“How do I fix this?” he whispered. “What will fix this?”
“Forgiveness,” I replied.
“Do you forgive me then?” He bit his lip to keep it from quivering.
“I can forgive you, but…can you forgive me?”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “For what?”
“For letting you go.”
My Dark God of the Universe sank back on his heels, his gaze searing into mine. “I think so. I want to.”
Pushing myself up, I drew my legs from between his thighs before bending my knees and wrapping my arms around them. It made me feel less vulnerable. “If you can’t or won’t, then there’s no point to this—us. It’s broken before it even starts. Our whole relationship, up to this point, you’ve blamed me for something that I’m not even sure I understand. It’s preventing us from moving forward.”
He watched me in complete silence, but I saw the fear in his eyes.
Getting off the bed, I put on a pair of underwear and a tank top. Then, I dropped to my knees and crawled under my bed, looking for a specific box. Finding it, I pulled it out. I didn’t know why I was doing this. I was just a sucker for embarrassment, I guessed.
Maybe he just needs to see that I never really let go, that I never forgot him or what we started.
Digging down to the bottom, I pulled out my NOLA’s Junk scrapbook and passed it to him.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Open it.”
Inside, secured behind thin sheets of stiff plastic that graced these types of albums, were pages of pictures taken at their concerts, ticket stubs, interviews clipped from magazines, and other memorabilia.
“I didn’t let you go, Phil. You took a part of me with you. I’ve followed your career like a rabid fanatic even though I’ve tried to keep it on the down low. Only three people know how stupid-obsessed I am with NOLA’s Junk—well, with you in particular. Check the back.”
Phil gazed into my eyes, something churning behind them that I couldn’t decipher. He looked back down and flipped through to the end where he found the envelope addressed, A Love Letter to a Madman. His fingers traced over the handwriting.
“Is this for me?” he asked softly, glancing at me.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Can I read it?”
“It’s yours. I have to warn you though. I was eighteen when I wrote it, so I hope you can excuse the adolescent semantics. I was young and ridiculous.”
Giving me a soft smile, he assured me, “So was I.”
Reaching for and grabbing my cigarette case, I headed for my balcony, giving us both some breathing space. I heard him gently remove the letter from the envelope. I was blushing, and my heart rate picked up. I took a seat on my papasan chair, folding my legs underneath me, and lit up another spliff.
The mattress groaned and creaked as he lay back on the bed, the sound of the paper crinkling as he opened the pages.
After all these years, I still knew that damn thing by heart.
Dearest Phil,
Tonight, as Lili and I sat in the car, listening to Adopted Son, I heard the ending to “A Madman’s Love Letter,” and Lili swore, you’d written that about me.
It got me thinking, What if that dirty song was written with me in mind? You did call me baby girl. A part of me thinks that you probably call all the hot chicks who throw themselves at you that—not that I think I’m hot, but that’s not the point. Does this mean you still think about me? Could it be true that you still think back on that night?
I now wonder what I would say to you, if I ever had the opportunity to see you again.
So, here goes…
The night I met you was the most amazing night of my life. Not only was the NOLA’s Junk show fucking awesome, the fact that I got to meet my favorite front man of the best heavy metal band ever was pretty fucking epic.
But then…you touched my hand, and you stole my heart. Colors I never knew existed bloomed into full view when you looked into my eyes, and an amazing brightness filled my universe. I fell in love with you in that exact moment. I loved every second I spent listening to your voice, your laugh, and every touch you gave me. When you pulled me close to you and kissed me, you stole my soul.