Page 157 of It Happened on a Sunday
“She’s the one behind the dolls and the disturbing messages, Sloane.” His normally bright brown eyes are dull and hazy when they meet mine. “I’m so sorry—”
“Stop. I thought we put a moratorium on that word.”
“The moratorium’s for you, not me,” he says.
I don’t bother gracing that absurdity with an answer. Instead, I focus on Bryan and ask, “What kind of damage control do we need to do?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. None. Unless you count dismantling the shrine downstairs. It’s currently grown so big it’s blocking half the main entrance. And that’s not even counting the fans who are keeping vigil down there, waiting to hear news about your condition.”
“Fans?” My eyes go to the window. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you nearly dying has basically broken the internet—in a good way,” he hastens to assure me before turning to Sly. “Did you show her the spider?”
“There hasn’t been time.”
“Well, no wonder you’re so freaked out. But you shouldn’t be. These have sold out in practically every store and online vendor in the country.” He crosses the room, then comes back with a giant, smooth Black Widow plushie, which he drops on my lap. “The number one trending hashtag in the world right now is #BlackWidowStrong.You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
“Thank you…?” I stare at the giant spider and all the many, many messages written on it with different pens in different handwriting and even different languages. They say things like “We love you, Queen” and “You’ve got this, Sloane.” There are even a few messages that read, “Thank you for saving my life” or“I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“I don’t— I can’t— I—” My voice keeps breaking, and I have to clear my throat several times before I can even try to get anything else out. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand? They love you, queen! There are about fifty more of these spider things being passed around downstairs right now. We’re going to build a custom shelf for them at the studio. Not to mention all the cards and flowers and signs. But don’t take my word for it.”
He grabs a quick snap of my hands holding the spider and then types something up real quick. Literalsecondslater, a wave of screams rings out from below. It’s so loud it sounds like it’s coming from the room next door, and it’s followed moments later by an even louder wave of cheers.
“What did you do?” I demand.
“I just posted on your Instagram that you are awake and doing well. That’s their response.”
“I don’t—” My voice breaks again, my entire body turning ice-cold as the world as I know it flips upside down. Because in my world, everyone’s just around for the good time. They come to the concerts to see the Black Widow, to hear the music and post about surviving the bite. No one actually cares about me, the woman behind the reputation.
Or at least, that’s what it’s always felt like.
“It’s okay,” Sly murmurs, and once again his hand is right there when I reach for it. “I know it’s a lot.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“What’s happening is that your fans love you,” Bryan tells me. “They really love you, and they’ve been almost as worried about you as we have.”
I can hear them shouting still, can hear the cheers and the relieved cries. But it’s hard to believe—hard to accept—after spending so many years bracing against the jeers and the taunts.
“Come on,” Sly tells me as he lowers the bed railing—something it turns out you can only do from the outside. “Why don’t you go look for yourself?”
Because I’m terrified that if I do, it will disappear.
Still, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, though once I do, I make no attempt to actually stand up.
Sly doesn’t push me, doesn’t try to drag me to the window. He just waits beside me, ready to do whatever it is I want. It’s that patience, and the love shining so clearly in his eyes, that finally has me rising to my feet.
“We can see them from up here?” I ask, just to make sure I haven’t misunderstood. I’m afraid to hope, because if it turns out that they’re wrong, I’ll be shattered.
“If the crowd gets any bigger, we could see them from space,” Bryan retorts.
Sly laughs, but he doesn’t contradict him. That and his quiet strength give me the courage to find out for myself.
When I get to the window—when I look down and see the crowd covering the sidewalks and stretching over the grass to the parking lot—Sly asks if we can have a few minutes alone.
I don’t like to cry in front of people, can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve done it in my entire adult life, but the second Bryan and Dr. Bhargava step out of the room, I dissolve.
