by Aly Martinez
“Can you give me, like, one minute? I’ll see if I can find them.” I gently guided her away while I pushed myself upright.
She nodded excitedly, backing to her mother.
I followed Stewart toward the room the hospital had set up for us. Loud groans of disappointment started to rumble through the crowd as I left.
“I’ll be right back. I promise,” I announced, which earned me a loud cheer from the group.
“You won’t be right back! You’re already three hours late,” Stewart grumbled.
“Well, I’m going to be a hell of a lot later than that too, because I’m not leaving here until I’ve seen everyone,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. I gave the group one more wave as Devon ushered me into the room, closing the door behind us.
“Come on, Levee. Don’t make me the bad guy. In less than an hour, you have a VIP meet-and-greet. I understand your dedication to being here, and it’s great. Good for your heart, good publicity. Win. Win.”
I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t there because of publicity. I had plenty of that.
I was there because it was what I did.
Where I felt comfortable.
Where I was happy.
Where I had once been crushed.
But, ultimately, the only place I felt like I needed to be.
“Levee, you have hundreds of fans who paid for the VIP treatment. If you aren’t there, it’s not exactly VIP, now is it?”
“You know I can’t leave,” I snarled.
I hated Stewart, but it wasn’t because he was an asshole. He was just doing his job. I paid him thousands of dollars to make sure my life ran smoothly. And for all intents and purposes, he was good at what he did.
But that didn’t mean I liked having absolutely zero control over my life, including something as simple as time.
“Levee, what about all the people who waited in line for hours to meet you? What about the parents who’ve scrounged and saved in order to buy the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar tickets? That’s not exactly pocket change. What about the guy who’s planning to propose? All of that has been set up way in advance. I get it. I swear to Christ I do. I let you stay an extra three hours, but if someone doesn’t show up at that venue in the next hour, it’s going to be a mess.”
I nervously chewed on my bottom lip. He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. I’d signed the contracts for three concerts and three meet-and-greets. It had been heavily promoted as my big homecoming since I hadn’t been back to perform in San Francisco in over three years. It was my last stop before closing out my tour with a live television event in Los Angeles the following week.
I’d known ahead of time that a man had paid a large chunk of money in order to surprise his (hopefully) soon-to-be bride by proposing beside her favorite singer. And then there was the little girl with leukemia waiting there as well. I had personally sent her tickets the month before. There was also the Olympic gold medal swim team that had recently suffered the loss of one of their teammates. They’d used my song “The Belief” as her dedication on social media. I’d mailed those tickets as well.
They were all there.
Waiting.
Guilt overwhelmed me. Regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t be everywhere.
And, God, did I try.
“Okay, how many are left out there?” I asked, trying to get my head on straight.
“At least a dozen more kids. Then their siblings, and parents…as well as a handful of doctors and their families, nurses—”
“Okay, okay. I got it.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Levee,” Stewart breathed, walking up behind me and squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll tell them. Maybe I can set up something for next month. You can come back, specifically for those you missed. We’ll block out an entire day.”
A month.
Lizzy hadn’t lasted a month.
How many won’t be here when I get back?
I shook his hand off. “I can’t leave. I’m sorry.”
He groaned behind me as I started to open the door. I froze when an idea hit me.
“Hey! What about Henry?” I twisted to face him.
“What about him?”
“He’s in town. If I can get him to go over to the venue first, it will buy me some extra time here, and it will be like a double treat for the VIPs. Everyone loves Henry!”
Stewart didn’t. So he rolled his eyes. “It’s not a good idea, Levee.”
I rushed to my bag in the corner and pulled my cell phone out. “Bullshit. It’s a fantastic idea.”
Another groan came from Stewart’s direction, but I was too busy dialing Henry’s number to pay it any attention.
He answered on the first ring. “There she is! What’s up, beautiful?”
“I need a favor.” There was no reason to bother with pleasantries. Not with Henry.
“Mmmm, I like the sound of this. What kind of favor?”
I could envision his flirty smile as he patted his purposely messy blond hair. “I have a meet-and-greet for my VIPs in an hour.”
“Okaaay?” he drawled.
“You’re in town, right?” I chewed at my freshly manicured nails.
“Levee,” he warned.
This wouldn’t be the first time I’d asked Henry for a favor. He wasn’t exactly shy about asking me for them, either. And he always had the same answer I had for him.
I lowered my voice and said softly, “I’m at the children’s hospital.”
“Jesus, babe,” he breathed.
I love him.
“There’s still a line. I can’t leave. But I’m supposed to be at the arena in an hour.”
“I’ll go,” he said, quickly answering the unspoken question.
And he loves me.
Henry Alexander was the biggest name in music. Well…besides mine. He’d started off songwriting, the same way I had, which was how we’d initially met. We’d become fast friends. He helped me with the music, and I helped him with the lyrics. We brainstormed, jammed, and eventually moved in together. We sold more songs than any two twenty-one-year-old kids could have fathomed. But it wasn’t enough. Selling songs was one thing. Selling yourself as the singer was something totally different.
But we both had dreams.
