Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  Evangeline

  April

  My boots crunch on the gravel as I carry nothing but the yellow envelope toward the studio. Char asked me if I wanted any company, but I shook my head. The next part of this journey has to begin with Monty and me, or it won’t happen at all.

  The sounds of the horses being let out for some exercise stabilize my nerves as I approach the studio. I rest my head against the glass pane of the window. My heartbeat is racing. Why am I afraid?

  “Because what lies behind those doors is a war,” I whisper aloud. “And I don’t know if I should be winning it or even if I should be playing it.”

  Realizing the truth gives me the strength to depress the handle. I drift over to the sound system even as I’m slipping off my jacket and dropping the envelope. Fiddling with a few buttons, I kick off my shoes. My body automatically flows into the routine I’d been dancing that night before he came into the door. Exaggerated pelvic thrusts leading into chaines turns as I’m hearing the accusations he flung at me. Adamant marching as I stomp out the crushing words. A full-body roll into a pas de bourrée. Repeat on the other side. Double pirouette. A quick footstep combination ending in a ball change. I end with my one leg fully extended while raised on the other. My breath is coming in harsh gasps. And I’m shocked to realize that without having read a single word that no matter what, I may be a mess, but I will survive. I will walk out of this room stronger than when I walked in no matter what Monty may have to say.

  I can do this.

  Lowering my leg, I head over to the small bar. I grab a towel and dab at my face. I also open the minifridge, grateful it still has water in it. After lowering the music, I snatch up the envelope I dropped earlier before moving to the center of the room and sitting down.

  It’s time.

  Using my nail, I tear open the back and upend the envelope. A single sealed envelope with the same unfamiliar writing as on the yellow greets me.

  Before I pull it out, I take a deep breath.

  Linnie,

  There are words all over this place. That may not make a lot of sense, but in my repeated attempts to write this letter, to attempt to try to apologize for what I’ve been told I did, there are enormous piles of crumpled papers lining the floor of my room. I’ve stepped on all of them as I pace back and forth to find the right words. And I’ve come to the conclusion there might not be any other than I’m so damned sorry.

  I don’t know what happened because I have no memory of it. Nothing. There’s nothing there. The last thing I remember was going to the hospital to see Ev and waking up in another with my mother’s tears hitting my face. I don’t know how I didn’t manage to rip out the IVs to get to you; I was that fucking irrational at the thought of you being hurt.

  But I was the one to hurt you.

  Because of your strength, your honor, here is where I’m going to stay for a while. I have to because I can’t stand to look in the mirror.

  I’m an alcoholic, Linnie. Other than my therapist, you’re the first person I’m saying the actual words to. Because you deserve to know them even if it’s in writing—even if you never read this.

  I have to tell you. It’s tearing me up inside that I’m so weak. That I’m not the pillar of strength you need me to be. Not now. And maybe not ever.

  I’ve also realized you can’t hate me any more than I hate myself for what I did. And I know I’ll never love another person the way I love you.

  I take back what I wrote. I found some words I want you to have. Stay safe. Be happy. Don’t let what I did to you hide the glory of your light from the world. And please, God. Get help. Then let me go. Live your life to its fullest. Don’t let my illness leave you with any scars, mental or physical. I’ve already directed Mom and Dad to sell everything I own if the second is the case.

  You were—are—the brightest star in my sky, Linnie. I wished for you, worshiped on you, and everything that was between us was real. My love for you was true. I’m just so sorry that with the dreams I wished for came your nightmares.

  Monty

  I wipe my eyes on the towel. I reread his letter twice, a third time.

  I know what I want to say to Monty, but I don’t want to write a letter. Pulling out my phone, I send a text to Bristol.

  Can you research something for me? I wait for her to respond.

  Of course. What do you need?

  I need you to find a painting for me. Pressing Send, I wait for the response.

  Little dots flash, then stop. Then they start again. Just let me know all the info you can. I’ll see what I can do.

