Long Ball(68)

The reason he had to leave—he was performing.

I thought he was just a regular guy who was struggling and ashamed of what he did for a living.

Dylan St. John could probably pay my entire graduating class’s student debts without breaking a sweat. He could rent out Tilt and have an orgy with the trail of supermodels he’s been linked with—if these pictures in the website’s gallery haven’t been photoshopped.

Well, why would they have been? He’s a star. He’s not my memory. He’s not just my anything.

The scruffy man who made me cracker sandwiches and tied me up and f*cked me in front of my window was on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine last month. And I refused to give him my phone number or email address. Most women would have given anything for his contact information.

And while I don’t have his contact info either, I know entirely too much—When Dylan St. John’s not touring, he lives in Los Angeles.

I close the browser, mind reeling.

LA’s so far away, but it’s real. Now he’s too real.

All the warmth is sucked from the memories, confusion swirling through, muddying the waters. He was supposed to be a part of my past, that hot, nameless guy from a wicked weekend. I was supposed to be able to go on and leave our time together as a happy memory, moving on with my plans and serious career with no regrets. He was supposed to be forgettable.

Now he’s just an entertainment magazine, a celebrity news show, an Internet search away. Now that I know who he is and how easy he is to stalk, how will I ever be able to forget him?

And shit, where I’m headed? I really need to be able to forget him.