Chapter 18 Stevie
Stevie
Almost four years later
“You son of a bitch!”
Clothing is tossed from the third-floor apartment window, blanketing the city sidewalk in baby blues, lilacs, and corals.
“Take your sissy-ass pastels and—”
Ties, watches, and a tube of deodorant follow.
“—stay the fuck away—”
A pair of boxers land on a fire hydrant like a top hat.
“—from my sister!”
I blink at the department store now scattered across the pavement. Pedestrians pause to take in the scene, whispering among themselves. Some of them giggle.
My jaw clenches.
Jameson stands at the curb, staring up at my sister as she flips him off with both hands. He shakes his head, bending to retrieve his “sissy-ass pastels” from puddles and manhole covers while Joplin shouts a few more curses into the drizzly night, then slams the window shut.
And that’s how I discover my boyfriend has been cheating on me.
***
“Can I make you soup? I’m making you soup.
” Joplin scampers around the tiny kitchen off the living area, her hair piled up in a giant topknot and her feet hidden in a pair of purple dinosaur slippers.
Not Barney purple though. They look like majestic stegosauruses. “I’m tired of you starving yourself.”
I pull the edge of the blanket up over my mouth until it muffles my words. “I don’t want soup.”
“The fuck you don’t. I’m making clam chowder, and you’re going to eat it. Two bowls, minimum.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
She steals a glance at my lump-like form, molded into the couch cushions. After a month of wallowing and bingeing every season of Traitors , there is now a Stevie-shaped outline blending with the aquamarine checkered pattern.
There are also a few piles of stale popcorn sprinkled across the floor after I chucked my anger at the television screen upon viewing Traitors: Australia , season two.
“Tough,” she calls back, bending over to collect a pot. She turns the faucet on, the water sputtering as it struggles from the spout. “You’ve been surviving on cheese popcorn and those disgusting pickled gummy bears for weeks.”
I sigh. “Nutritional value doesn’t really top my priority list right now.”
Hesitating, Joplin faces me from the kitchen, pressing her forearms to the countertop.
“I know it sucks. It really does. But Jameson is a weak-willed, small-dicked, pea-brained earthworm, and he doesn’t deserve anything from you, let alone being responsible for your increasingly concerning calorie deficit. ”
“Earthworm?”
“Slimy, dirty, and dumb.” She shrugs. “And flaccid.”
“You have no concept of his dick size.” It was small.
“You need to get tested, by the way. Who knows where that thing has been?”
“I have. All clear.” I tuck the blanket tighter under my chin.
“And anyway, this isn’t about Jameson. I’ve known for a while we were growing apart, becoming strangers.
Breaking up was inevitable.” I pause, my chest tightening.
“It’s just…it’s rough realizing this was happening right under my nose, and I didn’t even see it coming. And change? Change sucks.”
So do tonight’s looming plans.
The thought sends my anxiety into overdrive.
“Change is good when the circumstances are shit,” Joplin counters before rummaging in the refrigerator for vegetables.
I slump back against the couch, muting the TV and tossing the remote beside me.
She’s not wrong.
In the beginning, Jameson was my rock. My anchor. We started dating shortly after graduation, when I didn’t know if I’d mentally make it through those painful, debilitating months.
That was a lifetime ago. Back when he was still my friend and my high school costar.
Through countless knee surgeries, physical therapy, broken dreams, and long nights, Jameson was there for me.
And when Kylie Nottingham caught his eye at work, he was there for her too.
Prick .
Luckily, I have a sister who makes damn good clam chowder and gives the best hugs.
The smell of sautéing onion wafts over from the kitchen, stirring my appetite.
Maybe I am hungry. And maybe Joplin is right—this change could be a good thing.
It’s just too bad my self-worth had to be pulverized in order to achieve it.
Getting cheated on is a confidence killer, no matter how you try to spin it.
Was I too needy? Too codependent?
Too thick around the waist, too boring between the sheets?
It’s been a month, but the intrusive thoughts are endless.
Debilitating.
