Page 2 of It Happened on a Sunday
Sloane blinks, and just like that, the spell is broken.
“I love you, too!” the Black Widow shouts as she surges to her feet. And then she’s gone, running back to center stage without a backward glance.
By the time she hits it, she’s belting out lyrics again, this time about the space that exists between heartbeats. I don’t know the song, but my abuela does. She sings along with Sloane, and I dance with her, holding her hand and twirling her around in our little space.
“What is this song?” I ask as she completes a turn.
She grins at me, taking a second to breathe. “‘Interbeat Interval.’ You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome.”
Her smile grows wider. “Thanks for bringing me to this.”
“Thanks for bringing me,” I tell her. “I’ve never paid much attention except for what you post on your Instagram, but she’s pretty cool.”
“She’s very cool!” she shoots back just as Sloane finishes the song.
“I’ve got to say, Austin. I know they call you the live music capital of the world,” she drawls, all dark but amused, “but I had my doubts on whether you’d bring it tonight. You’ve surprised me…in a good way.”
Sloane! Sloane! Sloane!The crowd starts chanting her name.
To which she grins and deliberately widens her eyes. “All that, for little ole me? I think you’re trying to get me to sing you one more song.”
The crowd explodes, their chants turning to cries ofRumors. I’m guessing they’re referencing “The Rumor Game,” a song so famous even I know it. It’s the one that catapulted Sloane Walker from child star to household name practically overnight.
The band starts to play, but Sloane holds up a hand as she moves their way. “Before I do, I have to introduce my fan-fucking-tastic band.”
She takes a few minutes to do just that, naming all five musicians on the stage with her, before turning back to the crowd with a mischievous gleam in her big, brown eyes. “Are you ready?” she asks.
Excited screams are her main answer.
“Well, all right, then. Let’s you and me talk about a few rumors.”
As the band segues into the intro to the song, Sloane turns a wicked smile on all of us. She scans the crowd, gaze jumping from one group of fans to another.
And that’s when it happens. Somewhere in the space between one heartbeat and the next—the interbeat interval she sang of just a few moments ago—she freezes.
At first, I think it’s scripted. A pause to let the fervor build. But then the guitarist steps forward, a concerned look on her face, while the rest of the band loops around to the start of the intro again.
Not planned, then. A mistake.
I shift my eyes back to Sloane and follow her frozen gaze several rows into the crowd. That’s when I see it. A sign that reads:Black Widows Eat Their Mates. Under the words are a picture I can’t quite make out from my vantage point.
“I bet you—” Sloane’s shredded voice tears through the stadium with the first words of the song. I whirl back around just in time to watch it break. Watch her break.
Because in that one moment, she doesn’t look like a star.She looks like the aftermath—a black hole stitched from grief and gravity. I can’t look away. Not because she’s beautiful, though she is. But because I recognize the pull, the kind that comes when you collapse so completely that you start drawing everything inward just to survive.
I know it, because I’ve lived in that darkness, too.
Chapter 2
Sloane
I take a beat, trying to ignore the panic crawling up my throat like prickly thorns.
But the spotlight burns hot against my skin.
The colors of the crowd kaleidoscope around me.