Huge ones.
Thanks to YouTube, we had accrued a massive following. We wanted to be individual artists but realized quickly that cross promotion and appearing in each other’s videos every few weeks earned us the most views. People loved Levee and Henry together, but his gruff, sultry R&B voice didn’t mesh well with my soulful-pop feel. A duo was out, but our fans began to expect us as a team. So we did what we always did: We got creative.
At twenty-three years old, we released our dual debut album. Fans went nuts. We threw our hearts and souls into that project, spending day and night in the studio to make it cohesive but different enough that people saw us as solo artists. Dichotomy ended up being six of his songs, six of mine, and two together. But, oddly enough, those weren’t what people fell in love with.
My first single, “Isolation,” hit number one on the charts almost immediately, while Henry sat at number two with “Belonging.” Three months later, his single “That Night” took the top spot, while mine, “Another Day,” sat right beneath it.
Less than a year later, Henry held me on his arm as we swept nearly every category we had been nominated for at the Grammys. It was the same night we made the announcement that, from that point on, we were strictly solo artists. We expected backlash, but if there was any, we didn’t feel it. Both of our sophomore albums were certified diamond, securing our spot not just in the music industry, but at the forefront of it all.
Henry was my best friend for a ton of reasons, only one of them being his agreeing to go to the VIP meet-and-greet without even needing an explanation.
“Do you have Carter with you? Or do you need me to send Devon for security?” I asked.
“I’m good. Don’t worry abou
t me, sweetheart,” he replied warmly.
With a huge smile, I gave Stewart a thumbs-up. His reply was a string of expletives.
“I owe you. You want to go out tonight after the concert?”
“Nah. But you can pay me back in other ways,” he murmured suggestively.
“How’s that?” I whispered, playing along.
He cleared his throat dramatically. “Don't play games. You know what I want.”
“No. I'm honestly clueless.” I walked over to the mirror, scrunching my long, brown curls back into shape then adding more makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes.
“Levee,” he scoffed before blurting out, “Let me fuck your bass player.”
I burst out laughing. “Henry! He’s straight.”
“So? I thought I was straight once too.”
“You are such a liar. You were never straight.”
“This is probably true, but come on, Levee. Just tell me I can try,” he pleaded.
There was no point in telling him no.
“Sure. By all means…go for it. Make sure you say hello to his fiancée first though,” I teased.
Henry didn’t find it humorous. “Damn it. Why is heterosexuality such a cock block?”
“It really is.”
And it really was for Henry. He was tall, with a lean, muscular body that even I couldn't help but notice on occasion. Women adored him even though he was openly gay. However, Henry's biggest problem in the love department was his obsession with straight men. I couldn’t even count the number of times Henry’s heart had been broken by a guy who he’d convinced to give him a chance but ultimately went right back to women.
“All right, babe. I need to get dressed. Tell Stewy I’ll meet him at the venue in an hour. Ask him if he wants a little action during the show tonight.”
I smiled before calling over my shoulder, “Hey, Stewart. Henry wants to know if you want some man-loving?”
It was supposed to be a joke, but Stewart took an angry step forward, his eyes boiling with rage. “I swear to God! I’m a married man. He starts spreading that shit around…” He paused to run a hand through his thinning hair.
Still holding my phone to my ear, I gasped. “Oh God, please tell me you didn’t really hook up with Stewart.”
Henry burst into laughter. “Fuck no! But he hates me already, so I figure why not pretend? Drives him fucking nuts.”
It was my turn to laugh. Stewart continued to fume.
“Okay, go get dressed. I’ll see you in a few hours,” I told him while straightening my long dress and preparing to go back out.
Henry’s gentle voice caught me before I hung up. “Hey, Levee. Do me a favor. Take it easy, okay? You’ve got a show tonight. I know you want to be there…but don’t get lost in the past. They aren’t Lizzy.”
He was wrong.
They were.
Every single one of them.
I didn’t tell him that though. Instead, I replied, “Thank you.”
He sighed at my non-answer. “See you tonight, babe.”
“Yeah. Tonight.” I dropped my phone into my bag and began rummaging through the boxes of CDs and T-shirts we’d brought to give away. “Are we out of the copies of Dichotomy that Henry signed?” I asked.
“Yep. We’re out of damn near everything, Levee. Yet another reason you should come back another day.”
“Oh, shove off!” I called as I headed to the door. With the VIPs sorted, I had a little girl named Morgan to properly apologize to.
AT LEAST IT wasn’t raining. That had to be a good sign, right? Turning my back to the wind, I lit a cigarette. I was staring off the bridge just as I had done every night for months. The chill was still in the air, but thankfully, the depressing, grey clouds had moved out of the bay overnight. Some people loved a good thunderstorm, but to me, the dreariness that accompanied them was stifling. I was already grappling to find the light in the whole struggle known as life; I didn’t need the weather making it that much dimmer.
“Shit,” I cursed to myself when the gauze I had wrapped around my palm unfurled. Biting the cigarette between my lips, I quickly rolled the bandage back around my hand. I attempted to secure it in place with the worn-out tape but ended up tucking the edge under when it refused to stick.
