8
Dale’s place reminds me of his college apartment.
The living room is small and cluttered with mismatched furniture. I scout a very fancy surround sound system setup. Music was always a priority for him. He once used a beer keg with a tablecloth to eat off of, but bought a four-track recorder with his first gig money.
As I weave my way toward the kitchen, I spot his guitar propped up in the corner—still the trusty Les Paul standard he swore he’d never replace.
Even now with Reytown money he seems to have kept his word.
His dad gave it to him before he died, and he always felt like he was closer to his dad when he played it.
After my dad died, I could relate to that.
The decorations, though, are less endearing and more ego trip.
The walls are literally plastered floor to ceiling with posters of him and his band—Cobra Strike.
Most of them feature Dale mid-performance—humping microphone stands with all the subtlety of a dumpster on fire or flicking his tongue out like he’s auditioning for a KISS tribute band.
The black-and-yellow snake logo has changed a bit since college—that’s why I didn’t recognize it at first. It looks more polished and professional. Dale must’ve hired an actual graphic designer rather than using the original logo he scribbled on his guitar case all those years ago.
The rest of Dale’s apartment looks like a Cobra Strike pop-up store.
There are Cobra Strike pillow shams scattered around the chairs and sofa (because nothing says sweet dreams like Dale’s kissy face on your bed), shot glasses with his tongue-out pose etched in frosted glass, T-shirts with song lyrics, and… are those… Cobra Strike bobbleheads?
When I flip on the kitchen light I suck in a breath and stumble back into the wall in horror. A life-size Dale plush sits at the table like he’s waiting for breakfast, too.
Who in their right mind wants a life-size stuffed Dale? Does it start singing their first single, “Love Hard,” when you squeeze its belly?
There’s a rustling behind me, and I turn to find real-life Dale, still in his flame-red boxers—thankfully at least he’s wearing an untied black silk robe—stumbling into the kitchen.
“I couldn’t go back to sleep,” he says, running his hands through his blue-blond hair so it sticks up all over the place. “Too nervous.”
He brushes past me to the coffee maker and begins measuring out the grounds.
I practically plaster myself against the wall. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen Dale. All of Dale. And those boxers and silk robe are really doing it for me, but despite the Cobra Strike ring on my finger, it still feels like he’s practically a stranger.
He taps a drumbeat out on the counter while he watches the coffee percolate.
“Nervous?” I echo. A lot has happened this morning, but I do remember him mentioning a gig with Spotify execs.
“A bunch of booking agents and press will be at tonight’s Christmas Eve party.
” He pauses his drum solo and looks at me hopefully.
This side of Dale—the vulnerable side—is the one I remember the most vividly.
It was probably the reason we lasted so long when we were together.
I’m not gonna lie, it felt good to be needed.
“This is usually when you tell me how awesome everything’s gonna be,” he says.
“Everything is going to be great,” I whisper, half for him, half for myself because my mind is still whirling. “Why don’t you take a shower, that’ll help you calm down,” I suggest. “I’ll get the rest of breakfast going.”
And more importantly, it’ll give me some time to myself to figure out what on earth is happening to me.
“Good idea,” he says, with a bashful smile. “Thanks. I can always count on you to cheer me up.”
He pours his coffee and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before ambling out of the kitchen.
The shower creaks on, letting me know I have a good half hour to myself. Dale always took his time in the morning.
I glance frantically at the front door. This would be the opportune time to make a run for it, wouldn’t it? But first I need to figure out where I am and how to get home. Shit. This may be a lot more complicated than I think.
Okay, next plan. Instinctively, I dial Juliet. She’ll know what to do. She’s a nurse. But the phone rings to voicemail. Damn. I text her a quick SOS.
I shove my phone in my pocket, grab a black-and-yellow heavy puffer coat from a chair near the door.
I can try to call her again from the car, assuming I have a car?
I riffle through a pile of junk on a nearby table, looking for my car keys, but only come up with a handful of guitar picks, phone chargers, and stacks of junk mail.
Instead, a bright red card slips from the mess and plops on the ground at my feet. It’s addressed to Dale, from Reytown Records. I pick it up and flip it over.
To: Mr. Quigley + guest
You and your band are cordially invited to perform at our exclusive holiday party and streaming celebration.
