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Please let me be fucking dead.
My eyes fall closed, even as an arm wraps around me and helps me stand. Tests my legs, my feet. I refuse to look. My cheeks are so hot they might burst.
If they did, at least then I’d be spared living through this. An exploding brain has to be preferable to the pit building in my gut that’s making me dangerously close to throwing up.
That’s making my head pound.
My palms sweat.
My pulse rate peaked at a thousand.
“You’re okay. You’re good,” some asshole says, like it’s a good thing I haven’t been gravely injured.
Like they all don’t hate me for fucking this up.
The arm around me tightens, coaxes me forward.
My head spins and a wave of nausea passes through, rippling out to my limbs.
And then, because none of this can possibly get any worse, I pitch forward and vomit all over the stage.
Chapter 23
Émile
Chris Patrick single-handedly brings down the show–literally.
I stop working on the table plans for my charity event as the alert forSeattleitepops up on my phone. Dread prickles through me as I pull up the article and the more I read, the more I’m lurching into ragey indignation.
That’smyChristian they’re talking about.
MyChristian they’re ridiculing.
MyChristian who apparently flubbed the one thing he’s always been so proud of himself for being able to pull off without a hitch. I’ve seen him at his worst, the way he beats himself up, and I’ve seen him post-performance,radiantunder the pride of pulling off something so important to him.
His self-esteem is already tied to his capacity to get through the day without issue, I can only imagine how rock bottom he’s feeling.
“Maybe put them at this table–”
“Shh.” I’m not even regretful at cutting Elle off as I hit his number and lift my phone to my ear. It goes straight to voicemail. “Fuck.”
Elle lifts her eyebrows. “That was an emphatic exclamation.”
I toss my phone her way, and have to sit in silent horror as I watch the same emotions I’ve just gone through play out over her face.
“How the hell did he stuff up so badly?”
“It’s sort of his thing,” I tell her. “Just never normally like … likethis.”
“I wouldn’t want to be him right now.”
“To be fair, I doubt he wants to be him right now either.” For the first time ever, I’m at a loss. “He didn’t answer. What am I supposed to do?”
She pulls a face. “Don’t ask me. I’ve never done the relationship thing for precisely this reason. Peoplerelyon you.”
“Surprisingly, that doesn’t sound totally horrible.”
Elle lists her head. “Emmy, I know this is all fake and whatever, but … do you actually like him? Like, if you weren’t pretending to marry the man or whatever, do you think you’d actually be dating?”
