I’m numb.
A cowardly waste of space.
Our eyes meet for a stopped breath, and we hold, something passing between us, something that sneaks inside my soul and rots it from the inside out.
I’ve lost her.
No more piano chords to mend my restless heart. No more rooftops, hand-holding, or catnaps beneath her walnut tree.
No more comfort. No more music.
In this moment, it’s clear—she’ll never sing to me again.
Act II
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.”
—As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
Chapter 18
Stevie
Almost four years later
“You son of a bitch!”
Clothing is tossed from the third-floor apartment window, blanketing the city sidewalk in baby blues, lilacs, and corals.
“Take your sissy-ass pastels and—”
Ties, watches, and a tube of deodorant follow.
“—stay the fuck away—”
A pair of boxers land on a fire hydrant like a top hat.
“—from my sister!”
I blink at the department store now scattered across the pavement. Pedestrians pause to take in the scene, whispering among themselves. Some of them giggle.
My jaw clenches.
Jameson stands at the curb, staring up at my sister as she flips him off with both hands. He shakes his head, bending to retrieve his “sissy-ass pastels” from puddles and manhole covers while Joplin shouts a few more curses into the drizzly night, then slams the window shut.
And that’s how I discover my boyfriend has been cheating on me.
***
“Can I make you soup? I’m making you soup.” Joplin scampers around the tiny kitchen off the living area, her hair piled up in a giant topknot and her feet hidden in a pair of purple dinosaur slippers. Not Barney purple though. They look like majestic stegosauruses. “I’m tired of you starving yourself.”
I pull the edge of the blanket up over my mouth until it muffles my words. “I don’t want soup.”
“The fuck you don’t. I’m making clam chowder, and you’re going to eat it. Two bowls, minimum.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
