Blitzing Emily (39 page)

“Quit texting and get over here.”

“Hang on a minute. I have to answer this. It’s Brandon.”

The hair stood up on the back of Emily’s neck. Amy must have been sending him another message. She hadn’t looked up from the screen since Emily arrived. “Since when do you text with Brandon?” she asked, doing her best to sound uninterested. She was anything but. The green-eyed monster was clawing at her guts.

“He’s checked in a few times,” her sister said. “It’s friendly.” She glanced at the screen again. “He has tickets for this weekend’s game, but I already told him I can’t go.”

Amy stuck her phone back in her work apron pocket. It was all Emily could do to resist grabbing it away from her. If she gave any indicator of her fear, jealousy, and hurt, she was lost. She concentrated on pulling sandwiches, salad, and cookies out of the bag with trembling hands.

Amy grabbed three Diet Cokes out of her walk-in cooler and settled onto a stool across from Emily. “You’re jealous.”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment, fighting for composure. “That’s ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m too busy getting ready for New York to worry about what he’s doing.”

“He asks me what you’re up to,” Amy said. “He knows you’ll be singing at the Met on Super Bowl weekend. He’s happy for you.”

“That’s nice.”

“He says he’ll retire if the team goes to the Super Bowl. The NFC Championship Game is this Saturday. If they win, they’ll go. You’ll want to see it, Em.” Amy’s voice was soft. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I know you’ve worked so hard for this performance, but Brandon’s last game will happen once in a lifetime. Don’t you want to be there?”

“I have to be on the plane to New York on Saturday afternoon. I can’t cancel.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears. It was eerie—a windup doll in designer clothes and French perfume kept parroting what she thought everyone else wanted to hear, but the words didn’t come from her heart. She remembered with a pang how many times she and Brandon discussed his retiring from the NFL. She said she’d be there, and he wouldn’t have to go through it alone. He must hate her.

“He won’t even know I’m there.”

Amy grabbed her sister’s forearm. “Yes, he will. Think it over.”

Emily shook her head, and broke off another piece of cookie. She could eat a thousand of them. It wouldn’t make her feel better.

O
NE WEEK LATER,
Emily felt her phone vibrate in her pocket as she walked into her hotel room for the evening. She clicked on a newly arrived text from Amy:
Sharks are going to the Super Bowl. Are you sure?

E
MILY GOT OUT
of a cab at Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera, in a driving rain. Standing outside the building was still a thrill. The dress rehearsal was tonight, and she would take the stage as Musette. The diva originally scheduled for the role was resting on doctor’s orders, in hopes she would be able to perform on opening night.

Dress rehearsal day was always a little stressful. She was early. The other principals had sung here before. To them, it was another work day. They went about their preparations in their dressing rooms. She could hear snatches of vocal warm-ups, the sound of a piano playing, and laughter emerging from someone’s dressing room further down the hall. She paused in front of the computer-generated nameplate outside of her own dressing room. Taking a picture of it with her phone was a little weird, but she did it anyway.

The guy playing Marcello stepped out of his dressing room and grinned at her. “I thought the paparazzi were out here again.”

A flush crawled up her neck. “Mom wanted a picture,” she quipped.

“Of course she does.”

He went back inside his dressing room, shut the door, and she walked into her own. Most of the colleagues she’d spent the past several days with were known to her from other productions over the years. She’d asked them about their families, caught up with industry gossip and their schedules, but she’d spent most of her time outside of rehearsals on her own. It offered time to think.

Maybe she needed a little less time to think, especially today. Even the sanctuary of music didn’t make her happy. The euphoria of performing before a live audience, feeling the music as well as singing it, wasn’t there. Maybe it was because she hadn’t actually stepped onto that stage in front of an audience yet. It would come.

E
MILY STOOD IN
the wings a few short hours later. Her pre-performance butterflies were worse than ever. She wondered if she’d lose her lunch. She glanced into the audience and noted a full house, most likely full of media and major Metropolitan Opera supporters. “You’ve done this a million times before,” she told herself. “Buck up.”

