“It’s on some scary looking site that probably will give my computer a virus, but who knows.”
“Wonder where his tour fuck buddy was the night he was with me?” I question.
Addison gives me the most pitiful look. I hate it. “You sure you’ll be alright here alone? Owen and I can take Tinsley to the amusement park another weekend.”
No way am I going to deny my sister and her husband taking my precious little niece away for the weekend.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, further scanning the article about Ryder’s sexual proclivities. I’m not sure what hurts the most, knowing I was just another easy conquest, or realizing I really fell for him.
I feel myself spiraling when Addison screams my name, turning her laptop toward me, a taped interview from the night before playing on the screen.
Rushing to take a seat beside her, my stomach twists. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our baby just moved, but I know it’s my own nerves. Addison pushes the button on her laptop, turning up the sound. Ryder’s handsome face covers the screen. The stubble on his face only adds to his rugged good looks. He’s dressed in a blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone, which is a sharp contrast to the interviewer’s pinstripe suit.
“You’ve been voted sexiest man in country music. How does that feel?” the interviewer asks.
Ryder simply shrugs in that not a care in the world way that only he can pull off.
“Really? Not flattered?” the interviewer persists.
This time Ryder adds a coy smile to the shrug. He’s either a terrible interviewee, or the most smug man on the planet.
“You’ve had some pretty beautiful women on your arm, can’t be all bad.” When Ryder doesn’t give an inch, the interviewer looks down, shuffling some papers. “Okay, let’s switch gears. Recently, an article came out pegging you as one of the most private people in music today. Went on to say how you won’t even do shirtless photos.”
Ryder shifts slightly. “I appreciate all my fans, but that doesn’t mean they get to know my every move or see me half naked.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I’m not one of those famous people who’s going to complain about the fame. But I’m not one of those reality stars, either, who simply wants to be famous. I play music because it’s in my soul. It’s what I was made to do. I can’t imagine doing anything else, and I make a really good living at it. I didn’t sign up for all the other nonsense, it’s just an unfortunate byproduct of my job.”
“So you don’t enjoy the fame?” the interviewer asks.
“It depends. When I’m courtside at the Lakers, sure I do.”
“But other times?” the interviewer presses.
Ryder looks away from the camera and interviewer. He looks completely lost, and I wonder if I’m what’s on his mind. I find myself leaning a little closer to the screen. The interviewer leans forward, too, sensing he has Ryder in a weak moment. But Ryder’s eyes turn to him, hard and cold.
“Other times, I’d appreciate the world not commentating on who I’m . . .”
They bleeped out the word “fucking,” but it was obvious what he said. Addison grabs my hand.
“Seems like you’ve got someone particular in mind.”
He can’t be talking about me. He’s not going to mention my name, is he? Yes, we slept together, but he wouldn’t talk about it on national television, would he?
The interviewer puts his hand to his earpiece. “Are we talking about this girl?”
A huge picture appears of Ryder and me kissing in the rainstorm at the music festival. How’d they get that?
“Oh my God!” I cry.
“Holy shit!” Addison says. “That’s you!”
“What’s he doing?” I ask, grabbing the screen.
Ryder stares at the picture, his eyes visibly glassy. Did he arrange this? Doesn’t he realize he’s putting me in the spotlight? Is he doing this on purpose? I can’t be sure, but it doesn’t seem so. He seems jarred by this. He’s shaking his head slightly, pulling himself together.
“Is that a yes? This is the woman?”
Ryder remains coy and doesn’t answer, but the damage is already done—at least to me. The interviewer smiles broadly, clearly happy he’s cracked this tough nut.
“Looks like a yes to me. Pretty open forum here if there’s anything you want to say to her.”
“She already knows,” Ryder whispers softly then removes his microphone and walks off the set.
Addison turns off the computer, but I remain fixated on the blank screen, my mind trying to absorb what I just heard. What am I supposed to know? He left me alone in an empty hotel suite. The only positive thing I can say about the morning after is that at least the room was paid for.
“Kailey, that picture is all over the tabloid sites and channels. Some people are running contests to find the mystery woman,” Addison says. “What if someone recognizes you?”
The only people that I’ve told about that night are my sister, who I’m sure told her husband, and my parents, and that was only after the positive pregnancy test forced my hand. And I’m confident none of them are alerting the media to my identity.
“I’m sure it will all blow over,” I say, fairly sure no one will identify me from that photo. It was raining. It’s a side shot. Ryder mostly covers me. There’s no way anyone would make any connection between me and one of the country’s greatest heartthrobs. “Probably just some sort of publicity stunt.”
Addison raises her eyebrows in disbelief, but I encourage her out the door, reminding her she’s leaving early in the morning for her family getaway, assuring her I’m fine. I’m not going to obsess over him. I’ve done that enough. Yes, I’m carrying his child, but that doesn’t mean I have to carry him in my heart one second longer.
*
My promise not to obsess over Ryder was so successful that I got less than two hours of sleep. Oh well, broken promises seem to be the name of the game these days. I lay in my bed in the guest cottage of my sister’s house, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t feel pregnant. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I am. If I hadn’t seen the positive pregnancy tests myself, I’d think I just ate a big meal—okay, several big meals.
Single mom? That phrase rings in my head daily like a cuckoo clock whose neck you want to break.
My heart squeezes in my chest. It’s been doing that since the morning I woke up alone in his hotel suite. If only I’d known exactly how little that night meant to him, but I hadn’t. It seems stupid now, but I fell for him. And when you fall, your vision blurs, and it’s harder to see the world around you. Waking up alone was like faceplanting in concrete.
If he only wanted one night, he should’ve been honest, and let me decide for myself. I guess he realized that’s not normal behavior for me, and the only way to get me in his bed was to lie to me, make me believe what was happening between us was the stuff of legendary romances. The stuff of the fairy tales I used to love as a little girl.
But I’m not a little girl anymore. Maybe it’s time to stop believing that love conquers all. Being a hopeless romantic seems to only bring heartbreak. It’s like when I was little and we’d gone to pick out a new puppy, and I’d picked the runt of the litter. I was just setting myself up for heartbreak, believing I could love that little puppy to health. Didn’t work out then, but it’d clearly taught me nothing.