She responded hours later:Good. Why?
I didn't write back.
I bailed on another concert with Ravita and Marnie. The Sirens were playing an acoustic set downtown. I used to live for those shows—front row, recording every second, analyzing every shift in performance. The Sirens were the light of my existence. Or they did, before I found something that mattered more and couldn't tell anyone about it.
I texted right before the show:Can't make it. So sorry. Work emergency just came up, you know tax season.
Ravita: Whatever.
Marnie: We kinda know you wouldn’t anyway.
The apologies were stacking up. I was getting better at them, which is its own kind of tragedy.
Rhonda was playing a nearby city that week—close enough to reach by train—so I went to her instead.
"How was your night?" I ask.
"Better now that I’m with you." she says, kissing down my neck.
The next morning at the office, Ravita brings me hot chocolate. She sets it on my desk with a deliberate clink.
“You left before the encore last time,” she says. “This time you didn’t come at all.”
I have three responses ready. I was tired. Family thing. Wasn’t feeling well.
“Just had so much work,” I say. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. You didn’t have to.” Ravita nods.
I realised it was the same excuse last time. What I said when I bailed on drinks.
Ravita’s face tells me she knows it’s a lie. She frowns and goes back to her desk.
I sit in my cubicle and feel it in my chest, that my friends will eventually stop inviting me.
Jani calls on a Thursday. “I’ve got a few days off,” she says. “I’m coming to you. I want to see your terrible little apartment and your terrible little life. I’ll bring your favourite cake.”
“This weekend?” I say, and my stomach does the maths before I do.
“Yeah. I already booked the flight.” She paused. “Why? Do you not want to see me?”
“Of course I do.”
And then I text the woman who was supposed to be in my bed on Saturday and tell her not to come.
Me:Change of plans this weekend—my sister’s coming to visit. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you.
Rhonda:Don’t apologise for having a sister. Go. I’ll survive.
I stare at the text, and something cold settles in me, because I have started scheduling the people I love around one another so that none of them ever meet.
CHAPTER 12
THE EVIDENCE FILE
Sandy's scandal pattern has reached the point where the label sends emails with subject lines in all capitals.
RE: URGENT—GAUNTLET MEDIA EXPOSURE—ACTION REQUIRED
RE: BELLADONNAS CONTRACT REVIEW—ARTIST MANAGEMENT CONCERNS
