I want to shake my head vigorously like a kid refusing her vegetables, but I cannot do that, not to Zo who stands bravely in front of all these people, literally a shell of himself, his body a husk for the boundless, soaring spirit still fighting inside. So I stand and I walk, gingerly picking my way down the row, conscious of the fact that I haven’t been able to work out as regularly or as intensely and have put on a few pounds. Wondering how square and wide my ass might look with the wrong camera angle. Regretting that I didn’t wear Spanx. Wishing I had worn something less revealing and wondering if the girls will stay safely tucked into the bodice of this form-fitting dress. And, of course, praying these high-ass heels don’t fail me now and dump me unceremoniously on the stairs as I make my way to the stage.
The lights are so bright, and I’m reminded why I never wanted to be on this side of fame, but have always been happy shoving others into the spotlight and onto center court.
“I would not be alive without this woman,” Zo says, blinking at tears, a rare show of public emotion. “This award is ours, Bannini.”
He never calls me that in public, and the word drips with intimacy because no one else in this building understands the significance of it. I study his face closely, and beneath the emotion, lies calculation. He holds the trophy in one hand, but the other circles my waist possessively.
“I humbly accept this award on behalf of me and the woman who has been my greatest blessing. Who has been my angel.” He looks down at me from his great height. The chemo, the pain, the hell he has suffered left its mark on a face that has always been strikingly handsome. Now the lines of character etched there, the hard-won wisdom make him even more attractive even with a ravaged body. You see his spirit in his eyes and his passion for life.
For me.
“Te amo,” he says, eyes fixed on me like I’m the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
The room fills with “awwws” at his romantic declaration. A public declaration he shouldn’t be making, considering he and I both know the state of our relationship. This smile feels like drying plaster on my face, but I look up to meet his eyes, only to find him staring out at the audience, that same calculation sharpened to a point, loaded with dislike. I follow his stare to find out who has displeased him, who bears the brunt of that look.
It’s Jared.
His eyes are glacial blue, iced with an answering look so loaded with malevolence I instinctively want to shield Zo from it. But I don’t know who to protect, him or Zo. They stare at one another like this is a contest of war instead of an awards ceremony. And then in sync, they both turn their eyes to me like I’m the prize.
Confusion, anger, hurt war under my serene expression. In a daze, I incline my head and smile appropriately through yet another standing ovation. Finally, Zo leads me backstage, still clutching both of his prizes, the award and me. As soon as we leave the glare of the stage and the scrutiny of thousands of people, I jerk away.
“¿Qué fue eso?” I ask in a voice low enough that the nearby stagehands won’t hear.
“What was what?” he replies in kind, but I know him so well. He knows exactly what I’m asking.
“How long have you known?” I ask, tears burning my throat. Shame choking me. Anger forcing me to speak.
“That it was Jared?” he asks softly.
Hearing him confirm frees a sob from the cage of my throat. I cover my mouth to catch it, but it’s loud in the close quarters backstage. Several people turn to look at me, to look at us. Zo guides us into a shadowy corner.
“I’ve always known it was him,” Zo says in a voice of steel. “I knew it was him before it happened.”
“Before it happened? What does that mean? What are you saying? Did you say something to him?”
“Does it matter?” Zo snaps. “If you have not noticed, he is not alone here tonight. I knew the wait would kill his so-called feelings. He won’t be faithful to you, Bannini. You must see that he is not for you. You and I, we make sense. You, him . . . it’s not right. It never was.”
His words only reinforce what the small, knowing voice has told me ever since freshman orientation when I offered Jared a pencil, and he turned away without a second look. I blink up at him stupidly for a few seconds, processing too many things at once. What he did onstage. Him knowing about Jared. Jared showing up with my polar opposite. It’s all too much. I grab the hem of my floor-sweeping dress and walk briskly away from him.
“Banner!” he calls after me.
“Don’t.” I put up a hand to ward him off without looking back. “Just give me a minute.”
But I don’t get a minute, no reprieve. As soon as I round the corner, Jared stands there waiting in his fits-like-a-glove tuxedo, hair brushed down and tamed to dull gold.
“Ban, we need to talk.”
His voice, the very sight of him, fans hope in my chest for an instant—until I remember the Cindy he brought tonight and hear Zo’s words again, yet another reminder that we don’t belong together. Yet another time I’m not sure what to trust. Conscious of all the people around us, I press my lips tight to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over, and march past him without saying a word.
The sign for restrooms hangs overhead, glowing like the North Star, and I follow the light toward the ladies’ room. It’s empty, but I don’t stop until I’m in the last handicapped stall. I lean against the wall and surrender to my tears. I can’t even track their source. Is it the stunt Zo pulled, the public declaration of love from a saint, which will only make it harder for me to leave him, will only invite public scorn? Is it the Cindy on Jared’s arm tonight, looking like his perfect match? Is it the shame of Zo knowing I fucked Jared? Of him having a face, a name, a person to pair with my betrayal? Is it fear that, despite his strong showing tonight, I could still lose my best friend to an incurable death? It’s all those things, and under the crushing weight, I sink to the bathroom floor and weep. Silent, hot tears springing from every problem, every hurt, every close call, every stolen kiss, every single thing in my life that has gone wrong—all at once. The cork pops, and as I knew they would, the tears overflow and won’t stop.
“Banner.”
Oh, God. Please not now.
“Ban, I know you’re in here.” Jared’s voice is getting closer. I hear him opening stalls, searching for me. It’s only a matter of time. Soon I’ll see his feet in the space under the door. As best I can, I stuff the tears back into that black hole bottle and pull myself up, braced for the battle I never seem to stop fighting. The battle to resist Jared Foster. When he flings the door open, I’m ready.
“This is the ladies’ room,” I say, glaring at him, clinging to the image of Cindy 2.0 on his arm. “I can’t believe you followed me in here.”