  Just like that? Although I’m not surprised.

  Always like that.

  My fingers fly, giving her the information she needs.

  A few hours later, I’m having dinner with Dad and Char when I get a text back. I found it. It’s yours if you want it.

  Taking a deep breath, I respond. Here’s what I want you to do with it. Then I tell my sister the hoops I need her to jump through knowing she’ll do it in a heartbeat.

  Because that’s what family does in a crisis: they hold you close when you’re broken, and then they help put you back together. At least, that’s what my family does.

  God, I do live among the stars. I’m just damned lucky it has nothing to do with the wealth and everything to do with love.

  Seventy-Five

  Montague

  May

  “You got a delivery, Parrish,” Jimmy calls out. He’s just come from the hallway leading from the men’s quarters. Likely Mom’s baked something again and he’s waiting for me to bring it out to share. I smile. My mother’s baking has pretty much become legendary here at the center. Seventy days in and I swear everyone’s loosening their belts a little bit.

  I flick my hand out in a side wave as I travel down the same hall he just came down. Stopping at my door, I open it with my key. The illusion of privacy is only from patient to patient. There’s nothing to prevent orderlies, therapists, or anyone I signed my rights away to from entering my room to inspect it. Mentally shrugging, I twist the knob. It’s not like I have anything of value here anyway.

  Entering the room with my head down, I flick on the lights, frowning because typically when someone’s been in your room for whatever reason, it’s a courtesy by the staff they leave the lights on. I lift my head to see if anything’s out of place when every muscle of my body freezes.

  Forgiveness. It’s staring me right in the face. My breathing starts to accelerate to such a degree that I begin to wonder if I’m going to hyperventilate. Just like when I saw it for the first time in Gas Lamp, the painting’s majestic colors begin to hypnotize me, sucking me into the swirl of emotions.

  There’s only one person who could have sent it to me.

  One.

  Taped to the easel it’s resting on is a small white card. Forcing myself to move, I carefully remove the envelope so as not to disturb the painting. Stepping back, I get lost in the storm which seems to depict my life more than ever.

  Trembling, I rip open the card, see the carefully scripted words, and fall to the floor. Suddenly the outrageously expensive painting becomes obsolete in comparison to the words on the tiny card in my hands.

  Why would I forgive you for being in my dreams? The nightmare is you not having been there at all.

  Seventy-Six

  Evangeline

  June

  I sit in my dressing room alone, still dressed in a violet-and-gold ensemble from my battle onstage with Heracles, pain flowing through me. Being in Queen of the Stars has taught me so much about the battle people subject themselves to when their emotions are out of control. Look at the lengths Hera went to over her jealousy because of Zeus’s infidelity?

  How does someone recover from that kind of pain?

  After all, if pain defeats gods, what does it do to mere men?

  Pain breaks men.

  Men like Monty.

  Turing away from my mirror, I bow my head. Maybe I’m just coming
to realize that not everyone is strong enough to be saved.

  It’s three months to the day that Monty entered rehab. I haven’t heard another word from him since I received his letter and sent the painting to him in response. I don’t know if my heart’s suffering for a man I never really knew at all.

  My phone flashes with an incoming call. Recognizing the number, I pick it up despite my overwhelming desire not to. “John Thomas,” I murmur. After all, this man could make or break the future of every man and woman beyond my door.

  “Evangeline, I hope this isn’t a bad time. Can your understudy take your place for the next few days? I want you in my studio to try out a few songs I’ve been working on for Stars. I think you’ll like them.”

  And despite the bleeding in my heart for a faceless man, I answer the way I must.

  “Absolutely.”

  John Thomas hangs up on me without a goodbye. At any other time, I’d be shouting for joy. Despite our long-standing business relationship, John Thomas didn’t promise me anything. Nothing more than a chance. But that chance might save what’s left of my soul after feeling nothing but empty for so long. Right now, I want the peace in knowing that trying was enough. With Monty, I may never have that answer, but for the cast and crew of Stars, I may have just pulled it off.