The diva singing Mimi reached out to squeeze Emily’s hand and smile. The conductor raised his baton to begin. On cue, she sailed onto the stage.

Emily was already sweating through her costume. The heavy stage makeup felt like a mask. The pins fastening the wig onto her head were stabbing into her skull. She knew from experience that all she had to do was step out there, open her mouth and sing the first note. The worst would be over. She closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Her self-soothing was so effective she almost missed her cue.

She’d flounced onto so many stages in her career as Musette, sung “
Quando me’n vo
” more times than she cared to count, and she reached inside herself for that little bit extra tonight. Her voice soared over the audience. She charmed and coaxed, flirted and played with her co-stars. As the most user-friendly and oft-performed opera, those in the audience had probably seen
La Boheme
scores of times before. She was determined they would remember her Musette.

The dress rehearsal went flawlessly. The ovations were deafening. She waited for the explosion of joy at that realization, but it didn’t come.

Emily walked out of the opera house when rehearsal was over, hailed a cab, and threw herself onto the seat. The sights of New York City whizzed past her window as she headed for her hotel room. She craned her neck to see while pulling her smart phone out of her handbag, and hit Amy’s number.

“Hey, weirdo.” Emily heard the smile in her sister’s voice. “Been mugged yet?”

“No.” She had to smile, too. “What’s happening?”

“Same shit, different day,” Amy assured her. “Just remember. Small business is the backbone of the American economy.” Emily let out a snort. “Oh, laugh all you want. Someone has to do this.”

“I’d like to send some flowers.”

“That depends. Are you paying for them?” Amy said. “Who’s getting them?”

“I’m wondering who might know where Brandon’s staying in Miami.”

Amy was silent for a few moments. “I could find out. What are we sending?”

Emily closed her eyes. “I have no idea. Maybe you could suggest something.”

“Screw the flowers.” Her sister’s voice was fierce. “What are you writing on the card?”

“How about ‘Good luck on Sunday’?”

Amy let out a long sigh. “How about, ‘I’m sorry. I still love you. I’m so proud of you. I will never doubt you again.’?”

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel Emily was staying at. She handed the fare over the seat, grabbed her bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Amy, let’s just go with ‘Good luck on Sunday.’”

“Fine.” Amy’s tone made it obvious her sister’s suggestion was anything but. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

Emily stepped into the revolving door at the hotel’s entrance. “I make lots of them, all the time. Let’s do this.” She thought for a moment. “I know he really likes wildflowers. Please charge my card.”

“I’ll make sure he gets them,” Amy said. “Are you excited to sing tomorrow?”

Emily was at the elevator banks. She knew she’d lose Amy if she stepped on, so she leaned against the surrounding wall. She swallowed hard. “No. I wish I was.” She rubbed her free hand over her face. “I have to go, Ame. Thank you so much. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone.

B
RANDON PUNCHED THE
hotel pillow again and flipped onto his back. The digital clock radio at his bedside read 2:17
AM.
He’d been glancing at it for the past three hours and seventeen minutes. He wondered if he’d be looking at it for the next four hours or so. His wake-up call was at seven
AM.
It was Super Bowl Sunday, otherwise known as the biggest day of his life.

He’d spent some time tonight reliving a kaleidoscope of images in his mind—his Pee Wee/middle school/high school/college football coaches’ motivational speeches. The day he got a recruitment visit from the only college he wanted to play for. The tears his mama cried when he packed his bags and went off to school. What it felt like to run out onto the field for the first time at LSU. More tears from his mama as he stood on-stage at Radio City Music Hall with the NFL commissioner as a first-round draft pick. Signing his first pro football contract, and signing a new one two years later. Of all his memories, though, the ones he replayed most in his whirling thoughts involved a curvy redhead he called Sugar.

He remembered the first time he saw her sweet, sleepy smile from the pillow next to him. The first time he held her hand. The first time he kissed her. She tasted so good, he went back for more. The first time he coaxed her out of her clothes. The first time he saw love for him in her eyes. He knew how much her career and her goals meant to her. When he’d needed her, though—and was too pigheaded to admit it—she was there. She’d dropped everything for him, and she’d done it more than once. He glanced over at the computer desk in the dimness of his hotel room. She sent flowers yesterday. He’d read the note a hundred times already.

