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As I walk around the couple of blocks that make up downtown Moonvale, passing by Nightlight and Ignite Fitness, my stomach clenches with regret not only about the cupcake binge last night but also about what happened with Mona.
Shit, her performance is tomorrow night, isn’t it? I’ve had it marked on my calendar since the day she told me about it, eager to see what she’s come up with. There’s no doubt her performance will be breathtaking. How could it be anything else when it’sMona on the stage? She told me all she’d focus on up there was me watching her from the audience and knowing she belonged to me.
Gods, I want to go to the show. I need to see her, even if it’s just to pretend for those few brief moments that she’s dancing only for me. But she won’t want me there. I can’t ruin something she’s worked so hard on by showing up when she doesn’t even want to talk to me.
By the time I’ve made a meandering loop around the town center, Cupcake Fairy is open. Thankfully, they have my phone behind the counter. A man with cotton candy blue hair working the register smirks at me as he hands it back. “It’s been buzzing a lot. Someone must really want to talk to you.”
I nod my thanks, my heart leaping into my throat as I take my phone from him and speed back to my car to check my messages. They couldn’t be from Mona, could they?
At the top of my notifications, there are two texts and a voicemail message from my previous client, Kelly. The one with the faun wife, who was pretending to still have a job and cheating on her. There’s a text from Claire, checking in on me yet again. None of that matters though, because underneath her message, there’s a text from Mona.
My stomach roils as I open the message and read it. Once I’m done, I read it again to make sure I didn’t misunderstand what she’s said. Hope flickers back to life within me. Desperate, jubilant hope. My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I consider how to reply.
Before I can answer Mona, my phone rings. It’s Kelly. If she’s calling again so soon, I can’t ignore her. I sigh and answer the phone, though my voice sounds so much brighter than it has in weeks.
I wakeup the next morning on my couch, back aching and sweatshirt tangled around my neck. Must have passed out after the third mind-numbing episode of “In the Stars”. Letting out a groan, I sit up and fish around for my phone. I take far too long wandering around my apartment and digging through piles of clutter to remember that I stashed it under the couch cushion.
Heart racing, I check my texts. There’s three spam messages from political candidates harassing me for donations, a text from Grace to see if I want to ride with her to the performance venue tomorrow night, and that’s it. Nothing from Max. I check to make sure my message to him actually got sent. Sometimes my phone screws up. But no, it went through.
Maybe he’s still asleep? God, it’s so hypocritical for me to not respond for weeks, then freak out when he doesn’t get back to me right away. But that doesn’t stop me from obsessively checking my phone all day.
I try to distract myself by practicing my routine over and over until my legs are shaking from fatigue and I’m sick of lacing and unlacing my damn corset.
In theory, I’m ready for the show tomorrow night. I’ve memorized my routine, and it’s as polished as it’s going to get. My makeup, costume—including backup options in case of a freak bra strap breakage or a ripped stocking—and after show outfit are all packed and sitting by my steps. But I don’t feel ready. It’s not normal performance anxiety, which I know how to deal with. Instead, it’s the gnawing sadness that I’ve spent all this time preparing my routine, but the one person I always imagined in the audience won’t be there.
Max begged me to give him a sneak preview, but I wanted to wait. I wanted him to get the whole package of stage lights, my makeup and hair done just right, and the crowd watching along with him. For him to see in my eyes that out of everyone in the audience, he’s the one I’m dancing for.
Fuck. I don’t want to do it if he’s not there.
There’s still no reply from him by the time I get ready for bed. I’m crawling out of my skin with anticipation of what, if anything, he’ll say in response to my apology. I just wish he would say something.Anything.Even if he told me to go screw myself and that he never wants to hear from me again.
Ugh, okay, maybe not that.
Hours pass as I lie awake in bed. I’m exhausted, but my mind won’t shut up. In a fit of sleep-deprived desperation, I text Max again.
Mona: I hope you’re okay. Hope you’re doing something fun and you’re happier than I am. Because I want you to be happy, even if I ruined my chances of sharing that happiness with you.
Mona: Dammit, that’s a lie. All I can think about is that tomorrow night, I’m supposed to get up on a stage and perform, but that I’d rather eat glass than do it if you’re not there. That’s melodramatic, I know. But fuck, Max. I miss you so much it hurts. Please come to the show. I want you there. I need you there. Even if you hate me, please just do this one last thing for me and then I’ll never bother you again.
A couple of minutes go by as I curse at myself for sending him such a stupid, selfish message. I grab my phone again and send one last text.
Mona: I’m sorry. I have no right to ask that of you. Please ignore me.
When I finally pass out, I dream right away.
Darkness. A cold, creeping sensation of dread chilling the air. Rain splatters against the windows, and the distant rumble of thunder booms.
Something metallic flashes. There’s a struggle, a collision of bodies as they fight for control in the shadows. I feel my way through the pitch black space, finding something—a couch, maybe?
Crouching down, I slip behind it and listen as the figures continue to fight. There’s a sickening crunch and a pained grunt, followed by a hissed, unintelligible curse. It goes on for what feels like ages, my hand clapped over my mouth to hide the heavy, panicked breaths issuing from my lungs.
Something warm and sticky touches my toes, and I almost scream. I try to focus through the darkness as more of the liquid pours across the wood floor. In horror, I realize it’s blood.
One figure looms over the other, who lies prone on the floor, bleeding profusely. They bend down to grab the incapacitated person’s ankle and drags them away. A flash of light from the storm illuminates the space for a split second, and that’s when I see him.
Max. Knocked unconscious—please god, let that be why he’s not fighting back anymore—and blood draining from a deep cut on his side. The darkness claims him again and I’m frozen, desperate to go to his aid, but utterly incapable and defenseless.
I wake up with a start, gasping for air against something sitting on my chest. Am I having a heart attack? The weight shifts and I look under the blanket to see Nugget’s shimmering outline, his full, spectral body weight resting between my breasts. He paws at my neck, and I’m glad his little ghost nails don’t scratch like they did in real life.
