57. Aint No Sunshine, Bill Withers
"Ain't No Sunshine," Bill Withers
Victoria
Wednesday night, I staggered into Dad’s apartment just before midnight. I called his name and braced myself, not sure whether I wanted his condemnation or silence. My greeting went unanswered, bouncing off the cold tile.
He wasn’t home again, just like last night. I’d spent two days meeting with legal and PR, expecting Dad to stroll into the conference room to discuss the fallout of firing the CFO.
And boy, had there been fallout.
The only remaining Larsson, being escorted out with a still-bleeding broken nose, his ex-wife the culprit. The vicious rumors about our lovers quarrel had started within minutes.
The police recovered my recording until the moment the phone broke, leaving me without video proof of his assault. Courtney filed a police report, but Spencer’s minions slandered her credibility since her video confessed to previous sexual activity that they claimed was consensual.
Thankfully the incident hadn’t leaked to the press yet, but we needed to be prepared. After hours of debating and a migraine lingering behind my eyes, I retreated to Dad’s vacant penthouse.
In my room, I used a wire coat hanger to unzip my sheath dress, finally inhaling what felt like my first full breath all day. Hanging it in the small closet, I missed my massive walk-in closets in Saratoga. Once again I considered finding a place of my own, or moving into one of Richard’s inherited properties … but the idea of living alone again made my stomach roll.
Sometime in the past three weeks, my heart had split into two halves. Victoria Blackstone showed up every day at work, polished and brilliant, the first to arrive and last to leave. She was lauded by the media for stepping into a nearly impossible role, admired by her staff for having a spine of steel.
The other half, Tori, was locked away deep in my heart, only to emerge when the rest of the world had gone to bed. At first, Tori tried to bring some joy back into her life by turning on her mopey bitch rock … but lately she hadn’t even had the energy for that.
As I pulled on my pajamas, Jurisprudence leaped from her windowsill perch. I scooped her up and buried my face in her fur as I walked to the kitchen, only to find the refrigerator stocked with trays of precooked meals. All the nutrients, none of the love.
I choked down grilled salmon and sweet potato, bribing my cat with morsels of fish, then took her back to my bedroom and closed my curtains against the bright city lights.
Climbing into bed, Jurisprudence’s soft fur and rhythmic purr were the only things holding me together. She’d been unusually affectionate, like she could sense that whatever shards remained of my heart after leaving Cruz were crushed when Dad stormed out. Not that there was much left to hurt—my chest felt like a hollow abyss, her forlorn howl echoing through the empty cavity.
I reached for my phone, scrolling through the texts he sent me every night without fail, focusing on last night’s, which I’d read twenty times today:
Cruz
Hey baby, hope you had a good Tuesday. Not much to report here—just changing light bulbs and missing you. Nothing
The band is playing tomorrow in Albany, so my text might be late. I’ll be thinking of you during every song.
Sweet dreams, Tori. I love you.
Seeking solace, I turned on his YouTube channel. Above the familiar short videos, an announcement bar directed me to a livestream, and I tapped without hesitation.
The screen displayed a new venue, larger than their usual home at Donnelly’s. Stacy sang out front, Scott beside her on guitar, Rodriguez on the bass. I strained to see past them, heart pounding until I spotted Cruz behind the drum kit. An ache settled in my chest, each beat of his bass drum pounding the rhythm of my longing.
Convincing myself that ignoring his messages was the right choice was a daily battle, but seeing him immersed in what he loved reinforced that he was strong enough to handle it. Someday his songs would stop. Or maybe I could stop reading his texts, maybe even block his number. Dad was right about me needing to move on, wasn’t he?
The camera panned out, showing the audience. Soon, one of those adoring fans would catch his attention, some pretty girl who could stand in the front row of every show. The livestream viewer count continued to climb—thousands of people watching his band play. Comments gushed over his hotness, speculating over when he would sing and what song he would choose.
A woman in the crowd yelled, “I love you, Cruz!” and it felt like a dagger. Some anonymous woman could express her undying love for him … yet I’d had him every night and still hadn’t been able to tell him. And I was unraveling in his absence.
Garbled chanting began, growing in intensity: “We want Cruz, we want Cruz.” Stacy made an excuse about his sore throat, but the crowd grew more restless. Rodriguez stepped behind the kit, arms lifted in apology, and I squinted to make out his pinched expression. He untied his bun to smooth it back, a habit when he was frustrated, then nodded gruffly.
Jurisprudence pawed my hand away, and I realized I’d unwittingly gripped her fur. My throat itched, ready to scream at that audience for pressuring him to sing. I wanted to climb onto that stage and throw out my arms to protect him, to tell them all to fuck off because only he should decide how to play.
Alex’s admonition rang in my mind: You should have asked him instead of choosing for him .
The cheers escalated as the band stepped off the stage, leaving Cruz alone. He took a shuddering breath, then rose from the drum kit and picked up his Scott’s acoustic. The audience erupted as the comments filled with fire, heart and eggplant emojis.
My pulse quickened. Would he mention me? Was it selfish to hope for?
If he didn’t, was it a sign he was moving on? And if that was what I truly wanted, why did it make my stomach churn with nausea?
He lifted the guitar strap and looked out above the audience, searching for something only he could see. I expected a smile at one of the adoring fans, some flicker of charisma … but his normally soulful eyes looked vacant.
Tears blurred my vision as he closed his eyes and released his turmoil, lamenting how lonely his apartment felt—maybe his whole life. The cold silence of the bedroom seemed to press in on me as his voice, raw and heavy with emotion, harmonized with my own emptiness.
He’d seemed optimistic in his videos, but his raw heartbreak showcased the magnitude of my mistake. I’d been trying to protect him from the media swarm and the lonely nights … but I’d only brought him pain. I’d thought he’d move on, but he was in as much agony as I was.
What had I done?