AISHE

I don’t have a plan right now. I just needed to get away. I’m walking the streets of midtown New York, and I’m being honked at for jaywalking. I find a place that has pizza and beer, just a storefront with a wall that’s open out to the sidewalk.

I’m not hungry. I’m not thirsty. I still get a slice and sit down with a draft in a plastic cup, just a tourist with her heart in a bloodied puddle at the bottom of her stomach.

Troy didn’t know she was there. He was as surprised as I was. He wouldn’t have accepted the skit if he knew Hailey was the one he’d have to kiss. No. I don’t doubt that for a second.

I ignore my puddling heart and sift through my brain in an effort to piece together why I feel so destitute. Troy decided to go through with it anyway, Hailey or not. How could he do that? He could have stopped it.

Did he have a choice? a small voice asks from a dark recess of my brain.

Of course he did, my dying heart wheezes back.

At the cost of what?

I don’t want to think after all. Taking a chug of my beer, I try to wash away the niggling in my brain that insists he did what he had to do for the band. He needed to finish the skit.

Oh yeah? She stuck her fucking tongue in his mouth, and he kissed her back. He kissed her! Troy really kissed Hailey on TV, on one of the most popular shows in the history of television. Everyone saw it.

What does it matter? Everyone thought she was you.

My cell buzzes. I check it, finger ready to reject another of Troy’s calls, but it’s international. “Hello?”

“Aishe, it’s me.” Shandor’s voice rings low with gloom. “What the hell’s happening over there?”

I swallow a lump in my throat at the sound of him. I’ve never missed my cousin more than in this moment.

“It was a stupid skit. Clown Irruption’s former merch girl played me in it,” I say.

“Right, she looks exactly like you. I haven’t been online a whole lot here—it’s hard to get good wireless in this country—but now that I’m on… Okay: what’s the deal with you and Troy Armstrong? There’re pictures of you making out, and I’m not talking about that video.”

I scrunch my eyes shut. “It wasn’t me. Those pictures were of Hailey and him. She’s crazy, a stalker, and she loves to dress like me. I don’t know, Shandor. It’s a long story.”

Silence takes over the other end while he tries to string together the details I’m giving him. “So you’re not seeing him?”

My silence is too long.

“Aishe, you’re kidding me, right? You’re dating Troy Armstrong, after everything he put you through?”

“No! No, I’m not. Well, I was, but I’m not anymore,” I say, and my voice trembles. “God, Shandor. I wish you were here. Everything is so messed up.” And then, smack on a street corner in midtown New York, I begin to sob. I let it pour into my napkin, and I can’t muster any concern for what people around me think.

“Okay. Shh, okay. So that explains the ‘Weekend Update’ skit on Friday Night Live,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, Aishe. That band is lethal for you. If you want, I can talk with Holland and see if she has a gig for you. I think you could learn how to be a tech. Guitar or drum, whatever. We could tour together again.”

“Oh Shandor.” Gratitude and panic course through me in equal measure. My cousin is an overprotective big brother of a wonderful person who would do his darndest to keep me from living life at all to keep me safe. “Thank you, but I don’t know what I want to do right now.”

I take another swallow of beer, washing away the quiver in my pitch. “Wait, what did you say about the weekend-update skit? I didn’t see the whole show.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“What happened? Was Troy on or something?” Fear vibrates in my throat. I don’t know if I can take any more surprises right now.

“No, he wasn’t, but that girl was. Hailey? They interviewed her like she was you, but she… Aww, shit, Aishe. Never mind. Don’t think about it tonight. Go to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep. Then watch it on YouTube.”

I don’t insist. The last thing I want is for my cousin to hear me fall apart. It would kill him to be a world away and unable to console me in person.

“Okay, I will.” There’s no way I’ll be going back to our hotel room. I won’t be smelling Troy all around me and lament how our story came to a smashing halt as soon as it started.

My mind is whirling. I know I need to get my stuff from the hotel and get the hell gone.

I can’t see his tender gaze tonight. I need a break. I can’t go weak, facing every feeling I have for him head-on when my brain is about to explode, joining my heart in the puddle at the floor of my stomach.

I fumble with my phone. Can’t find my browser app, so I go to download it over again, only to be told I already have it. Frustrated, I flip through six pages of apps on my screen. Did I group it under something?

He kissed Hailey on TV. My thoughts are a pinwheel, the colors whirling so fast they become a blob.

