Page 51 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“God, I can’t—you have no idea what this means to me . . . to us.”

He waves me off. “I knew when I saw you guys in Iowa you were something special. It just took us a little longer than I thought to get things going. But you deserve it Dave. All of you do.”

I can’t believe this is happening, that any of this is. Somehow I still need to remind myself this isn’t a dream. That I’m not eighteen years old in Sam’s garage anymore. That I made it. Then the image of Isabella’s defeated face swims before me. She had dreams too, and that scumbag took them away from her and made her feel like she’s not worth fighting for.

Al turns to walk away, but an idea springs to mind so fast I can’t keep my mouth closed.

“Hey, Al?” I say, stopping him. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

CHAPTER 16

Drive

ISABELLA

“Estelle called me the other day,” my mother says into the speaker.

My eyes close, a headache throbbing to life at the base of my skull. “Oh?”

“She said that Miguel broke up with Ana. That he’s been very unhappy.”

I sigh. “Mamá, why are you telling me this?”

“I just thought—”

“What? You just thought that now that Miguel is single again and probably regrets ditching me for some backstabbing weasel that I’d race home to take him back?”

“No! No, Isa—of course not. I just thought that if you wanted to, you could give him a call.”

“Hedumpedme,” I say. “He couldn’t deal with me chasing after what I wanted. He wanted me to follow him around like a lost puppy. Heneversupported my dreams,amá. Why would you ever suggest that relationship could be rekindled?”

“Now, Isa, I only suggested it because you loved each other so much,” she says, her tone accusatory.Like I don’t remember it myself.

I sigh exasperatedly. “Well, things change.”

She groans into the speaker. “Why do you always have to be so stubborn?”

“And why does everyone seem to think they can just do whatever they want and I’ll rearrange my life to suit them? Why do I always have to be the flexible one, huh?”

“Mija. . .”

“No,” I say, my voice rising quickly. “I’ve had enough of everyone telling me I’m not doing enough forthem. Who’s doing stuff for me? Huh? No one.”

There’s silence on the other end as I pant into the speaker from my outburst.

“I have to go. I’m going away for a few days, but I’ll call you next weekend.”

“Wait, where are you—”

But I don’t let her finish, instead hanging up the phone on the receiver with a loud crack. A painful prickling races over my skin, but I shake my head, willing the anger and frustration to recede. I’ve spent too much time being everything but happy lately, and I won’t let it consume me. Besides, I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do after exams. Without the paper, and with no news from any of the internships I applied to, I need to start actively looking into other ways I can finish my degree. The thought of taking on a full course load of stuffy English classes for one more semester is exhausting. But honestly, what other choice do I have?

I also have no idea what to wear at the wedding.

Shit, what does someone even wear to a Vegas wedding? I don’t imagine the guys will dress up. No matter how hard I try, I can’t picture them in suits and ties. I wonder if they even own them. I think I have a halter dress that might be suitable. My ass looks great in it, plus my back and shoulders will be exposed. By now, Dave’s autograph has faded completely. Sometimes it’s likeI can still see it there—the memory of it burned into my retinas. If I show up wearing this dress, will he be looking for evidence of it?

I can’t explain my behavior from last week. Telling Dave about everything—I don’t know why I did. But there’s something about him—something just made me feel . . . safe, I guess. It’s not like I expected him to come to my rescue or anything like that. No, it was more that he seemed to genuinely care. He seemed to know, just by looking at me.

Packing my halter dress into my bag with an oversized ABBA T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts I use as pajamas, some overnight toiletries, and a change of clothes for the next day, I grab my camera and purse. But when I walk toward the door, there’s a stack of letters on the floor in front of the mail slot.

---