I put my fingers on my temples. “Sloan—”

“Call me tonight, Jason. I love you.”

The line went dead.

I set my phone on my leg and put palms to my eyelids.

This separation was killing me. I was fucking unraveling out here. I couldn’t keep doing this.

It was nothing like it had been when we met. Talking on the phone wasn’t enough anymore, and at the rate she was going with her work, I doubted she’d even be able to meet me in Paris. And now this? How many more things was she going to have to give up?

I dragged myself onstage and went through the motions, but I couldn’t stop thinking about our conversation.

I took a quick break halfway through my set and called her.

“Hey,” she said, picking up.

“I need to know you’ll do whatever it takes for us to have a life together,” I said without preamble.

“You want me to tell you I’ll be pregnant and dragging after you like a groupie while you go be a rock star?” she said, finally irritated with me. “Really? Why are you so dead set on arguing about this?”

“Why are you so dead set on making sure this won’t work? I’m a musician, Sloan. You knew this was what you were signing up for.”

“I signed up for touring with you. Me. Not babies who will grow up in hotel rooms. Not little children who won’t even be able to play unless it’s in a bus. It’s not fair to them. I wouldn’t even bring a puppy into this. Not until you have some balance.”

“I would have balance if you were here,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I can’t be your balance, Jason. I’m not doing it, I’m not further reducing the quality of my life just so you can check something off your list,” she snapped.

“Sloan—”

She let out a shaky breath. “Jason, I have to go.”

She hung up on me.

I hurled my phone against the wall.

Zane, who stood by the emergency exit texting, got pelted with shrapnel. “You know I’m not going to be able to replace that until tomorrow, right?” she said calmly.

“Fuuuuck!”

I clawed my fingers down my face and then turned my wrath on the nearest inanimate object and kicked over a fog machine. “No more goddamn motherfucking fog!”

My backup band milled around the water fountain, waiting for me, and they looked at me now like I’d lost my damn mind.

Maybe I had.

I yanked out my in-ear monitor and stormed off to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I leaned on the sink, trying to catch my breath.

So now what? The price for being with me had gone even higher? She had to trail after me for years on end, sick and exhausted, missing her friends and family, not painting, and now I was taking motherhood from her too?

I just wanted her to tell me that all of this was all right. That we’d figure it out. Get through it, do whatever we had to do. And she wouldn’t.

And why the fuck would she? None of this was all right.

Zane came in. She didn’t scatter after my rampage, which made me think either she didn’t have any self-preservation instincts or she thought raging, chronically exhausted, asshole rock stars were par for the course.

Fuck, maybe they were.

“Can you send Sloan some flowers?” I muttered, without looking up.

“You know what I bet Sloan would really like?” she asked. “For you to not be a dick.”

I looked up and glared at her. She had her arms crossed over her white T-shirt.

“You doing okay?” she asked dryly.

“Fine,” I muttered.

“You don’t look fine. You look like shit. And you sound like shit too, come to think of it.”

I narrowed my eyes at her through the mirror, but she leaned on the wall and crossed her legs at the ankle, unperturbed. “You’re taking an Ambien tonight and I don’t want to hear any crap about it,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re taking one every night until Sloan gets back. You’re not sleeping and it’s making you an asshole.”

I looked away from her and let out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I just…I just miss her.”

“I know. She misses you too. But you need to get it together. Pissing her off isn’t gonna fix anything.”

Nothing was going to fix anything.

Last week I’d talked to Sloan about recording the bullshit my label had sent over. I was getting desperate. I needed to start working toward an end date and I still hadn’t been able to write anything worth a damn. But she’d blatantly refused to let me do it. She was so upset about it I’d had to swear never to bring it up again. She said she didn’t want me singing astronaut cats, that she’d be deeply disappointed in me if I ever compromised my music like that.

So then what was I supposed to do? What was the out? It was like no matter what I did, I was making her unhappy.

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten. Ernie’s words, that I couldn’t have my fame and have Sloan, streamed through my head like a prophecy come to fruition. And I didn’t fucking know how to fix it. There was no solution to this.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, looking over at Zane.

She pushed off the wall, pulled it from her pocket, and slapped it into my hand. “Don’t fucking break it.” Then she left.