Page 29 of It Happened on a Sunday
I burrow deeper into the covers and begin to drift off again. I’ve just started to dream about being in my old apartment in Chicago and picking out the color for the dining room—the same coffee brown as Sly’s eyes—when the voice comes again. And this time, it doesn’t bother to be nice.
“The sooner you wake up, the sooner we can deal with the media shitstorm that’s about to hit us.”
The wordsmedia shitstormhave me springing up in bed. Though the exhausted, grumpy, can’t-stop-thinking-about-Sly-even-when-I’m-asleep part of me would like nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and hide from whatever this disaster is, experience has taught me that hiding only makes things worse.
“I’m up, I’m up!” I say, though I’m pretty sure it comes out sounding like gibberish. A quick glance at the bedside clock tells me it’s been a little over four hours since I last looked at the damn thing. Considering last night’s concert was brutal andexhausting, the lack of sleep adds insult to an already sizable injury.
I rub my eyes and shove my hair out of my face as I desperately try to focus on whoever’s just crashed into my room. I expect it to be Bryan and maybe even Olivia if the crisis is bad enough. But when I look straight into Bianca’s no-nonsense blue eyes, my heart stutters in my chest.
Terror overwhelms me as I’m catapulted straight into five-alarm fire mode. If my manager is here, in addition to Bryan and Olivia, something must be really, really wrong. The last time Bianca showed up unannounced, it was because my whole world was on fire. No warning, no alarm, just flames climbing the backdrop before the first costume change.
For a second, I’m thrown right back to five years ago, when I first learned that Jarrod had died. Traumatized, devastated,horrified.
“What happened?” Even as I ask, I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out what could possibly have gone wrong since I tumbled into bed at nine o’clock this morning.
We had a bunch of mishaps with the equipment last night, which almost never happens, but that isn’t a manager-level disaster.
From what Bryan could tell, the fans barely noticed the glitches—except for the one that left me dangling four stories above the stage for several minutes. But I sang “Firelight” from way up there, and it seemed to make them even happier than usual, though it freaked me out.
So what the hell could possibly have happened since I shut myself in my room with a comfort movie and a bag of caramel popcorn that would necessitate Bianca catching a last-minute flight to Vegas? It’s only been six hours.
Sure, I spent most of the movie scrolling through story after story about football superstar Sly Sylvester and the hour after itpacing, determined to think my way out of this weird fascination with him. After finally caving and taking a couple of melatonin to help me sleep, I decided to text Pauline. And it was in those moments that I noticed a very odd, very short conversation in my inbox. One that I’m pretty certain I didn’t start.
Me:Thank you for the ice cream
Sly:You’re welcome
Sly:Which flavor was your favorite?
The whole conversation is from four days ago, and I probably should have left it at that. But seeing it for the first time—and seeing his name in my phone—made me a little hazy, so I typed a message about espresso ice cream and hit send. And then finally, finally, fell into an exhausted sleep.
Panic roars through me at the blurry recollection. What the hell did I send? And how the fuck could it have caused all this?
I reach for my phone on the nightstand only to have Bianca step forward and sit on the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, Sloane. We’re going to talk, and then you can look at what’s going on—if you still want to.”
If I still want to?
“What happened?” My voice goes thin with terror. “What did I do?”
“Youdidn’t do anything,” Bryan tells me from his spot in the corner of the room, where he’s looking out the window instead of at my short-shorts-and-camisole-clad form. “Mateo Sylvester did.”
“Sly?” I take the robe Olivia offers me and slide it on, belting it at my waist. “Our texts—”
“There are texts?” Bryan steps forward. “What kind of texts? We need to know what we’re dealing with so we can be prepared if they come out.”
“Why would they come out?” My blood runs cold as I onceagain reach for my phone. This time, nobody stops me. Jarrod’s messages came out posthumously, including the ones where he begged me to take him back…and I said no. “Oh my God. Is Sly hurt? Is he d—”
“Sly is fine,” Bianca replies, even as she sends an annoyed look Bryan’s way. “In fact, as far as I can tell, he’s currently playing the second half of a football game against the San Diego Lightning.”
She doesn’t sound impressed.
I swipe open my text messages, and the last thing I sent Sly is right there. It’s harmless, or at least that’s what I thought.
Me:Espresso
Me:Sorry, just saw this
I hold my phone out so everyone can see.