  Pushing myself to stand, I know at the end of today, I’ll keep breathing. I’ll go on. Even if it’s alone.

  Quickly changing, I leave my costume and text Simon the news. The amount of bug-eyed emojis I get in response should make me laugh out loud at his over-the-top reaction. It doesn’t. But it does make my lips curve up slightly as I wait for my Uber to come to pick me up from behind the stage door.

  Seventy-Seven

  Evangeline

  July

  “No!” I scream at Pasquale a few weeks later when he showed up at where the cast of Stars is rehearsing the revised script with John Thomas’s musical score added. We’re due to debut on Broadway in six weeks. Choreography is scheduled to come in starting tomorrow. “You’re lying.” My eyes flick over to Simon, who’s standing alongside him. “Tell me it isn’t true,” I beg him.

  “I’m sorry, love,” my brother-in-law says as he approaches me. And it’s a good thing he does because my knees give out as I start sobbing, crying harder than I remember doing since my mother died.

  Veronica was found dead last night. The smell of her decomposing body alerted neighbors. When the police busted in the door with no response and authorization from her landlord, they found she pulled a bookcase down on top of herself. She died, and no one knew about it for days. Slapping a hand across my mouth, I lurch from Simon’s arms over to stage left to let go of what’s in my stomach.

  “She was all alone,” I weep. “She had no one there.”

  “Linnie,” Pas says brokenly, but I hear it. The same guilt I’m feeling. She was shunned from the community she loved because of her behavior. Because of me, I think bitterly.

  “She made her choices, Linnie,” Simon reminds me. I whirl on him in a rage.

  “I let her go because she was toxic, Simon. I hated what she did, but I loved her my whole life. That’s why it hurt so bad that she lied to me.” I curl into myself, sobbing. We’re all three silent for a few moments, each remembering Veronica in our ways. Finally, I ask without lifting my head, “Does Bristol know yet?”

  “No. I thought you should know first,” Pasquale whispers.

  “Okay…okay.” I begin rocking myself back and forth. Bleary-eyed, I lift my head. “Call Sepi. Tell her to do what she can. Please? This is going to be…I don’t even know how bad this is going to get. She didn’t deserve this. No matter what happened between us, she didn’t deserve this.”

  “She didn’t deserve you,” Simon mutters before he turns away to call our agent. I can hear him murmuring as Pasquale lowers himself to sit beside me.

  “I don’t even know if she had a will,” I say with a bewildered air. “The only thing I can think of is maybe Mom browbeat her into it at some point.”

  “You won’t be able to get in until after the police…” Pasquale’s voice trails off.

  “But you said…?” I’m so confused.

  “Because her death wasn’t by natural causes, they still have to perform an autopsy, Linnie. Until then, her home is considered a crime scene.” Pas swallows hard. “There’s time.”

  Tears fill my eyes again. “There’s never enough time.” There’s no time to go back and tell Veronica I forgive her for the secrets. There’s no time to save Monty. There’s no time to find my heart from the hell it’s just been sunk into. History can’t be rewritten no matter how much we want it to be. With that in the forefront of my mind, I lean my head down on Pasquale’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He drops his on top of mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. You never did. I should be apologizing to you. And Veronica should have as well.”

  I’m holding back the comment that wants to leap forth from my mouth about the dead not speaking when Simon ends his call with Sepi. “The news already reached her. She reached out to Courtney Jackson from The Fallen Curtain already for damage control. You’re going to have to give her an exclusive,” he warns me.

  I nod, knowing there’s no other way. “Hand me my phone?”

  “You’re not calling her now, are you?” Simon asks, appalled.

  “No. I’m calling Eric Shea. I need to find out if he handled anything for Veronica,” I say wearily.

  Simon lets out an enormous sigh. “Right.” Snagging my cell from where it’s sitting on my dressing table, he hands it to me. Unlocking it, I quickly pull up my lawyer’s direct line.

