Everything inside me is numb. A thunderstorm of flashing lights rains down on us. We can’t do anything anymore—that’s it, I think, a searing pain in my chest as a grown woman almost rams her pen into my eye. The crowd closes in around us like a boa constrictor, cutting off my breath.
“Asher, I want a baby with you!” shouts another woman, who I hope isn’t my mom with dyed hair.
I’m roughly pushed around, punched, and lose River’s hand. I feel like I’m in Kensington. “Kansas!” River reaches out for me, but he’s snatched away.
“Asher! Asher! It’s Asher Blackwell!”
With an unreal buzzing in my head, I notice more and more people are streaming into the passage.
“The art prints!” screams a hysterical female voice. “Get the prints to safety.”
It feels like everyone is running all over the place.
The few security guards are completely powerless. The news of Asher Blackwell being at the opening without his mask must have spread like a tidal wave throughout the Forum.
Always be River McFarley.
Only now do I understand the meaning of those words.
“Kansas!” River calls my name again. His face is as rigid as a mask, even though he doesn’t have any makeup on this time. He looks like he’s afraid of these people—his fans—who idolize him.
He raises his hand as if to show me where he is, but I’m washed to the edge like driftwood by the tide.
They separate us. That’s why I hate that he’s Asher Blackwell. An entire nation loves him. An entire nation worships him, and I can’t compete with that—ever. Whatever we had, wherever we were going, it died the second his name was called. Asher Blackwell and Kansas Montgomery will never be River and Tucks again.
I’m still unable to act, and even if I wanted to, I could never get out of the crowd now. I’m held captive by his supporters and the visitors to Mom’s opening, who are apparently also fans of the band.
Mom.
I don’t see her.
The chrome stands have tipped over, and an employee disappears into Tivoli Hall with one of the pictures. More security personnel are being called, but this is all happening far away from me. The apocalypse is unfolding before me, and I can only hope I’m not trampled or crushed to death. I press myself firmly against the rear entrance of a posh boutique and see River’s blond head.
Memories flutter past me like a flip book—River McFarley at Old Sheriff, the smell of river water, and the blue-green morning light. The fluttering swan, the kiss in the midst of the cold, the waves of hot showers on my bare skin.
Over. The image in front of me blurs into a wet, colorful flood of tears.
I don’t know how much time has passed when calls for a song grow louder. Someone is given a microphone.
“Calm down! Calm down! Calm down! This is all confusing and unbelievable, I know. But we are here. Without masks. And we’re all yours.”
I recognize that deep voice. I’ve heard it before, by the river. It must be one of River’s friends. No—one of his bandmates, I think bitterly. Why are they here?
He continues talking, and the words melt in my mind. He says something about Mom, who originally hired them and then had to get a replacement because Demons ’N Saints canceled their gigs. I hear a bit of a song they play before they disappear, and everything inside me burns with pain. I want to scream with frustration and anger, disappointment, and my own blindness. I want to fall back into the land of silence, where no one reaches me and no one hurts me.
It’s better there.
Stiller. As if a veil were covering me.
And even though I don’t want to hear them sing, even though I don’t want to see River as Asher because it folds me up like origami crumpled in my hand, it’s a compulsion. I have to look and then suddenly, he’s standing elevated on the Roman edging of the nearby café, violet-blue spotlights on his skin, microphone in his hand. Next to him stands a young Asian man with chin-length hair and an electric guitar. Someone is frantically laying a cable.
“Come on, Las Vegas!” River yells, his rough whiskey voice sending a dark shiver down my spine. “You want a song, you’ll get a song.”
The crowd goes wild, hands fly into the air.
“We only have one guitar, which Knox from World without Truth kindly lent us. Knox, thank you so much!” The cheering is so loud that River almost has to scream into the microphone. “World without Truth is playing live for you in the Colosseum tonight! Apparently, there are still tickets available at the box office…”
“Ash-er, Ash-er!” they chant in a wild, exuberant chorus.
