. He's happy.
For the most part, I'm happy, too. Look at my life, for Christ's sake. I have everything. No one feels sorry for someone like me, and they shouldn't. There's something about coming down from a tour, though. Especially the Fleetwood Mac tours. We spend a year or a year and a half being the center of the universe. People are there to take care of every single thing for us. Thousands of people scream our names every night. You start to feel invincible and immortal.
Then you get back to Los Angeles and it's just you and your little dog. And then what? Do I make another record? Do I spend time writing? Do I take time off? Work on the Fleetwood Mac record? Nothing feels that important. It's just a different kind of high. I'm just a 67 year old woman who is definitely not invincible and very mortal.
"Stevie?" Karen's voice interrupts my self-flagellation and I turn around slowly, reluctant to acknowledge her. "Lindsey said you'd be expecting him?"
Fuck.