  One ring. Two. Then he answers with a quiet “Ms. Brogan, I was expecting your call. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  And I burst into tears all over again.

  * * *

  Seven days later, I’m sitting on Bristol and Simon’s couch holding an envelope in my hand like it might explode if I open it. I’m not entirely sure it won’t.

  It was handed to me by Eric Shea after the memorial service for Veronica earlier today. “Come see me when you’re up to it, Ms. Brogan. We have quite a lot to discuss.” He pressed warm fingers on top of my icy ones.

  My name is scrawled on the outside of the envelope in Veronica’s distinctive scrawl, handwriting I’ve seen on birthday and graduation cards. Each card from every bouquet from every show I’d been in since I was a little girl.

  All except Queen of the Stars. A fiery burn pricks at the back of eyes when I remember the feeling of loss when there was no bouquet from Veronica and how I’d just squared my shoulders and performed.

  “How could I have been so cold? How could I have just shut you out?” I murmur, my fingers tracing over my name.

  “Because you needed to, Linnie. You’re allowed to feel pain—then and now.” Simon’s voice startles me. I jump before turning slightly in his direction. “Bristol is trying to get Alex down,” he explains. I merely nod.

  Sighing, he drops down next to me on the couch. “I won’t ask how you’re holding up.”

  Tilting my head back, I stare unseeing up at the ceiling. “I’m breathing. That’s more than I can say for Veronica.” The bitter sob escapes before I can hold it in.

  Simon tugs me against him. I let all my grief pour out. “I’m sorry,” I gasp as rivers of tears pour out.

  “How are you supposed to heal if this poison is still inside you?”

  “I don’t know that I’m supposed to anymore.” Pushing away, I walk over to the window, leaving Veronica’s letter lying on the couch.

  “Why?”

  “Because maybe it’s love that’s toxic. Maybe it’s the booze,” I fling out as I swipe my fingers under my eyes. “Or maybe it’s me.”

  “And maybe you’re simply saying something ridiculous because you’ve hit the point where you’re ready to admit you’re devastated by what happened to you, Evangeline.” Simon shoves to his feet. “You are not
wrong for wanting to be more important than that,” Simon flings his arm out to the side to indicate the tea cart of liquor that he and Bristol occasionally indulge in.

  “Yeah, I see how well that’s worked out.” I turn my back on him. Three seconds later, I hear a loud crash. Frightened, I jump backward as I turn.

  Simon’s chest is heaving. He’s hurled the bottle of whatever the amber-colored liquid was against the wall. “You are!” he roars. “Whatever is in that piece of drivel that drunken madwoman wrote, whatever your mother wrote, whatever that man made you feel, you are worth more to us exactly as you are!”

  “As much as I hate the fact Simon just woke up the baby—again—I agree with him.” I jerk around to face Bristol who’s holding an active Alex in her arms. My head bobs between the two of them. “You could have done what all of them did.”

  “What’s that?” I manage to get out.

  “Temporarily drown your life. Instead, you rose above it. So, no matter what that”—she nods at the letter—“says, you are still what you made yourself.”

  “Alone?” I question bitterly.

  “Remarkable.” Bristol hands Alex to Simon. Walking over, she picks up the letter. “Brave. And damnit, you’ve always been my damn idol.” The last she says as she puts Veronica’s message in my hands.

  “And you and Mom were always mine,” I whisper.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know how much more pain I can take.” That’s an understatement.

  “I’ll be right here. Just like I was when all of this started,” Bristol swears. Her hand reaches out to grip mine. We crush the envelope between us.

  Leaning forward, I drop my forehead to hers. For long moments, I absorb her strength. After a while, I nod. Bristol steps back, leaving the envelope in my hands. Using a nail to unseal the back, I slide out the paper and unfold it. A card flutters to the floor. I look at the paper on both sides; it’s blank. My brows lower in a V before I squat down to pick up the card.