Chapter 20 Cole

I stand backstage in the semidarkness.

The thick, impatient crowd buzzes like a hive of furious bees out there, the pavilion packed beyond imagination.

I was told the curtains rise in exactly six and a half minutes, despite the stage having no curtains.

It's just the saying, I guess.

I can't peel my eyes off of the ground. I can't seem to blink. I feel numb from head to toe.

Where did everything go wrong?

Ever since I woke up alone yesterday morning, I felt like some part of my soul's missing, like it was cut out and taken across the world, too far away from me to even feel it anymore.

I must have looked like I was having a panic attack, the way Anthony stared at me at the breakfast table that morning. "I dunno where he is. How would I know where he is? Dude, I'm just eatin' my eggs and mindin' my own. I woke up ten minutes ago, I don't even know where my dick is."

Dean was similarly unhelpful: "I'm sorry, I didn't hear or see anything this morning. Do you suppose he went home, fearing he had overstayed his welcome? He's such a shy, quiet boy."

I combed through the main house and still saw no sign of him, nor any clue of where he went.

Or more importantly: why?

TJ, who I found at the pavilion trying to help out with last-minute adjustments to the table décor (and being shooed away over and over again by the hired employees), was surprised by Noah's quiet departure, but seemed otherwise unconcerned about it. "Maybe he had a meeting at the paper. Aren't they trying to organize a live stream of the event on their website?"

By that point, I must have called and texted Noah fifty times.

No answer. No reply.

It was the previous night's anxiety taking over my body all over again, except this time, I was certain something was wrong.

I was certain, because I saw that he was reading the messages.

Reading them and not responding.

This wasn't like Noah.

I had to find him and get answers.

Wearing just a tank and the shorts I threw on after rolling out of bed with my hair still a mess, I hopped in the car and drove into town. I fished through my phone for Tamika's number while on a back road, driving one-handed.

"Morning, Tamika! Hey, I'm just curious, is there any business going on at the Spruce Press today? I can't get ahold of Noah. Have you spoken to him, by chance?" Of course, she hadn't heard from him, and there was nothing going on at the newspaper building, as all the website stuff had already been handled. "Okay, thanks. I appreciate you, Tamika! No, no, nothing to worry about. See you tonight." I hung up, my belly twisted like a washrag, and changed course for his house.

It was on the front doorstep that Noah's mother met me.

Her voice lacked every bit of the luster it usually had.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," she said, wringing her hands, "but he's in his room sleeping. It … It seems like he's had a tough night and … well, I think he really just needs some shuteye and maybe a little time to himself."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Is he okay? Did he saying anything more specific?" I wasn't sure what he'd told his mother, so I didn't know how to phrase anything. At least I knew where he was. "I'm just worried about him. I wanted to make sure he's okay."

She fretted for a moment and glanced over her shoulder, as if wondering whether or not she should give in and bring me to him, but eventually she just sighed and said, "He's been through a lot lately, what with all the dang work they're pilin' up on him at the paper." She leaned in closely and brought her voice down. "Just between us, his supervisor can be a real jerk. I do miss when it was his grandpoppy runnin' things, God bless that sweet man."

I peered at the narrow window by the front bushes.

Noah's bedroom window.

I felt so heavy with worry, like my whole body was made of iron and pulling me to the ground. Was Noah watching me right now? Was he happy that I showed up? Or was he hurting and just wished I'd just go and leave him alone?

Did I do something wrong? Why wouldn't he even talk to me?

"Can you … Can you just tell him …" I faced his mother with a polite smile I can only hope didn't look as anguished as I felt. "Can you just tell him I stopped by to see if he's okay? Don't disturb him if he's asleep. He … He probably just needs his rest, like you said."

"You're such an angel," his mother said to me.

I didn't feel like an angel.

I felt like a demon that was being cast away by some invisible exorcism I somehow invoked on myself.

I walked down the path back to my car and passed the brand new mailbox I put up, thinking of the night we knocked it down, all the kissing and intimacy that transpired that beautiful evening, all of our words and discoveries …

It felt like yesterday.

I stopped at the driver's side door to my car and glanced back at the window. Whether he was standing on the other side of it watching me or not, I lifted my hand, as if to wave hello at him, to acknowledge Noah somehow. It felt stupid, but I did it anyway.

Then I got into my car, pulled out my phone, hesitated, and decided to text him that I hope he felt better soon, that I was thinking about him, and that all the words I said the night before, I meant them. After I sent the text, I drove off, making my way back to the McPhersons'.

I did mean all of the words I'd said.

Even the "I love you" he may not have caught as he slept on my chest last night, counting heartbeats into his dreams.

I spent the rest of that day in a daze. I tried my best to snap out of it when it came time for us to be called to the pavilion for a few last-minute adjustments and rehearsing. Dean's piano needed some tweaking by the overall-wearing sound lady and her sleepy-eyed assistant, who were problem-solving an issue involving two of the speakers used for the background music, as the microphone speakers had no issues. Anthony's talent, which is a mishmash of three or four different acts, required a planted participant in the audience at one point to complete the magic illusion part, but the original guy dropped out due to an alleged "totally incapacitating ingrown toenail", which forced them to have to find (and train) a whole new person, and the new person turned out as clueless as a cat chasing a laser pointer, asking, "And what do I do now?" every three minutes. Even after patiently being told, he never seemed able to quite grasp what to do, like his purpose on Earth was also a total and utter mystery to him. Anthony finally lost his cool at one point and cried, "Just come up to the stage when I call on you, take the dang oversized poker card, and keep sayin' yes to everything, like when I ask if the card I guess is yours, for cryin' out loud!"

By the time evening rolled around, I was back in the lounge in front of the huge TV, deflated. Anthony and Dean, who were now as good as best friends, played at the foosball table like some kind of long-lost reunited father and son, laughing and teasing each other every match. My eyes were glued to the screen of my phone, waiting for something that wasn't just another flirty message from a stranger or request for an interview from so-and-so magazine or a local publication I'd never heard of before. TJ, bored with doing school-related research in his room, came down to join us around ten o'clock in his PJs, and quite suddenly Dean decided he would make us all a tasty midnight snack, utilizing our fancy kitchenette. TJ was curious (but mostly restless and bored) and happily joined Dean to pick up a few tricks to take back to campus with him.

That left Anthony to plop down by my side at the couch. "I'm not sure what's goin' on with you and Noah," he said, "but you got to let it go, man. We've all gotta kick some ass tomorrow."

I snorted. "You make it sound like a sports game."

"Ain't it?" teased Anthony right back. "We're goin' up on that stage, and if we play it right and get high bids, we win the game. It is a fuckin' team effort, boy!" He shoved into my side like a football player psyching up his teammate. "And after it's all said and done, you guys will have all the time in the world to figure out whatever the hell's goin' on between y'all."

"I just wish I knew why he left like that, without a word, like a ninja in the night."

"I dunno. Maybe he was just giving you the space to be in the zone. He gave it thought, couldn't sleep, and finally decided he didn't want to be a distraction for you. Hey, all I know is, the way you two were actin' with each other at that ranch photo shoot, then how you were in your backyard with …" He let out a choked sigh. "… with that perfect adorable dog of yours, there's no way in hell that boy doesn't care about you. An alien from Mars could tell. Just sleep on it," Anthony urged me as he brought his face closer. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Enjoy this house. Eat the fuck out of whatever snack Dean is cookin' up. Live it up, because in another day, all this goes away, and we go back to bein' losers." He pushed off of the couch and extended a hand. "Get off your ass, Cole, and stop feelin' sorry for yourself. It ain't sexy."

I sighed, figuring he was right. It did me no good to continue worrying about it. Maybe something I said had triggered Noah. My impassioned speech about letting go of fear might've accidentally put him right back on that high school stage in his mind, trapping him in a nightmare of permanent fear, until this event is finally over with. It very well could be a prolonged panic attack he didn't want me to see.

Despite all of my overwhelming doubts, I clung to that bland and frustratingly insufficient conclusion with all my might, then accepted Anthony's hand and rose from the couch.

I looked him in the eye with a sudden thought. "You know, if you ever wanted to just drop by my house to give Porridge a little lovin', I know she'd like it a lot. She seemed to really enjoy you."

Anthony gave me the strangest look right then. "You think I'm gonna drive my ass over to your house just to pet a dog?" He scoffed at me. "What kind of weirdo do you think I am?"

But as we headed to the kitchen to join Dean and TJ, I caught the giddy smile that spilled over his face and knew I had said just the right thing.

And a few hours later before I fell asleep in a room full of vivid rainbow colors swirling out from that nightlight like dreamscapes, I told myself out loud: "I'm giving you space for now, Noah, but I promise you, once this thing is over with, I'm coming for you, and I won't let you go until you're mine."

Those words still ring in my ears.

Even now.

Six minutes before the curtain-that-doesn't-exist rises.

"Cole?"

I turn to find Tamika dressed all in black with a headset on and a clipboard in her hand.

I'm at once reminded that our dear pageant event has already experienced a handful of unexpected setbacks. One of which being the former stage manager—Malcolm himself—waking up glued to the toilet and "reprehensibly ill" this morning. The last I heard, Samuel is caring for him and shared his professional opinion (to a distressed Nadine) that there is "no way in Malckemy Hell" he can possibly fulfill his duties as stage manager tonight. He has been put on strict bed rest until he feels better—Samuel's order. Poor Malcolm is likely run down from all of the sunrise-to-sunset work he's been put through this whole past month straight without end.

That meant handing the job of running the show to the ready and perfectly capable Tamika, who was familiar with the order of events inside and out, knew every cue, and had lots of experience as an assistant director and stage manager from her high school theatre days. She wasn't the least bit nervous or overwhelmed at the idea of taking over for Malcolm. In fact, she's on top of it.

But right now, she's on top of me. "Tamika, hey," I greet her distractedly back. "Sorry. Are we at five minutes ‘til?"

She blinks. "Cole, we were at five minutes, five minutes ago. It's time to start the show. Frankie's about to introduce you guys. Are you ready to join Anthony and Dean in the wing?"

I shit my lungs straight out of my ass and have to shove them right back in to say: "Y-Yes, I'm ready, totally ready."

"Alright. You've got this." Tamika gives me a wink, pats me on my arm, then guides me over to the left wing of the stage, where I am met by a surprisingly calm Dean and a toe-tapping Anthony.

I don't even have the space to take a breath before at once, music bursts from the speakers above us, the crowd explodes into a literally booming eruption of cheers and screams, and the young and handsome emcee Frankie Lopez, who also did theatre with Tamika back in high school and was cast in nearly every leading role, marches onto the stage with the microphone. "Good evening, good evening! Dios mío, we have got ourselves a lively and amazing crowd tonight! Look at your beautiful faces! Welcome, welcome! Oh, what an amazing night we're about to have together!"

Anthony grabs hold of my hand suddenly.

I turn to him. "Anthony?"

"I can't do this," he hisses, his eyes reflecting sheer terror as he stares at the stage. His hand quivers uncontrollably within mine.

My own issues are forgotten in an instant. "Hey, relax. Think about the outcome, alright? By the end of this, you'll have tons of women vying for your heart. Won't be able to bat them away."

"I don't want those women," he says, and even his voice is shaking as badly as his hand. "I just want to be with you guys. I want us to be at that mansion kickin' back and doin' none of this shit. I want—I want—" He's nearly in tears. "I want to leave."

I let go of his hand and grab his shoulders, facing him to me. "We're all in this together, remember? We're a team. You, me, and Dean, a power team. I've got your back. Dean's got it, too. There's nothing to worry about, alright?"

Frankie says something else, and the crowd screams with joy, the applause so loud, the very stage beneath our feet seems to tremble. It does not help my case.

Anthony's eyes grow double as he looks at me. "Cole …"

Frankie spreads an arm. "Are you ready to meet your special men? Yes? Is that a hell yes? Alright! Let's bring them out here!"

Music blasts from the speakers over our heads.

That's the cue.

Dean sets the example by heading confidently onto the stage, smiling broadly and waving at the crowd with grace. After a brief and unintended game of tug-of-war using my wrist as a rope with a seriously-freaked-out Anthony, both of us end up stumbling out onto the stage together behind the calm, poised, and studly Dean. Anthony straightens up next to me when he realizes he doesn't have a choice anymore, then proceeds to stiffly walk on ahead, waving rigidly at the crowd like a rusted tin man, eyes wide with terror. I follow behind them and put a casual smile on my face as I wave at the crowd.

Honestly, it isn't as terrifying as it seemed from backstage. I hit my mark and stand in my spotlight, waving at everyone. The stage lights are so bright that I can't hope to make out a single face in the vague semidarkness of the audience, broken only here and there by a flickering candle among the table centerpieces.

I also realize it was never coming out onto the stage that had me feeling any sort of way. It's Noah. Wondering about his state of mind. Hoping he's okay. Wanting him by my side or else out there in the audience somewhere to cheer me on.

A sudden thought occurs to me: what if he is out there?

"Dean King!" cries out Frankie after making an introduction, to the tune of cheers, whistles, and rampant applause. Dean gives a handsome smile and bows at the audience, bringing his hands together to show his appreciation. "Anthony Myers!" The crowd continues to roar while Anthony, a literal lead pipe in the shape of a human being, stares out at the blurry nothingness where all the cheering comes from, and does absolutely nothing at all. "And last but certainly not least: Cole Harding!"

The applause and whistling rages on with the strength of a hurricane. Malcolm was right; I really can't see much of anything past the front row of tables, and even then, all I notice are evening gowns, jeans, knees, and a ton of feet in fancy shoes and heels.

"Oh, I'm just blessed to be here," says Dean to the audience, answering a question Frankie asks him. "Truly blessed. And I must thank all of you for making it out here tonight to watch the three of us strut our stuff up here and make happy fools out of ourselves for your entertainment."

Everyone laughs and applauds his answer, with a few specific and intentional whistling and hollering from somewhere in the crowd. If I had to guess, it's his nephew Tyrone, Omar, and their daughter Kelsey all cheering him on.

Frankie approaches Anthony next. "How about you, amigo? Our unpredictable yet reliable Mr. Bad Boy … You can be found all around town at all hours, day and night, doing all sorts of jobs for Spruce. By the way, I think I can count about thirty ladies in this audience who've suddenly got leaky faucets that need looking at." His joke sends a ripple of laughter through the crowd, plus one or two whistles. "So what would you like to say to the crowd? Hmm?"

Anthony stares blankly ahead. The sound seems to get sucked right out of the pavilion like someone opened a drain, everything drawing quiet, nearly into a vacuum.

Then he grunts: "Fuckin' forgot what I was supposed to say."

The echoes of his words scatter throughout the pavilion like drums—Fuckin' forgot what I was supposed to say … say … say …

Somehow, I have to assume the audience takes that to be his "bad boy" way of addressing them, because at once they explode into roars of laughter and celebration for him. Anthony takes it in, stunned, then appears amused by the reaction. "Really," he says, "I fuckin' forgot. Mind's totally blank. Honestly, I'm just tryin' not to throw up the bacon carbonara I ate earlier."

The audience roars again.

Anthony's posture straightens as he gains confidence.

Frankie, however, whips the microphone away. "Whoa, whoa, sorry for the language, folks. Anyone bring their kids? Well, if ya did, it's past your bedtime, and what in the hell are you doing here at an event like this, anyway? Go home and watch cartoons!" he shouts with comical sass, inspiring more laughter and cheers.

I find myself lost in the warmth of the audience, for a moment forgetting my worries. They're really with us. This is a good crowd that wants us to succeed. They want to love us. They're forgiving and happy to be here. Yet again, Malcolm was right with his ample reassurances and foresight.

"And that brings us to Cole Harding," says Frankie as he struts up to my side. "My, my. You had this whole town abuzz when you came to the rescue and saved someone's life just a few weeks ago at the Spruce Spring Crafts Festival. How does it feel to be a local hero, Mr. Harding?"

I don't know if Noah is out there, but it helps to imagine he is.

I wish I knew whether he's truly okay.

"I don't see myself as a hero," I admit. "I was just doing what I thought was right in protecting someone I care very much about."

"Is that how it is?" teases Frankie, giving a private wink at the audience. "Sounds like there's more to this story …"

"Maybe there is," I say right back.

Frankie gasps demonstratively. "Well, well. I think we'll have to circle back around to that … later in our evening. Thank you three for being our hunky bachelors! Now can we please give these handsome men a round of your biggest applause?"

As our ears drown in another relentless wave of screams and whistling, I lead the way off of the stage the same way we came on. Anthony has apparently warmed up quickly to the idea of so many people cheering for him, as he lingers onstage to playfully blow kisses at the crowd and cockily flex his guns. Dean takes the more classy approach of waving simply and graciously as he saunters offstage with us.

While the audience is treated to a song from a local country singer with more twang and sass in her voice than twenty Nadines combined, backstage becomes a storm of clothes flying all over the place. Privacy becomes a fleeting dream as we change into our eveningwear amid the crew rushing around us. Despite the chaos, Tamika makes everything feel organized and under control as she guides and directs. While changing, I hear Anthony go on about how "flippin' amazing" he felt out there and how he can't wait to do his talent. Dean seems surprisingly amused by him, telling him to take his time and bathe in the attention, because they sure won't be getting any of this after the night ends. "Make all of your moments count, son, each and every one of them."

I find it adorable, how their whole dynamic has changed from Anthony spitefully calling Dean "old man" to Dean endearingly calling Anthony "son".

It's almost enough to keep my mind off of Noah for a minute.

The next part has all three of us sauntering across the stage like we're made of a million bucks—Anthony most of all, who I've got to say cleans up pretty well in a fancy tuxedo. Everything is going great until he stops abruptly in the middle of his walk to flex his guns yet again at the crowd and do half a squat—which causes his slacks to rip right down the ass crack. He realizes it right away, then sidesteps for the rest of his time onstage, all his confidence sucked out of him. Once it's time for us to make our departure, he can't scurry away fast enough.

Then, during the swimwear portion, Anthony believes it'll be an excellent idea to spray himself with water so it looks like he just came out of the pool. It only succeeds in making him look sweaty and strange under the stage lighting. That's sadly not the worst of it; after he circles the stage a few times, his foot catches a spot where his body dripped too much, causing him to slip and fall on his ass with an unflattering grunt, inspiring gasps, laughter, then applause from the audience. They likely don't know if this is real or part of an overall "bumbling bad boy" act. It's not easy to tell whether all of the laughter and applause pleases the red-faced Anthony, who is seeming less and less keen on keeping everyone's attention. His stunt almost overshadows my big moment when I peel off my dress shirt to reveal my Speedos, setting the crowd on fire with screams and suggestive whistling.

It doesn't end there. During the get-to-know-your-bachelors interview portion, we're each asked a question, and Dean's answer is so elegant and well-worded, reading like poetry, that Anthony becomes self-conscious and overcompensates by awkwardly using giant made-up words that don't even make sense. The audience's laughter doesn't inspire further confidence, and his last sentence comes out in a jumble that no one can hope to decipher.

"It's delightful, how smoothly everything is running," Dean observes as he changes into his next outfit for the talent portion and gazing merrily at his reflection in a nearby mirror.

"Speak for yourself," mutters Anthony, miserable. "I started with a bang. Now I'm trippin' over myself and splittin' my damned ass open for the whole state of Texas. I heard there was a reporter out there from Austin. Is that true? Is my big-ass butt gonna show up on the front page of some Austin magazine? Fuck my life."

"Just stay focused, son, you'll do fine out there, you will. Oh, thank you," says Dean to one of the crew people who brings him a cup of water. "Parched. Those stage lights are hotter than sin. Do you think someone can turn up the AC onstage? That's a joke, hah, don't worry, I'll survive. Oh, by the way," he adds, leaning toward me suddenly, "I think I see her out there."

I'm folding up the cuffs of my shirt when I face him. "Who?"

"Candace." Dean closes his eyes and smiles, sighing happily. Then he chuckles. "What is this I'm feeling? It's like … a sort of … childlike giddiness mixed with abject terror." He laughs at his own description. "I haven't felt this way since I was a teenager."

I smile and pat him on the back. "Sounds like love."

He snorts and throws me a funny look. "I've met her but once, and at that, our conversation was a mere seven minutes long."

I shrug. "Sometimes seven minutes is all it takes."

Dean smiles and shakes his head. "Ah, what a world we live in. Anything feels possible tonight. Anything at all."

"Yeah, anything," mutters Anthony bitterly. "At least I know it can't get any worse for me than it already has."

A moment later proves that, unfortunately, it very much can.

After Dean performs a complex, swoon-worthy jazz piece on the piano, inspiring everyone to clap along and cheer when he hits those impressive trilling notes on the ivories, it's time for Anthony to become a magician—but perhaps he would have been better off taking Dean's sarcastic suggestion weeks ago of being a clown on a unicycle. The oversized card trick Anthony had planned becomes a bust when the plant in the audience discovers he's too terrified to come up onto the stage, forcing Anthony to abandon the trick completely and shift gears immediately to his next act, which does not go any better. His entire forehead is covered in sweat as he with crumbling confidence attempts to juggle three toy hammers, and for about eight and a half lovely seconds, he has the whole audience captivated—until one of the hammers goes sideways and thwacks him right on the nose like it has a vendetta against him. Dazed, he overcompensates by throwing the next one too high, and as he scrambles to fix the midair miscalculation, one of the toy hammers drops on his foot and is accidentally punted straight at the audience. It lands somewhere in the third row. He keeps on with his act, pasting a smile across his face while fighting back the reflexive tears that dribble out of his glassy, panicked eyes as he juggles the two remaining hammers. It's a complete disaster.

The second he's off the stage, Frankie introduces me, and it's my turn to be talented. I approach the lone microphone set up at the center of the stage, then face the audience confidently. By this point in the night, they have gotten braver, and I hear individual people calling out. "You've got this, you sexy man!" "We love you!" "Marry me, Cole!!" "You're amazing!" "Mr. Picture Perfect!"

I grip the microphone and smile at the crowd. "Thanks," I tell them, my voice booming. "Spruce, Texas is sure appreciating your support, whether you're from around here or traveled in from out of town." Even now, my eyes dance around the crowd, or however much of the crowd I can actually see through the slightly dimmer and moodier stage lights, looking for Noah. "I thought I'd sing a little song for you guys."

"Hell yeah!" "Sing your heart out, baby!" "Yes!!"

I don't know if Noah's out there. Somehow, a significant part of me doubts it. If I can't see him, I'll just have to imagine his face.

"This is a song that has … a lot of recent meaning to me. Hope you enjoy it." Then I glance at the side of the stage where Tamika awaits my cue. I give her a nod. She whispers into her headset.

From the speaker comes the gentle, moody guitar strokes for my backing track to Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here".

The second it comes time to sing, the music cuts off.

I look up at the speaker, confused, then glance at Tamika, still in the wing offstage. She shrugs at me, then starts hissing into her headset, trying to solve the problem. Her whispers become more and more frantic until she returns her gaze back to me and shrugs with more exasperation, shaking her head, at a loss.

The audience is starting to murmur among themselves.

The speaker for the music may have gone out, but with the sound of my measured breaths rolling through the pavilion like ocean waves, it seems apparent that my microphone still works.

I close my eyes.

I imagine the pavilion completely empty—save for one face, right in the middle. The only person to whom this song is for.