That pizza slice. It’s vanished, and so has most of my beer. It was probably a good thing that I ate. Can’t be low on energy while you’re having a breakdown, right?

Around me, the New York night doesn’t go to sleep. Even so, it’s like the sky sinks between the high-rises, dulling neon signs and flickering lights.

I forgot that I have the YouTube app. Never mind the browser app I can’t find. It takes me three searches to find the right FNL Weekend Update, and when it begins, with Hailey’s painted gaze flicking mildly between the anchor man and the camera, I let out a hiccough that’s been sitting high in my chest.

“And here she is, the woman of the moment, Aishe Xodyar! Did I pronounce that right?”

She’s wearing black contacts. It doesn’t surprise me. She has some sort of glitter in her lashes. She’s tipping toward drag queen, and I don’t know if I should be relieved or outraged about it.

I pat the back of my hair, verifying that it’s still hidden inside my dress. My now favorite scarf covers my head. At the film set, I had it around my neck, softening the bareness of the bodice top, but out here, I don’t take any chances on being recognized.

“You did a fabulous job, dear, although it hardly matters. See, I have a little secret to share with America,” Hailey murmurs and leans forward, gazing right at the camera.

“Hmm, do tell us. Why doesn’t it matter how I pronounce your name?” The anchor raises an eyebrow at the camera, and the audience laughs.

“Because…” she leans closer to him. “The world has it wrong: my name isn’t Aishe Xodyar. I’m not the same merch girl they had a year ago. My name is Hailey Pawter, and I’m Clown Irruption’s latest merch girl. So, as you can see from your footage, Troy Armstrong isn’t hung up on an old employee. It’s me he’s hung up on.” She puckers her mouth to the camera. “Isn’t that so, Troy?”

The camera clips back to the anchor. In the first seconds of attention, his face alters from playful humor to blankness. It makes me think Hailey has gone off script. He hauls himself in again with his features back in professional comedian folds. “And once again, folks, FNL’s Weekend Update delivers: you heard it first here, on FNL, your partner in the very latest of news. What a twist!”

I shut my app down while the audience laughs. In and out, I breathe. Slowly. Making sure that I don’t hyperventilate.

I’m definitely going to need my clothes from the hotel. I’ll Priceline a room, something cheap for the night. I’ve got my emergency credit card—I’ll be fine. I’ll call my sister in the morning and check where she and her husband are. They’ll let me hang with them in their camper until I have a plan together.

I’ll be okay. Just get the hell away from this mess, and I’ll be good.

Call me. Please? The lawyers will take care of this mess. Troy.

I switch my phone to airplane mode so I don’t have to see any more messages. I drop a few bills on the table and get up. Taxis honk and skid past each other. I wave for one. Then another. With my identity tucked inside my scarf, I start to walk in the direction of The Bastien on Eighth.

It starts to rain. What is it with the weather and guessing someone’s mood? It trickles down my bare arms, so I loosen my scarf and use it as a tent. Moisture does another crazy thing; it saturates smells. It makes the asphalt reek of smoked gasoline… and Troy’s last kiss on my neck pulse out a whisper of cinnamon.

TROY

The last applause has been given, and our music is turned up over the speakers in the studio. The performers are mingling, dancing, embracing onstage. Some grab me too, shaking my hand in passing. The actress rehearsing Aishe’s part gives me a hug. My eyes rove the stage for the bitch who ruined my life, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

Troll steps up and comes straight for me.

“It was Janet,” he says without preamble. “When Aishe didn’t want to be a part of the filming, she let the FNL producers know she’d get a backup.”

“How the fuck did they agree to that without talking with us?” I hiss out.

“Right, and that’s exactly what they thought they were doing. Janet represented us, and they had no reason to distrust her.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Have you seen Aishe?”

“No.”

“Hailey’s gone too, huh? What if she’s after Aishe? For all I know that crazy bitch is a serial killer.”

Troll puts a hand on my arm. “No way, man. She’s just an insecure girl. She’s obsessed with you and has all sorts of issues, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be hunting her competition.”

The silence between us after that is heavy as fuck.

“Troll, I’m out of here,” I say. “Get me a cab?”

“Come on, man. You need to at least show your face at the after-party. Management wants you to mingle. They’ll have my head if I don’t corral you in there.”

“That’s not gonna happen. You see that, right? I need to stop more bullshit from going down. I don’t even know what I’d do if Aishe got hurt.”