Still, this could be a fresh start, a proverbial new beginning. I’ve never actively dated before. I’m single, and Joplin is single. This could actually be fun.
“You’re having that light bulb moment right now, aren’t you?” Joplin says, sliding me a grin from the stovetop. “I see the wheels turning over there. Tell me I’m right. Go on. I’ll wait.”
Glaring, I stick my tongue out at her.
“There she is.”
My gloom finally morphs into a tiny grin as I whip the blanket off and lift to my feet.
I wince slightly when my left knee pangs.
It’ll never be what it used to be, and it’s one of many reasons why my acting dreams were put on hold—knee replacements are no joke.
The car accident four years ago left me with a crushed knee and broken spirit, and the subsequent surgeries and rehabilitation were more grueling than I’d ever imagined.
The initial surgery to repair the damage took hours, followed by months of physical therapy to regain some mobility.
Then, a year later, complications arose, requiring a second round of surgeries and even more rehab.
Every step has been a reminder of the dreams I’ve had to set aside.
And that was only part of it.
Because of the lie I painted that put me in that driver’s seat, the auto insurance refused to pay out, and with our subpar health insurance offering only the bare minimum, my medical costs were astronomical.
The financial burden has been overwhelming, leaving my family and me drowning in debt.
My parents had to scrape together funds to cover most of the initial surgeries and countless therapy sessions while I nailed down a job the moment I was fully mobile.
The only silver lining? By some miracle, I was never slapped with a DUI charge. The lawyers worked something out behind the scenes, and my record is still squeaky clean.
But regret eats at me every day. Every minute.
One lie—one impulsive moment of fear for a boy I deeply cared about—shaped the course of my future, and I’m still paying for it.
And then that boy left.
Vanished.
Dropped from my orbit like a fallen star.
Joplin severs the silence as I make my way to the table, seated inside the eat-in kitchen. “How was work tonight by the way?” she asks, tossing flour into a saucepan and making a roux. She peeks at me over her shoulder while I sink into the hand-me-down dining chair. “Did you make magic?”
I smile, propping my chin in my hand. “It was good. We had a great turnout tonight. Hamlin even played a song with me.”
“Oof. You two are fire together on that piano.”
Nodding, I allow the smile to stick as I think about Mr. Hamlin and how gracious and supportive he’s been over the last few years.
We stayed in touch after graduation, and eventually, his wife hired me to play at their piano bar in Lincoln Park, called the Velvet Key.
The neighborhood is known for its thriving nightlife scene, and the piano bar is always vibrant and alive with a diverse crowd.
Joplin and I live together in a two-bedroom apartment above a coffee shop in Logan Square, while she works part-time at a café and juggles classes at Northwestern University, aiming for a degree in forensic pathology.
The neighborhood we’re in is more affordable than other areas in the city but still considered safe and family-friendly.
While I’m reliant on rideshares and car pools to and from work, the system works for now.
It’s not what I envisioned for my future.
No college degree, no movie sets, no flurry of acting auditions, but I love what I do.
Regardless of how the cards fell into place, I’m still making music.
And I’m still here.
I help my sister finish the soup, and we carry our porcelain bowls over to the table to eat. Steam rolls off the top, bringing with it scents of buttery broth and a brininess that reminds me of the ocean.
Suddenly starved, I shovel a spoonful into my mouth and scald the shit out of my tongue.
“Nice,” Joplin quips, still blowing on hers, waiting for it to cool. “I knew you were hungry.” A minute passes as we stir our soup before my sister clears her throat, and a darker undertone swallows the space between us. “I also know you’ve been dodging the elephant in the room all night.”
I brace myself for her follow-up statement. It hovers, howls, manifests into a tangible third party sitting in the empty chair beside me that once belonged to Jameson. My stomach twists, and the soup turns sour in my mouth. Stale seawater and grease.
“Stevie—”
“It’s fine,” I breathe out, pushing my bowl away. My hands start to shake, so I stuff them between my thighs as my feet bounce up and down. “I’ll get through it.”
