Johnny Bishop crashed into my life like a hurricane. Not once, but twice.
The first time, we were teenagers. He was the star quarterback destined to save our small town's high school team. I was the music nerd desperate to shine but always falling short. Until him. Johnny was good at football, but he was great at music. And when I realized we shared a love of performing, I fell for his charm. I drank in his words and was hypnotized by the way he sang. I was never fully in the spotlight with him, but the way he held onto me and kept me close felt good enough. His star was bright enough for both of us, and his dreams were worth all the risks, even if they were my dreams first. When he left our town—leaving me in it—the damage in his wake was devastating. I spent a decade trying to piece together my broken heart. A decade trying to avoid his music, a nearly impossible feat considering he was selling out arenas and piling up Grammys. While he tore through city after city, I built a quiet life as a music teacher in my hometown. I'd made peace with the fact that a now-famous rockstar once held my hand and told me he loved me. But when he shows up unannounced, begging for help, I'm sucked right back into his gravitational pull. I want to hate him. I want to punish him for turning his back on me. But I can't when he's so broken. And the more time we spend in our present talking about our past, the more I start to wonder if maybe Johnny left to save us all from the storm. Maybe that story about me and the famous rockstar has a lot more to be told.