Brandon, I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m so proud of you. I will never give up on us. XO

Amy didn’t answer his text asking for Emily’s information. If it wasn’t 2:17
AM
in New York City, he would call every hotel in Manhattan till he found her. It was the most important day of his life, and the emptiest. She wasn’t here to share it with him.

E
MILY’S STOMACH WAS
in knots as she awoke Sunday morning. She lay in bed and wondered if Brandon was lying awake in his hotel room, too. This was the most important day of his life. Amy was right, and the realization was bitter: She should be there for him, watching him achieve his biggest dream. Flowers weren’t enough for something like this.

She forced herself out of bed, showered, and dressed in casual clothing. She threw herself into the backseat of another cab less than an hour later. She needed the quiet of her dressing room, the routine she’d been through so many times before.

The security guard on duty at the artists’ entrance grinned as she approached. “Miss Hamilton. Your performance isn’t for hours.”

She nodded. “I couldn’t wait.”

He pulled the door open for her. “Let me show you to your dressing room.” They walked down the silent, darkened hallway. He unlocked her dressing room door. “Break a leg, miss.”

Emily extended her hand to shake his. “Thank you so much.”

“The building is secured, but lock the door behind me,” he said. She heard his footsteps receding down the hallway.

She warmed up her voice. She pulled the makeup she needed out of her bag. She checked to make sure Musette’s full-skirted costume was complete. The wig Emily would wear sat on a form on another table. Her thoughts, though, were twelve hundred miles away. Those damn flowers, and that damn card. She had Amy write ‘Best of luck on Sunday’? “Lame,” she said to herself. “Totally lame.”

Maybe she should have told him how she really felt, but there wasn’t a flower enclosure card big enough for that. She remembered the sweet cards Brandon had written that came with all the flowers he’d ever sent her, and that was the best she could do?

Emily sank onto the couch against one wall, and wondered what she was doing there. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be where she was. She was alone on the biggest day of her career so far. She would spend the future alone, too, unless she took her courage in her hands and told Brandon what she’d known for months now: She loved him, and she always would.

Even if he didn’t love her, even if he sent her away, she would say what was in her heart. She’d screwed up horribly. She had to apologize, and this time she had to put the diva—and her temper—aside for a little while. The dream she’d been working toward for so many years didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the rest of her life. If Brandon wasn’t in it, no matter what she attained in her career, she’d never be truly happy again.

She pulled the cell phone from her bag and hit David’s number.

“Hey, Emily.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Big day for you.” She could hear people chattering all around him in the background.

“David, I have to go to Miami. I’m going to Brandon’s game.” There was silence for a moment. “You’re still there, aren’t you?”

She heard David’s sigh. “Do you have a flight yet?”

“No. I thought I should call you first.”

“You don’t have a ticket for the game, either.”

“I’ll see if I can buy one from someone there. I’m sorry. I know this is completely unprofessional and I am really screwing—”

He interrupted her.

“Emily, I have been hoping you’d do something like this since I’ve known you. You need a life, not just a career.” He let that sink in for a moment. “I wish it hadn’t been the Met, but Alicia will go on. Will you come back for the performances later in the week?”

“If they’ll have me.” She took a shuddering breath. “Am I doing the right thing? What if I get there and I can’t get in? What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Get yourself to the airport, get on a flight, and go talk to him. I think he’ll want to see you. I will take care of things in New York. Call me when you get there.”

Emily reached out to grab her handbag. She had a change of clothes and everything else she needed after her performance in her backpack, so she didn’t need to go back to the hotel. She needed to get to Miami. She needed to see Brandon.

The cab ride took forever. She tipped the driver, she prayed, she did everything she could, but it still took forever. Finally she got to the airport. She bought a full-price ticket on a flight that was leaving in half an hour and ran to the security checkpoint. She ran through the concourse, backpack banging against her shoulder, and hurried to the gate. The waiting area was empty except for the gate agent, who was shutting the door to the Jetway.