In Troll’s defense, he yields quickly. With a pat on my arm, he breathes, “Okay then. I’ll tell management you were there if they ask.”

“Right, and management can suck it. They gave us Janet and look what she did.” I stride toward the dressing rooms to grab my gear.

I call my hotel room from the cab and get no response. Next, I call the reception of The Bastien. Ask them if they’ve seen her.

“Aishe Xodyar,” I say. “She’s staying in twelve fourteen with me.” I tell them who I am, along with my hotel identity, and add, “She has long dark hair with feathers in it and a long skirt.”

“Ahh yes, Mr. Armstrong. Your girlfriend is already here.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll be right there,” I say.

“Sounds good, Mr. Armstrong. Welcome back to your home away from home,” the guy lilts out.

The ride back to The Bastien takes forever. The driver tries for small talk, but I don’t have much to say to him. My leg’s working, tapping an imaginary drum pedal beneath the seat in front of me, and my fingers smash out the rhythm of “The Mask” against my thigh.

I toss a fifty at the driver, who calls after me when I lunge myself from the cab. “Sir, you forgot your change!”

The glass doors slide closed behind me in the foyer. I greet the receptionists with a curt “Hi” on the way past, and when the elevators aren’t there, I take the stairs. I can’t fucking stand still a minute longer, waiting for some box to propel me to her.

On the sixth floor, I surrender and hit the elevator button. I’m wild-eyed in the reflection of the golden walls. Its interior may be ancient, but it’s quick at getting me to our floor.

My heart is taking over, drumming out a loud, irregular beat as I stalk to my door. I don’t knock. The room is pitch black, only the red digits of the alarm clock breaching the darkness: eleven forty-seven.

From the hotel room hallway, I squint toward the bed, hoping to see the outline of her body under the covers. If she’s asleep, I don’t want to wake her up.

Silently, I remove my shoes and walk toward the bed. Through the darkness, I smell the violet and licorice perfume she bought at the airport in Nagoya. I don’t want to scare her. It wouldn’t be good if she woke up, surprised that I was hovering above her, so I say her name quietly. “Aishe?”

“Troy, darling. Come here,” she whispers. Relief jumps in my chest. Did she understand what I had to do? Did this beautiful, wise, passionate woman see that I had no choice but to complete the skit even if Hailey was the one in it?

I sit down on the mattress. I lean over her to dig my face against her throat. I need to be there, soak in her scent and take her forgiveness.

She meets me with fumbling hands. Angling thin fingers around my face, she finds my lips with hers and kisses me. I’ll burrow against her throat later, I think, as I harden against the shape of her under the comforter.

Troy, darling, she said. Why does that seem strange?

“My moixcha.” I lick tight lips, easing her mouth open. She lets out a little grunt I haven’t heard before. Or have I?

“Yes, I’m yours,” she whispers, and it’s another reply that’s different than us. I’d expected her to disagree.

Why is she like this?

Am I so lucky?

I want to be so lucky.

I reach for the lamp on the nightstand, needing to read her expression, but she plucks my hand off the switch, kissing my fingertips before she brings me under the duvet.

The alarm clock blares out its numbers. Eleven forty-eight. A sensation of wrongness rustles around me. I feel like I’m at the top of a summit, abrupt ridges leading into the abyss on both sides. Wrongness hovers in the air, but I can’t grasp the shape of it.

Maybe I’ve acquired a sixth sense—maybe it’s my caveman breaking out with his feral instincts—but if I hit midnight without unraveling this premonition, I’ll lose something irreplaceable.

I pull strands of her hair between my fingers, rake through them as if examining it. Thick, lush, wavy, a little coarser than usual.

I throw the comforter to the floor, needing my hands all over her. I need this wrong to be righted, I need to understand that all she wanted was for me to come back and prove to her firsthand who I love.

I sink over her. She skips to the side.

“Lay down,” she whispers. I reach for her, that foreboding in my stomach again, but when she adds, “Let me take care of you,” I lower my head to the pillow.

Believe.

I make out the silhouette of her as she leans over me. She settles her mouth against my temple. Her hair smells different. She must be trying out the hotel shampoo. I reach for her, try to fill my hands with her perfect boobs, but she doesn’t let me.

“I decide tonight,” she whispers. “Just lay back and enjoy.”

I smile at that; my bossy girl. Relaxing, I leave my arms under my head. And then I kick to the curb my caveman instinct of wrongness.