Page 123 of Blitzing Emily

Amy grabbed three Diet Cokes out of her walk-in cooler and settled onto a stool across from Emily. “You’re jealous.”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment, fighting for composure. “That’s ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m too busy getting ready for New York to worry about what he’s doing.”

“He asks me what you’re up to,” Amy said. “He knows you’ll be singing at the Met on Super Bowl weekend. He’s happy for you.”

“That’s nice.”

“He says he’ll retire if the team goes to the Super Bowl. The NFC Championship Game is this Saturday. If they win, they’ll go. You’ll want to see it, Em.” Amy’s voice was soft. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I know you’ve worked so hard for this performance, but Brandon’s last game will happen once in a lifetime. Don’t you want to be there?”

“I have to be on the plane to New York on Saturday afternoon. I can’t cancel.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears. It was eerie—a windup doll in designer clothes and French perfume kept parroting what she thought everyone else wanted to hear, but the words didn’t come from her heart. She remembered with a pang how many times she and Brandon discussed his retiring from the NFL. She said she’d be there, and he wouldn’t have to go through it alone. He must hate her.

“He won’t even know I’m there.”

Amy grabbed her sister’s forearm. “Yes, he will. Think it over.”

Emily shook her head, and broke off another piece of cookie. She could eat a thousand of them. It wouldn’t make her feel better.

ONE WEEK LATER,Emily felt her phone vibrate in her pocket as she walked into her hotel room for the evening. She clicked on a newly arrived text from Amy:Sharks are going to the Super Bowl. Are you sure?

EMILY GOT OUTof a cab at Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera, in a driving rain. Standing outside the building was still a thrill. The dress rehearsal was tonight, and she would take the stage as Musette. The diva originally scheduled for the role was resting on doctor’s orders, in hopes she would be able to perform on opening night.

Dress rehearsal day was always a little stressful. She was early. The other principals had sung here before. To them, it was another work day. They went about their preparations in their dressing rooms. She could hear snatches of vocal warm-ups, the sound of a piano playing, and laughter emerging from someone’s dressing room further down the hall. She paused in front of the computer-generated nameplate outside of her own dressing room. Taking a picture of it with her phone was a little weird, but she did it anyway.

The guy playing Marcello stepped out of his dressing room and grinned at her. “I thought the paparazzi were out here again.”

A flush crawled up her neck. “Mom wanted a picture,” she quipped.

“Of course she does.”

He went back inside his dressing room, shut the door, and she walked into her own. Most of the colleagues she’d spent the past several days with were known to her from other productions over the years. She’d asked them about their families, caught up with industry gossip and their schedules, but she’d spent most of her time outside of rehearsals on her own. It offered time to think.

Maybe she needed a little less time to think, especially today. Even the sanctuary of music didn’t make her happy. The euphoria of performing before a live audience, feeling the music as well as singing it, wasn’t there. Maybe it was because she hadn’t actually stepped onto that stage in front of an audience yet. It would come.

EMILY STOOD INthe wings a few short hours later. Her pre-performance butterflies were worse than ever. She wondered if she’d lose her lunch. She glanced into the audience and noted a full house, most likely full of media and major Metropolitan Opera supporters. “You’ve done this a million times before,” she told herself. “Buck up.”

The diva singing Mimi reached out to squeeze Emily’s hand and smile. The conductor raised his baton to begin. On cue, she sailed onto the stage.

Emily was already sweating through her costume. The heavy stage makeup felt like a mask. The pins fastening the wig onto her head were stabbing into her skull. She knew from experience that all she had to do was step out there, open her mouth and sing the first note. The worst would be over. She closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Her self-soothing was so effective she almost missed her cue.

She’d flounced onto so many stages in her career as Musette, sung “Quando me’n vo” more times than she cared to count, and she reached inside herself for that little bit extra tonight. Her voice soared over the audience. She charmed and coaxed, flirted and played with her co-stars. As the most user-friendly and oft-performed opera, those in the audience had probably seenLa Bohemescores of times before. She was determined they would remember her Musette.

The dress rehearsal went flawlessly. The ovations were deafening. She waited for the explosion of joy at that realization, but it didn’t come.

Emily walked out of the opera house when rehearsal was over, hailed a cab, and threw herself onto the seat. The sights of New York City whizzed past her window as she headed for her hotel room. She craned her neck to see while pulling her smart phone out of her handbag, and hit Amy’s number.

“Hey, weirdo.” Emily heard the smile in her sister’s voice. “Been mugged yet?”

“No.” She had to smile, too. “What’s happening?”

“Same shit, different day,” Amy assured her. “Just remember. Small business is the backbone of the American economy.” Emily let out a snort. “Oh, laugh all you want. Someone has to do this.”

“I’d like to send some flowers.”

“That depends. Are you paying for them?” Amy said. “Who’s getting them?”

“I’m wondering who might know where Brandon’s staying in Miami.”

Amy was silent for a few moments. “I could find out. What are we sending?”

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