Where: The House, Ninth Avenue
When: Christmas Eve
What: We’re inviting our most exciting young stars to play a set in front of our friends and family and your biggest supporters this holiday season at our annual company holiday party.
Sponsored in part by Spotify, your performance will stream live on their Christmas Eve After Party Session for millions of listeners.
We’re so delighted to have you as part of the Reytown family and can’t wait to see what the new year holds.
Scrawled at the bottom is a handwritten note that reads:
Mr. Quigley,
Your Gulfstream is scheduled for departure at four o’clock. The limo will arrive at three o’clock to pick up you and Mary. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything further.
My legs wobble. Am I reading this right? A limo is going to pick us up and take us to a jet so my fiancé can perform at an exclusive holiday party for millions of listeners?
This was the party Dale was talking about? No wonder he’s nervous.
I glance up and take in the room again with new eyes.
In between the posters sporting his own likeness, there are other things, too: framed certificates and plaques announcing a Spotify Editorial list, an Apple Up Next feature, each bigger and more prestigious than the next.
I remember talking about these awards with him when he was dreaming about Cobra Strike’s future in college.
I’d assumed they were just that, dreams. But it looks like Dale’s actually done it. He’s living the dream.
So why does that make my stomach hurt?
I whip out my phone and do a quick Google search. Hundreds of articles pop up with headlines like “Cobra Strike: The Hottest New Metal Band You Need to Be Listening To!” There are TikToks showing him singing onstage and the rest of his band killing it in front of cheering audiences.
I unfollowed him on all my socials after he dumped me, but surely Juliet would have informed me about Dale’s rise to fame. She never unfollows anyone. Now I can’t stop scrolling, taking it all in.
One of the headlines freezes me in place.
“Who Is She? Dale Quigley’s Mystery Girl Sets the Internet Alight After Couple Spotted Backstage at Cobra Strike’s South by Southwest Performance.”
My heart is beating in my throat as I click on the link and scroll.
There are photos of him and his bandmates playing onstage.
He’s hamming it up for the fans as he always does.
Then another photo of him with his arm wrapped around a girl in jean cutoffs and a band T-shirt.
Her back is to us, but my blood runs cold.
That’s me. But I have zero memory of any of this happening.
“Damn, how does it feel to be living my dream?” someone has written in the comments.
“Luckiest girl in the world,” says another.
“Oh, I wish Dale would Love Me Hard like this chick.”
“Whatcha doing?” Dale’s voice makes me flinch so hard I almost drop my phone. I exit out of the article and lay the black-and-yellow puffer coat back on a chair.
So much for trying to make a break for it.
“Sorry,” I falter. Since telling him I was searching Google for clues about my past may have him checking me into the ER, I go with a more plausible story. “I—I just got caught up texting my mom for Christmas Eve. She’s sad that we’re going to miss her big Noche Buena dinner.”
His expression flattens. “You can FaceTime her from the jet,” he says. “I bet she’ll forget all about her dinner when she sees you sipping champagne with a rock star.”
He’s only wearing a towel, and his wet hair is slicked back. He does a little dance, which I recognize now from the many TikToks I watched. I have to admit it looks pretty sexy, especially with his towel dangerously close to falling off—and wait, no, we’re not going there, brain.
“My mom would never forget about Noche Buena. It’s a family tradition,” I say with a huff, marching back into the kitchen and grabbing breakfast items.
Thinking about Mom sends a pang of sadness through me. Is my family doing their usual Christmas Eve things today? Breakfast was always such a big important moment for every Silva Christmas. I hate how things went during the last Christmas Eve breakfast I spent with them.
They’re probably about to gorge themselves on an “island breakfast spread”—silog meals with garlic fried rice, eggs, and fried tocino and longanisa sausages. Maybe I can at least try to re-create them here.
I head to the fridge half expecting to find what used to live in Dale’s fridge back in college: old takeout and beer. But instead, I find it’s pleasantly well stocked, with eggs and cheese and even some orange juice. Okay, I can work with this.
Five minutes later, I’m flipping our omelets as I sneak a look at my phone. Juliet hasn’t responded. And why hasn’t anyone called to check in?