Rio and Polly

Chapter 11: A Flicker Of Hope

It felt like I was answering questions for three hours after the press conference, but it was really only an hour. The questions were just what I'd hoped for -- tough questions that made me dig deeper, that held me accountable, that allowed me to explain, that helped me emphasize that Polly was innocent in all this and that Danielle was actually the other woman. 

I showed proof that Polly was the victim of our schemes and machinations and made sure that I accepted full responsibility so no one could say I was trying to shift blame to Danielle and emerge from this bullshit fiasco unscathed. I wanted to be ripped apart -- because as long as they were focusing on me, Polly would be left alone, touted as the innocent in all of this.

Which she was. For once, the press got it right.

All during that press conference, I kept wondering if Polly would see it at some point today, if she'd received the guitar I'd left her, if any of this would make a difference.

I only had hope at this point, knowing that I'd used up all my chances with her.

"Rio, why the tattoo of Polly on your neck?" one of the reporters had called to me.

Because I couldn't tattoo it directly onto my beating heart?

My neck tattoo was still healing, but it was plain as day what it said.

POLLY

"It's a take notice," I said. "I'm done trying to fake things. I love Polly, and I want everyone who ever looks at me in person or in videos or in magazines or online to know that I belong to Polly, body, soul and mind."

"What if she won't take you back?" another reporter called, and that set the room off, laughing at the thought of me tattooing the name of a woman who didn't want me on my skin, front and center, where it couldn't be missed. Unless I was wearing a turtleneck, and that wasn't happening.

"Doesn't matter. I'll spend the rest of my life loving her whether she wants me or not. I decided a long time ago to spend the rest of my life with her, so I will be. Whether it's with her or just the memory of her is going to be up to her."

"You're going to try to win her back?" another reporter called out to me.

"Damn straight I am," I answered with all the determination I had in me. "I'm going to give it my best shot. I first need to prove to her that I'm sorry for what I put her through and I'll never do it to her again. No more keeping the woman I really love behind the scenes because that was a fucked up, shitty thing I did to the woman I love. Sorry for swearing."

With that done, I went back home and started working on my next album. So far, I had four songs written, and more were just pushing to get out, almost faster than I could write.

They were songs of lost love, songs of remorse, songs of apologies. The working title I had for the album was Regret, and I couldn't imagine that changing. And all of the songs were, as always, for Polly. I imagined she was once again with me as I wrote them, as she used to be.

I'd be sitting on the end of the sofa, the coffee table pulled closer to me and on it, one of my songwriting notebooks open, a pen at the ready, a guitar on my knee.

Polly would be curled up next to me, a soft purple afghan thrown over her curled up legs, reading her favorite romance with ridiculously long names. These books were always about Italians or Greeks who were billionaires, tycoons or just plain millionaires. And these guys apparently didn't know about birth control, because their unwanted girlfriends, reluctant mistresses or forgotten wives were always pregnant with secret babies.

"Stop," Polly would laugh at me when I teased her about these books. "You read what you want and I'll read what I want."

Then I'd grin at my girl and sing: