Page 81 of Sing For Me

The first page of hits are all about the two of us. I leave those links alone and scroll back another page, looking for articles about the fire. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I click one.

Mass speculation continues to swirl surrounding Grammy award winning artist Eve. The pop star surprised the crowd at the Booker Club one week ago when she appeared on stage for a special, unannounced performance at the intimate venue. The excitement didn’t last. Halfway through that performance, fire broke out in the lighting system behind the stage.

I scan the next few paragraphs, mostly details about the fire that I can’t bring myself to picture. Halfway through the article, the focus goes back to Eva.

The mega popular star hasn’t been seen since the disaster. Her representatives will only say that she’s recovering and request privacy. Meanwhile speculation online is at a fever pitch, with fans wondering what could be keeping Eve out of sight for so long. Many argue that if she is, in fact, in stable condition, that her team would be eager to get her out in front of cameras to set the music world’s mind at ease.

I click back to the search results, eyes scanning the article titles.

Eve Not Seen For Three Weeks.

Report: Eve Majorly Disfigured in Shocking Fire.

Where’s Eve?

I feel like throwing up. Somehow seeing it all here, in black and white, drives home the magnitude of the incident in a way even talking to Eva hadn’t. I swallow hard and go back to the search box. This time I type in her name and add the year before the fire happened.

The screen once again fills with hits. Stories about her meteoric rise to fame. The explosion of her first album. The critical success of her second. Sold out tour dates. Bidding wars over resale tickets. Grammy nominations. Grammywins.

The pictures of her give me pause. She looks so different, her hair a platinum blonde, makeup heavy on her face. Thick enough to block any sign of her freckles. Eva rarely wears make-up around me.

There’s a short clip of her performance at the American Music Awards. She’s on stage in a skimpy, sparkling jumpsuit, moving in unison with the dancers behind her.

I think about the Eva that I know, the red-headed girl who lives in casual sundresses and makes me watch terrible sci-fi shows. I would hardly know this is the same person.

Somehow, these stories, these pictures, make me feel almost as nauseous as the ones about the fire. I finally understand what River and Rose have been trying to tell me for weeks. Eve Lidell is a really big fucking star.

The media freak-out over us dating suddenly doesn’t seem so unlikely.

“Will?” Eva’s groggy voice calls from the living room and a flood of relief goes through me at the prospect of a distraction from the shit running through my head. I pocket my phone and leave the kitchen.

She’s sitting up on the couch, blinking around and looking adorably rumpled and confused. Her face relaxes when she sees me. “Hey.”

“You know you snore when you sleep?” I ask, trying to keep things lighter than how I feel.

She scowls at me. “I do not.”

“You do. It’s adorable.”

She narrows her eyes. “I hate you right now.”

I slide onto the couch next to her and she immediately leans into me. “Did your cousins go to bed?”

“Packing for a trip,” I tell her, then raise my eyebrows. “We’re going to have the place to ourselves for a week.”

I expect her to make some flirty remark, or maybe blush, but instead she scowls.

“What?” I ask. “You don’t want to be alone with me?”

“No, I’m just tired of being in this apartment!”

“We can go back to yours,” I offer.

“And be stuck inside there, too.” Even the private beach stopped being a safe refuge for us after paparazzi started taking pictures from boats with ultra zoom lenses. Unfuckingbelievable.

“I’m sorry this is happening,” I say, rubbing her arms. “We could always say fuck it, hire some security, and go out and do whatever we want.”

She nestles a little closer. “I want to say I’m strong enough for that, but I honestly don’t know.”