“It doesn’t have to be fine, you know. You can be mad. Bitter, resentful. You’re allowed to be in pain.” She rubs her lips together. “You’re not on a stage when you’re with me. You don’t have to pretend.”
My eyes water, my teeth grinding together. “I’ll just never understand why he hasn’t reached out. Why he disappeared, ghosted me, and changed his number. And now…”
“Now he has everything you’ve been dreaming about your whole life.”
I close my eyes, and a tear slides loose. “Yeah.”
Lexington Hall.
Lex.
That name used to make me think of stage lights, wrinkled scripts, stargazing, and solace. Now the name is associated with Hollywood royalty.
Magazine covers.
Gossip column headlines.
Thirsty TikToks and social media frenzies.
He has over eight million followers on Instagram. A clothing line. A gorgeous model on his arm in every paparazzi photo.
And, most notably, he has a hugely hyped television series debuting.
Today.
The six-episode show dropped this morning, and I’ve been distracting myself all day with a double shift at work.
My phone has been on silent since my alarm went off this morning.
I’m too chickenshit to read Misty’s texts or listen to the missed calls from Mom.
Even looking Mr. Hamlin in the eye at the piano bar took valiant effort.
I’ve managed to avoid most of the marketing for the series, ignoring the social media ads that seem to be targeted directly at me and my bereaved heart.
The trailer is just a short compilation of vague clips with little dialogue, and even Lex’s interviews and talk show features have been ominous and unspecific, as if the narrative should remain a mystery until release.
But I’ve seen the title. It’s everywhere, branded in bright turquoise block letters, splashed across all platforms: Come What May .
It’s Lex’s story.
He penned the script, helped produce and direct the series, and then starred as himself in the leading role. Not even twenty-two years old, and he’s already been dubbed a multifaceted creative genius—Hollywood’s newest golden boy.
His parents must be so proud.
My face heats as I stare at the glob of soup solidifying before my eyes. “I guess we should get this over with,” I murmur, my words shaky. I glance up at Joplin. “No point in delaying the inevitable, huh?”
She forces a smile. “I’m sure it sucks.”
“Right. Because he’s a terrible actor and is absolutely grotesque-looking.”
Sighing, my sister stands from the table, her chair legs shrieking against the outdated tile. She yanks me up by my wrist until I’m wobbling beside her on trembling knees. “Come on. I’ll pour the tea. You grab the extra pillows from the bedroom. We’re going to make the most of this.”
Zombie me trudges through the apartment to grab some pillows before I plop down on the couch and unmute the streaming app. His title is front and center.
“Are you ready?” Joplin settles in next to me and pulls her legs up, her toes tickling my thigh.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “I’m ready.”
I press Play, and the opening scene unfolds: a little boy, auditioning his lines, the screen framed with an up-close image of his face. There is no music or soundtrack, just rustling in the background, shuffling feet, muddled voices, and a director giving cues.
“I always said I’d rather die for something than live for nothing,” the boy states, staring into the camera.
The frame slowly pans out, revealing who I presume to be Lex, voicing a well-rehearsed, effective monologue as a bustling studio comes into focus all around him. He’s only eight or nine in the scene. And the visual is captivating, instantly engaging.
I inhale a breath and lean back into the couch.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
And maybe…I’ll finally get answers.
***
We stay up until four a.m. watching every episode. Back to back. No bathroom breaks, no snack runs, no intermissions. Nearly six hours whiz by in total silence, save for the show.
When the final credits roll, my reflection stares back at me on the black screen.
Wide, stricken eyes. Tear-stained cheeks.
Mouth hitched with confusion, shell shock, and disbelief.
Joplin doesn’t say a word. She didn’t speak a word the entire time, and I know why, I know exactly why, because her expression mirrors mine in the glow of the television screen.
She reaches for my hand. Squeezes.
And I break.
I collapse against her shoulder with a wail as nearly four years of pent-up grief and fury crash over me like a tidal wave, battering me with slicing force.
I feel blindsided.
Thrown.
Lex didn’t just tell his story…
He took ours.
And shattered it.