The Longest Five Years (Completed)

Reagan, cont.

Three weeks later

"Sign here. And here. And here..."

I reach for the pen, anxious to move on. To make a fresh start.

"Come on, love. You can't be serious," Benson's eyes are wide and confused, like he can't possibly understand why I'd want out. "What have the last five years been, then? A way to kill time?"

I ignore him, reading the fine print in front of me. This can't end soon enough.

He scoffs, then shakes his head. He's beside me, a little too close. I can barely get my arm up on the table to sign the papers. And he's still talking. Yammering on about this and that and how I'm about to screw everything up...and have I forgotten the way it went the last time? And what makes me think I could be a mother? What makes me so sure this time?

He's nearly on top of me, pleading. I rub my forehead with my left hand, trying to block him out, then rest my head on my hand and continue reading.

"Reagan," he says. "C'mon, baby. You're out of your mind."

I drop my hand from my head and turn toward him.

"Scoot over. Please," I snap. I widen my eyes at him and he frowns, but doesn't move. "Benson."

He stares at me, long and hard. He's trying to intimidate me. But hasn't he forgotten that I've seen much worse than this? He slides over slowly with a deep, shaky breath, and when I finish signing the forms, I slide them to him. He picks up the pen and twists in between his fingers. He glares at the papers, but I'm sure he's not reading them.

I've been home for nearly three weeks and this is the second time the three of us have sat down in a room and discussed dissolving The Wayward. The first time was just a few days after I got home and we talked about the terms and conditions of the contract. I was on board and ready to sign the paperwork on the spot, but Benson showed up drunk and had to be sent away. Now here we are, days away from Christmas, and I'd much rather be at my flat, packing for my trip back home than sitting here with these two.

He's taking forever.

I hear him breathe again and look up at our agent again. He's watching closely, but doesn't say a word. I have to do something. I pull the engagement ring he gave me out of my purse and slide it to him on the table. It scrapes loudly against the wood and his eyes lock on it, but never make it back up to mine.

Everything stops.

He doesn't uncap the pen; he snaps it in half. I flinch.

He stands up, slams his hands down flat on the table so loudly I jump and the ring rattles on the table. When I don't say anything, he does it again. And again. He's making a scene. He wants a reaction, because he knows he's always gotten one from me. He knows if he pleads just a little too long, I'll break. But not anymore. I know what I want.

"Stop it," I finally say looking at him, afraid if I don't, it'll only get worse. He looks at me for a little too long again, like he's replaying the memories of our last 5 years together.

Late nights writing music, holed up in our first, tiny flat. Shows at the local pubs. Bigger shows. Our first album. Endless hours and days in the recording studio. Kissing me for the first time in that recording studio. Screwing in the back of that recording studio. Proposing to me backstage after the kickoff show of our very first tour. High from nothing more than the feeling nothing could stop us. Fans screaming our names. The first time I heard our song on the radio. The first time I held our finished album in my hands...

Those were the good times, and maybe the only times he can see. But I know better. I know how it ends for us, and that it finally all ends now.

He lifts up the ring and closes his hand around it, squeezing. He picks up the papers and tears them in several pieces, then drops them in front of me on the table, kicking the door open and slamming it shut as he leaves.