“Please…please?” But I know he’s speaking the truth, because I try to push off of him but none of my limbs are working. I can only feel the chill of the icy night on the side of my cheek, so I press it against his warm chest, surrendering to the harsh reality.
I think of the paper hearts. How before every show, I used to close my eyes, reach into that painted wooden box, and pull one out at random. How her words would wash over me like a blessing, like armor, like proof that even though she was gone, she was still watching. Still believing in me.
I don’t know what those hearts mean anymore. Were they love letters or guilt offerings? Encouragement or compensation for the life she stole from me? I’ve been carrying her voice with me for eighteen years. Now I don’t know if I ever really knew her at all.
The armor has cracks in it now. And tonight, I finally fell through.
I failed.
It took seven years, three studio albums, one platinum record, over a hundred shows, and one sold-out stadium to finally break me.
“It’s going to be okay, Charlie,” Omar says. “We’re almost there. The medics are here.”
But I know a lie when I hear one. He’s doing what everyone does—trying to soothe me with empty promises. Nothing about this is going to be okay. I’m careening off the road at a hundred miles an hour with no brakes and no steering wheel. And there’s nothing I can do about it. So I just close my eyes and let the ear-splitting whine become my final melody of the night, hitting that gruesome note with perfect pitch as the curtain falls.
chapter 2
Taio
It’s been three years since I’ve been here.
The Marionette’s brass handle curls beneath my fingertips, cold and smooth as antique coins. The doorman clears his throat, his charcoal peacoat buttoned to the collar, a cloud of breath hanging between us in the February air. Behind the frosted glass, silhouettes of waiters glide between tables, carrying silver trays held high above their shoulders. A woman’s laugh spills out when someone exits—sharp, practiced, like the clink of crystal against crystal.
I check my reflection in the window, smoothing the lapels of my sports coat with sleeves two inches too long. Four years ago, I would’ve had it tailored for a perfect fit. The new me doesn’t give a rat’s ass. I have heavier things on my mind than pristine attire that screams,I don’t look at prices on the menu.
I used to walk through these doors comfortably, like this uppity restaurant was a second home. Mom loved this restaurant. We always started with an artisan charcuterie tray with a warm brie. Every birthday, anniversary, graduation, or celebration dinner was here at the Marionette.
I can’t remember ever frowning here. All the memories quilting together as I stroll down memory lane are warm and happy. But that might as well be a different life now.
I’m here on a mission and it’s anything but pleasant. I ball up my trembling fist and draw in a deep breath.
It’s like a job. Put on your mask. Treat it like any other Friday night.
Except it’s not. And I can’t.
I push through anyway.
The heat hits me first, then the smell—butter and wine and something floral from the massive arrangement in the foyer. A string quartet plays somewhere in the main dining room, the notes floating over the low murmur of conversation. Everything is exactly as I remember it: the cream-colored walls, the crystal chandeliers casting soft stripes of light, the subtle clink of silver against porcelain.
I make it four steps before the maître d’ materializes.
“Good evening, sir.” His smile is polished and professional, but his eyes have already conducted a full audit—my shoes, my watch, the cut of my coat. I pass, apparently, because his smile doesn’t waver. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m meeting someone at the bar.”
The smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “I see. And the name on the reservation?”
“I don’t have the name. She made it.”
Now the smile is glacial. The maître d’ shifts his weight, positioning himself between me and the dining room like a bouncer at a club I’m not cool enough to enter. “Perhaps you could describe your party? I’d be happy to check if they’ve arrived.”
Translation: I don’t believe you belong here, and I’m two seconds from suggesting you try the burger joint down the block.
Three years ago, I would’ve given him my father’s name and watched him scramble. James Wilkes, table twelve, the usual. Back when “the usual” meant a corner booth and the entire staff knew my dad took his whiskey neat, my mom liked hers on the rocks, and I was the shameless chump who could only take his whiskey sour.
Now I’m just another guy in a nice coat who might be lying about having plans to sneak into one of Manhattan’s most elite and exclusive clubs.
“Taio.”
