Page 40 of It Happened on a Sunday
Sly:Good. How do they taste?
Me:The flowers?
Sly:Obviously
Because there’s a little devil living on my shoulder, I take a selfie biting into one of the pastries. Even as I tell myself not to do it, that it’s a bad idea, I hit send.
Sly:Looks delicious
Me:Beyond delicious
Sly:I wasn’t talking about the éclair
My stomach somersaults. There are a million reasons I should leave it at that.
I thanked him. He responded.
I need to be onstage in a few minutes.
The music in my head needs to stop, and this weird connection I feel for himneedsto be over.
I drop my phone on the vanity and get up. I even take a couple of steps toward the door before turning around and snatching it back up, as Pauline’s advice plays over and over in my head.
I type three words and hit send before I can stop myself.
Me:Neither was I
And then I do the only thing I can think of to keep myself from freaking out completely. I toss the phone in the nearest drawer and run.
Chapter 16
Sloane
It’s a Sunday night in Vegas. Most of the people here are from somewhere else and looking for an incredible time before heading back home in the morning, which is always a great energy to have in the crowd. Plus, Sphere is an amazing venue, one we spent months designing interactive graphics for. It’s also the smallest on the tour—which is why we booked almost a full week’s worth of concerts here—so there’s a certain intimacy to the show that I rarely get to enjoy these days.
All of that has made this week a big success for us, and tonight—the last night—should be no exception. At least that’s what I tell myself as I’m fastened into my harness. Except even as I repeat it over and over in my head, I know I’m lying.
If the Sly thing is gaining traction as fast as Bianca and Bryan claim, it would be a goddamn miracle for the frenzy not to bleed over into this concert.
And I’m not the only one who knows it. There’s a reason Pauline and Bianca decided to sit in the audience instead of backstage tonight. It’s the same reason Daisy, the stage tech who fastens me into my harness and is usually as happy and joyous as can be, looks anything but.
“You’ve got this,” she tells me, her normally dancing eyes deadly serious as they look into mine. “Whatever happens out there, whatever they throw at you. You. Have. Got. This. Okay?”
The fact that she’s warning me—the Black Widow—so effusively tells me everything I need to know about what’s happening online. The bowling ball in my stomach gets heavier as I pop in my in-ears, and the nerves that plague me at thebeginning of every performance turn electric in the worst way possible.
Think about the music, Sloane. That’s what matters. All the rest is just glitter and gasoline.
The last of the pre-show graphics reel finishes up, and the crowd goes from singing to screaming so quickly it rattles my brain.
Daisy winces, too, but her determined smile stays fixed in place. “Go give them a show they won’t forget,” she tells me.
When I nod—because what the fuck else can I do—she tells sound we’re good to go. I get myself in position behind the backdrops as they do a quick check to make sure I can hear everything I need to over the riotous cheers. Once that’s done, I go up as the lights go down.
It’s going to be fine, I tell myself as I take a deep breath, trying to find my center. Then another and another, because nothing says Zen like a sequin-fueled mob and a harness that could double as a tourniquet.
Totally fine.
The backdrop lowers, and I spin and spin and spin my way down, smiling through the agony until my feet finally hit the ground and the band starts playing the notes of my opening song.
