It’s unfair that I’m carting around the weight of that different me’s life.
“How’s it look?” Hanson asks, turning me in to the mirror where the bright bulbs blind me.
“Good. Fine. Thanks,” I say, because no matter how many layers of foundation he put on me, the face underneath, filled out and maintained with plastic surgery, is a Halloween mask. Bare or beat, it makes no difference. It’s not mine, and I wish I could rip it off.
“Let’s get you dressed,” says the wardrobe assistant, helping me into a pair of perfectly tailored pants. Someone else slips on each of my shoes, tying them with surgeon-level attentiveness.
And as I put one arm at a time into the jacket that fits so well and makes my shoulders look broad, I know my transformation is complete.
This is my life now.
It makes me sick.
“I’ve got to jet, but you’re going to be great, darling,” Jessalynn says. “I just know it. I’ll see you out there.” The door glides closed behind them.
Jerome, my nighttime assistant, has been watching the clock, ensuring my hospitality rider is taken care of every few seconds, almost as if he’s afraid if he stops working, I’ll fire him.
“Can I have the room?” I ask Jerome. “To myself? I, uh, want to warm up in private.”
Jerome nervously checks the schedule and then snaps his fingers. Everyone, even those who don’t work for me directly, scurriesout of the room without a trace. “I can give you twenty, but that’s it. Is that all right, Mr. Baker?”
“Yeah, great. Thanks,” I say. “Oh, and you can tell the box office to release Mr. Techler’s ticket. He won’t be coming.” The hurt pierces all over again, spiking the image of him walking out of my apartment and out of my life for the second time.
“You’ve got it,” Jerome says, making a note.
“And can you ask if my parents picked up their tickets yet? I haven’t heard from them.” I check my phone again, but still no word.
“Absolutely.”
When I’m alone, I expect to break down, but find my tear ducts jammed up. I shouldn’t ruin my show face anyway. Instead, I grab my laptop from a nearby bag, open my email browser, and begin typing.
CeeCee,
It’s all gone to shit.
Drew’s and my plan didn’t work.
When I saw my name on the dressing room door, I started crying. My manager thought they were happy tears. They were wrong.
I’m lost. Drew’s gone. I’m expected to perform for eight hundred people who paid almost two hundred dollars a ticket to see me be funny.
I don’t feel funny.
Truthfully, I feel like I may never laugh again.
And I know it’s wrong to say this, but I wish I could hug you. I wish I could tell you I’m sorry to your face so you know I mean it. I wish we could be siblings again. For real this time. Because I love you. I know I didn’t show it.
But I do and I always will.
In this timeline. In the last. In the next.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Jerome pokes his head in. “The box office says none of the held tickets for Baker were picked up tonight.”
“None?” I ask. That’s not like Mom to leave someone hanging without a lengthy voicemail explaining why and apologizing profusely. “Not even one?”