Then I sing: "So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell …?"

The audience draws quiet at once as my voice rings out, sans any backing music. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I feel Noah right there across from me in that Country Lovin' restaurant—his bright and happy eyes as he scarfed down those crepes, his smile, his gentleness and sensitivity. I sing to that face and no one else.

The lyrics pour out of me with the passion I'd put into a kiss right now, right on his lips, a kiss pleading him to come back.

A kiss of music, pleading for him to be here, to appear before me like an answer to all my questions.

I sing until every last lyric drifts from my lips with hope.

I run out of lyrics to sing sooner than I expect, then open my eyes as the last note echoes out into the night air, then dissipates like the wind, leaving nothing but silence.

Silence … and Noah's face in my mind.

When the audience roars with their applause, shattering the silence, I don't even notice at first. My eyes are lost to the sea of unfamiliar faces. As good as it felt to sing that song from my heart, it's meaningless if Noah isn't here.

What if I'm fooling myself, hoping he's here?

What if Noah left because he really was awake and heard me confess that I love him? What if he doesn't return my feelings?

What if it's over?

"Thank you," I say halfheartedly, then walk off the stage.

The music continues to play on loop inside my mind, but now instead of inspiring hope and beauty, it only rings bells of sadness. Tamika tells me she has no idea what happened with the music, but thinks my a cappella version was ten times more beautiful than what was rehearsed. I thank her, though I can't be sure what exactly I said, as I'm lost in my feelings as I head back to my chair.

Are my suspicions right? Have I really lost Noah for good?

Is that the cruel truth I've been avoiding to accept ever since he left me yesterday morning?

"Shit, I'm such a fuckin' idiot," sobs Anthony.

I look up to find Anthony standing in front of me.

With a dark red streak running down his forehead to the slope of his blunt nose.

A dark red streak of blood.

"Yeah, the damned hammer hit my face hard enough to make a gash," he says, noting my frozen reaction. "It's a toy, a fake, and it still cut me like this?"

The second I see his wound, I turn away. It's to a blank wall that I stonily say my next words. "They loved you out there."

"I'm a joke, Cole. Hey, can I get someone over here to—Yeah, thanks, it started bleeding. Again."

I swallow hard and wipe my forehead. Am I sweating? "It's … just a … just a part of … live theatre," I remind him. Even just a tiny glimpse of Anthony has burned the image into my retinas. Every time I blink, I see that dark red streak cutting down his face like a lightning bolt. I try with all my might to make it disappear, but the vision stubbornly persists. "Stuff just … just h-happens."

"Why do you sound funny?"

"I'm fine."

"Oh, shit, the auction's next. You nervous, man? Forget about me. It's just a little blood. Who cares about a little blood? At least they weren't real hammers, right? I'd be missing my whole face."

I grip the back of a nearby chair, gathering my breath.

I blink away the vision over and over.

It keeps coming right back, worse and worse. His whole face covered in blood. Then his whole head. Then his clothes, drenched to his socks in nothing but dark, viscous blood.

Is that sweat in my eyes or am I dying?

"Just my luck, it's started bleeding even worse than before," gripes Anthony, adding more ingredients to the nightmare stew already brewing in my imagination. "Tamika, I'm so sorry to be a pain again, like I always am, always screwin' things up … I can't go out like this, I'm so sorry. I—" Suddenly he bursts into tears. "God, I am just screwin' up this whole thing, aren't I? It's one thing after another. I'm such a screw up!"

"No, no, you're fine," comes Dean to the rescue. "Hey, look at me. Can you—Can you look at me? Listen here, son …"

"I'm a screw up!"

Their words become a blur as I reel against the chair, blinking rapidly. Don't faint. Don't faint. Don't you dare fucking faint. My grip on the back of the chair tightens, my knuckles turning white.

I really need Noah right now.

"Cole?" calls Tamika in a hushed whisper, appearing in front of me suddenly. "Is that okay with you?"

I meet her eyes and swallow hard. Everything is spinning. "Is what okay?" I breathe out, confused.