I was such a pussy.
The moment that splintered wood had sliced my palm open, the whole world had begun to spin. It was a miracle I’d even stayed upright as the sight of the blood dripping from my hand had forced my ass to the dusty floor of my workshop.
Slitting my wrist was officially never going to happen.
But killing myself was never going to happen, either. With my luck, Hell was real and I’d only end up spending an eternity longing for the emptiness my life was already full of.
My life was fine. My job was fine. My house was fine. My love life was fine. My friends were fine. God, I was sick of fucking fine. I needed something—anything—to be great.
Why I thought death might be that, I wasn’t sure.
But it had worked for them.
Most recently, it had worked for her.
Plus, I’d tried everything else. Over a hundred hours in the tattoo chair, skydiving, base-jumping, bungee-jumping, gliding. You name it, I’d tried it. And, while those brief moments had given me the highest of highs, the low on the other side fucking sucked. I hated every single minute of fine. There had to be more out there. There had to be a great lurking in the shadows.
I groaned.
My mind swirled with inner ramblings that had me rolling my eyes at myself. Even my emotions were logical and average. I couldn’t even be extraordinarily irrational. That would have at least been exciting.
After dropping the butt of my cigarette to the ground, I snuffed it out with my boot. As I leaned over to retrieve it, I caught sight of a pair of heels I knew had cost a fucking fortune.
What the hell is she doing back?
She was not supposed to be there, despite how much I’d secretly hoped she would be.
Heading in her direction, I allowed my eyes to flash to her legs, but any possible new injuries were covered by a long, black dress.
“So we meet again,” I said, dragging a new cigarette from my pack as I tucked away the old butt.
She pressed her sunglasses up her nose before stating the obvious. “You own a coat.”
“Yeah. My doctor made me get it after I recovered from a bout of hypothermia last night.”
Her painted-red lips parted in a smile. She was absolutely gorgeous—at least from the nose down. Who knew what the hell she was concealing underneath that silly wig and shades though. Or, better yet, why the hell she thought she needed them. Sunglasses, fine. But a wig? Who was she hiding from?
“Hypothermia. Ha! You’re the wimpiest half Eskimo I’ve ever met,” she said, compelling my mouth to mirror hers.
“This is probably true.” I took a drag off my cigarette, then switched it to the hand farthest away from her when she started waving away the smoke.
After gathering the back of her wig, she pulled the hair over her shoulder. “But I don’t know any others, so that also makes you the toughest.”
“Awesome. Winner by default.” I smirked. “I’ll take it.”
“What are you doing back up here tonight?” she asked absently.
I took a drag. “The view.”
“Me too,” she whispered. “Hey, can I bum a smoke?”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I thought you broke up with lung cancer?” I pulled my smokes from my pocket, offering it forward.
“Everyone has the occasional one-night stand with the ex.”
I laughed as she took the pack from my hand only to be silenced when she hurled it off the bridge.
“What the fuck?” I shouted.
She shrieked, repeating my curse when the wind caught the cigarettes, whipping it back at her. She ducked right before it sailed over her head and into the traffic behind us. I watched with a curled lip as numerous ca
rs destroyed it.
“Well, I guess that works too,” she said, straightening her jacket and proudly dusting her hands off.
“Note to self: Designer Shoes does not like one-night stands,” I informed my only remaining cigarette, clamped between my fingers.
She quietly giggled, drawing my attention back to her.
Biting my lip, I noticed that her wig had slipped, revealing curly, brown hair hidden underneath.
“What?” she asked, reading my expression.
I lifted a hand to tuck the rogue hairs away but quickly dropped it back to my side. “Um… It’s just…” I secured the smoke between my lips and pointed at her head. “Your, um…roots are showing.”
Her face paled as her hands flew up to right her failed disguise. “You didn’t see that.”
“See what?” I answered then smirked tightly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, nervously looking around to see if anyone else noticed her hairpiece malfunction.
“Like what?” I asked, feigning innocence. After inhaling a lungful of nicotine, I held it in a desperate attempt to keep my laughter hidden.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just laugh.”
That was all it took for smoke to bellow from my mouth, followed by a hearty fit of laughter. I bent over, alternating between coughing and laughing, as she scowled at me, but her lips twitched, exposing her amusement. She fought a good fight, but eventually, she lost her battle and joined me, all the while smoothing her wig down.
By the time we both sobered, my last cigarette had burned out. Lifting the butt in her direction, I glanced over to where my pack lay mutilated in the middle of the road.
“That was fucked up.”
“You’re welcome,” she smarted, dabbing at her lipstick with her manicured fingernails, drawing my attention to her mouth.
Shit. I swallowed hard, flashing my eyes over her body, cursing the chill in the air for forcing her to cover her every curve. From her expensive shades down to her designer clothes, she appeared high maintenance as fuck, but the stark contrast of her down-to-earth demeanor interested me the most. And since I was a nice guy who was strictly interested in her mental well-being, there was no harm in allowing myself an extra minute to check her out—while secretly hoping for a wardrobe malfunction as well.
