Prologue
Hi, my name is Delaware King, and I’m an addict.
A coward.
Selfish.
An asshole.
Six-time Grammy winner.
Four-time rehab attempter.
Once adored, fresh-faced YouTube sensation turned walking embarrassment and disaster Pop-R&B artist.
Fighting my damnedest to find my way back to myself. To the man I should’ve been. The man I hoped I would be. The man I will be.
For me. For my fans—though, those are far and few between these days.
For my parents.
My brothers.
For her.
Zoey.
The girl who had my heart before I even realized it. The girl who was always there for me, by my side, believing in me when no one else would. She was my first fan. My best friend. My future. My everything.
Until I made her believe that she wasn’t.
Until I left her because I couldn’t find my way out of the Hell I created, and I for damn sure couldn’t drag her down with me. I gave up on us. When she needed me the most, I let her go.
And I’ve regretted it every damn day.
It’s been six years since I’ve been home. She’s never left my mind, even when it was lost. But now I’m back. Healthy, humbled, and ready to own up to every fucked-up mistake I’ve made. To ask for forgiveness and prove to her that we aren’t over. We were never over.
I’m hers. I’ve always been hers.
And no one or nothing will step in my way.
Not myself or my demons, and certainly not my brother.
I hope you’re ready Zoey, ’cause I’m about to woo the shit out of you, girl.
Lovely
Zoey
I replay the message for the fourth time. Unwilling to believe the words pouring from the speaker of my cracked, four-year old Android phone.
“Hey, it’s Del.” He pauses, and I can hear him sigh on the other end.
He’s nervous, as he should be, but it doesn’t sound right on him. Delaware King is a lot of things, but timid is not one of them. Never has been. He’s always oozed confidence. Knew from the moment he sang “U Make Me Wanna” by Usher in our fifth-grade talent show and not only brought the auditorium down but his pants as well, he knew he was someone worth knowing. And he was right. The whole world knows who he is.
I press pause and take a shaky breath before continuing this torture via voicemail.
“I don’t know if you’ll listen to this. It’s more likely that you won’t but I wanted…needed to try and um, let you know before you found out from our parents, my brothers, or the fucking tabloids. Um, I, uh, I’m here. In Beaverton. At my mom and dad’s right now. It’s so fucking weird being back here. They haven’t changed a fucking thing. I haven’t been home since… Well, you know. I uh, anyway, so yeah, I’m back home and I know it’s a shot in Hell that you would even answer my phone call, let alone see me willingly, but I do… Need to see you, that is. There are things that need to be said that are kind of crucial for uh, my recovery. You know, the twelve steps and all. And I can’t do it through voicemail. I’m just asking for five minutes, Zo, and then you can go back to rightfully ignoring me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t if it wasn’t necessary. So, uh, yeah. I guess um, you can just text me or call back. Whatever you want.”
He sighs again. And my heart splinters.
“Hearing your voice…on the outgoing message. You have no idea how many…how much… Fuck, fuck yeah okay, um, have a good day. Bye, Zo.”
I feel like I’m at Coachella, weekend one. Adrenaline on high. My hands are trembling, I’m covered in a thick layer of sweat that just keeps on pouring down my back, and my heart is pounding uncontrollably, like a motherfreaking drum solo. I’m both uncomfortable and elated—two feelings I want no part of when it comes to Del. I don’t want any part of Delaware King.
Liar, liar, hot pants on fire.
Oh, shut up, inner-Zoey! And these are not hot pants! They’re athletic compression shorts, and they’re damn adorable! Plus, they make my ass look Kardashian-level hot, which I know is not totally true, but hey, if you feel it, then it freaking is, am I right?
In all seriousness though, this was the last call I thought I would get this morning, as I’m standing in the middle of a hiking trail. Granted, I should be used to random messages from different numbers from Del—it’s been an unwelcome occurrence for six years. Well, four years. It’s been radio silence for the last two of those six.
I wish I could say I was overjoyed and relished in those two years in which I didn’t get messages of a drunken Del begging for forgiveness and then a split-second later informing me on how much his life is better without my “small-time ass.” Depressed Del, Benzo-ed out, crying uncontrollably. No words. Just sobs that were so…raw, and just fucking soul-stomping. They almost, almost pierced through the shield I’ve held on to so securely. But in the end, I was only left with a few dents and bruised skin. But it was the kind of bruising that never really fades. Oh, I can’t forget riding on coke Del or whatever opie he swallowed that had him speaking a mile a minute, inviting me to L.A. as he was fucking some model he met at Milan Fashion Week or a groupie he picked off in the crowd amongst his thousands upon thousands of fans.
Yes, that happened. More than once.
But even with all of that…that. I don’t even know what to call that. Mess? Seems a bit understated, but even with all of that mess he’s thrown at me these past six years—maybe not every day, but it would hit, on a normal, mundane day, it would hit me. Like I’m jolting awake from a deep sleep and I’m not sure why or what caused it, but there I am, heart-racing, groggy, and disoriented.
That’s how I would feel.
Bereft.
Lost.
Incomplete.
And I hated it. Especially that last one. Incomplete. Like Delaware King has any right. He doesn’t, by the way. He gave up that right six years ago. I hate that he could do that to me. After all this time. He still has me hooked like a fish, caught in his selfishness and addiction, and he won’t release me.
After hearing his message, I know he never will.
That voice… Obviously, Del can sing. We all know that. He’s like the secret love-child of Shawn Mendes and the Weeknd. He is the three S’s. Soulful. Sexual. Storyteller. But his speaking voice…that’s the voice that had me shook from the second he first spoke my name in the fourth grade.
We had just moved to Beaverton from Knoxville, Tennessee. Calling it a culture shock would be an understatement. I had the thickest southern accent—straight up twang and so many ‘ya’lls’—a habit, I have yet to kick. But I’m not mad at it. Anyway, I was out of my element here in Pacific Northwest suburbia. Not only was I country as hell, but I noticed, rather quickly, that I was not only the only black girl in my neighborhood, but in my class as well. My parents taught me from the get-go that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park being a black girl, a black woman. That I would have to work five times as hard as anyone else. I knew I was a minority. But I had never felt like one, not until I walked into Mr. Nelson’s class at Pisgah Elementary.
I was terrified.
I remember staring at my booted feet like they were this marvelous new discovery, with rapt attention. Standing in front of the class, post-Thanksgiving break, brand-spanking new, as sweet Mr. Nelson introduced hazelnut me to a class of pure cream. I was wearing a sweater dress I didn’t want to wear because it was scratchy on my elbows and honestly, I hate dresses. They’re completely unfunctional. You can’t do shit in a dress without the potential of exposing your underwear. No thank you. Give me jeans or the occasional legging—or better yet, a jegging and a t-shirt, all day, every day. But my momma put her foot down, and when she puts her foot down, it’s best to comply with a little nod and a “yes, ma’am.”