"We're gonna send you out first for the auction," she explains. "Dean is with Anthony trying to calm him down. We've got to buy them time, so we're getting you out there first. Frankie is already introducing the auction part and getting the crowd worked up."

"I'm gonna—We have to who?" My brain is losing steam.

"Don't stress about it. The night's almost over, Cole! Isn't that great news? Just one last part!"

"Y-Yeah," I finally manage to say, then let go of the chair the way one lets go of a cliff to drop to their certain death. I stagger by Tamika's side, fighting to maintain my footing despite everything spinning around me as she guides the way. Suddenly I'm onstage again too soon, blinded by stage lights. Everyone feels so far away. My confusion persists through everything Frankie says. I hear the audience laugh at a joke. I keep blinking, trying to focus my eyes on anything, to mentally grab ahold of any semblance of reality, of anything to contextualize what in the fuck is going on.

"Are we ready, everyone?" calls out Frankie, who at once has me hooked by the arm and brought to the very front of the stage. "What's with the funny face? You want out of this deal, Cole? Too bad, and too late! Hah! Now which one of you out there wants to go on a special one-on-one date with Mr. Picture Perfect?"

The audience screams at my face.

I teeter from side to side, Frankie's grip on my arm being my only tether to Planet Earth, keeping me upright.

"We're starting the bid at $100, folks!" announces Frankie. At once, the bid paddles start going up. Frankie, who I imagine has no experience whatsoever in hosting any form of auction, becomes a cute animal scrambling for the surface of the water, drowning at once in bids. "$125! Oh, uh … $150! I've got $175! $200? And is that $225? $250? Goodness, you guys are eager! $275, now! Is there $300 out there? $325?"

Stop thinking about Anthony's wound. It's gone. It's not even there anymore. Focus.

Then I see red all over my arm from the day of the festival.

I see Noah's shocked expression as he gazes down at my arm.

Suddenly we're children in my backyard—the backyard at my half-remembered old house, the one that was just down the street from Noah—and I stare at my reflection in a mirror.

Blood covers my face like a wedding veil.

Why am I thinking of myself as a child suddenly, covered in blood from the top of my face to the chin?

I hear my mother's scream, far, far away.

Just then, spotlights crack on like lightning bolts from behind me when the bidding is down to two final people going back and forth. I see the face of a strikingly handsome young country guy in a plaid shirt with an excited woman seated by his side cheering him on. Closer to the stage, an older gentleman in a pink-and-blue floral dress shirt with stylish grey hair and an earring by himself.

"Do I hear $450?" calls out Frankie.

The young and cocky man nods, smirking, and lifts his paddle.

"$450, it is! Will you do $500?"

The floral gentleman is sweaty, but lifts his chin—and paddle.

"$500!"

The young man counters, but also gestures with his paddle.

"Oh, up to $600, is that? Yes, $600! Will you do $700, sir?"

The floral gentleman is visibly shaking, anguished, but bids.

"$700! Sir?"

The young man confidently lifts his paddle, unfazed.

"$800, it is! How about you, sir? Will you counter?"

The floral gentleman hesitates, staring at me with interest, his paddle trembling in his grip as he licks his lips in contemplation.

The young man lifts a cocky eyebrow, arms crossed, waiting.

I can barely breathe. "F-Frankie …" I try to say. "I think … I … I think I'm about to—"

"No counter, sir? Is that what I'm hearing?"

The pavilion is spinning. I've broken out into a cold sweat. Even my palms. Even my cheeks. Even the tips of my ears. I have mere seconds left before I finally give in and faint. I just know it.

"$800 going once …"

The floral gentleman cringes, maddened and shaking, fingers balled into fists as he gazes at me, heartbroken.

"$800 going twice …"

The young man lifts his chin triumphantly, ready to claim me.

Until at once, from the heart of the darkness that is the rest of the crowd, comes a new voice—a sweet, inviting voice I happen to recognize instantly, a voice that speaks directly to my heart …

A voice that confidently shouts out: "$1,367, give or take!"