Chapter 28 Not So Happy Halloween
Not So Happy Halloween
SYDNEY
The Stagger Inn is Halloween-central tonight, a horror show of sexy nurses grinding against zombie firefighters while “Monster Mash” blares from speakers.
I tug at my red yarn wig, which feels like fire ants colonizing my scalp, and try not to make eye contact with the group of early twenty-somethings pointing and giggling at my Raggedy Ann disaster.
Great. Even in a room full of monsters, I’m still the biggest freak.
“There she is! My favorite demented doll!” Zoe’s voice cuts through the automated cackling witch sitting on the bar.
She slinks toward me in a skintight black leather catsuit that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, complete with ears, whiskers drawn on with eyeliner, and a tail that swishes behind her as she walks.
“I hate you right now.” I pull at the blue checkered dress Mom cobbled together from a tablecloth years ago. “You could have reminded me it was Halloween.”
“I texted you!” She hands me something that looks radioactive in a plastic cauldron-shaped cup. “Three times. Not my fault you’ve been hibernating, Syd Who Hid.”
I wince at the nickname she’s given me since my exit from Brooks’ life two days ago. “I’ve been busy. Preparing for LA.”
“Sure, and I’m actually Catwoman.” Zoe rolls her eyes, then pushes me toward an empty high-top in the corner. “Drink that. It’s called a ‘Witch’s Brew-haha.’ Two of those and you won’t remember why you’ve been crying into your Cheerios all week.”
“I don’t eat Cheerios,” I say weakly. “And I haven’t been crying.” Much.
“Your puffy eyes say otherwise, sweetie.” Zoe settles into her seat with feline grace. “Now spill. What happened with Mr. Hockey God? One minute you’re engaged, the next you’re back in your apartment building a nest out of ice cream containers.”
I take a sip of my drink—it tastes like someone liquefied a pack of Skittles and added rocket fuel—and it burns all the way down. “It’s complicated.”
“Nope. Not that one again. I have all night, and you need to talk about it with someone who isn’t your reflection.”
“Fine.” The truth pours out of me, fueled by whatever hellish concoction is in my plastic cauldron.
I tell her almost everything—Maisie’s remission, the accidental proposal, Jonah’s cryptic warning, Brooks practically shoving me out the door when I mentioned LA.
I leave out the part about Brooks’ secret.
“So wait.” Zoe leans forward so far her whiskers nearly dip into her “Vampire’s Kiss-my-ass” cocktail. “His grandmother faked still having cancer just to get you two together? That’s either the most romantic or most psychotic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Both?” I signal the bartender for another round. “But the worst part is... it worked. I fell for him, Zoe. Hard.”
“No kidding. The question is, did he fall for you too?”
I stare into my empty cup, watching the last neon-green droplets swirl at the bottom. “I thought so. At the cabin, all those nights together... it felt real. But then as soon as I mentioned LA, he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”
“Men are morons.” Zoe accepts fresh drinks from a server dressed as a Titanic victim. “Especially hot ones with damaged shoulders and commitment issues.”
“It’s more than that.” I struggle to find the words as alcohol soaks my brain. “It was like he was... relieved. Like he was looking for an excuse to end things.”
“Or,” Zoe says, pointing a black-painted fingernail at me, “he was trying to be noble and self-sacrificing. You know, ‘I must push away the woman I love so she can follow her dreams’ type of horseshit.”
I snort, sending a spray of green liquid. “Brooks Kingston, noble and self-sacrificing?”
“People change, Syd. Especially when they fall in love.”
Love. The word sits between us.
“Enough with Syd the Sad Sack.” Zoe slams her cup down with such force that her tail twitches. “We need to laugh. So, would you rather... have sex with a hockey player in full gear, including the mouth guard, or a smoking hot sports anchor who has some weird toe fetish?”
I choke on my drink. “What kind of choice is that?”
“A hilarious one. Answer the question, Sports Queen.”
“Fine. The hockey gear, obviously. No toe fetishes.”
Zoe grins wickedly. “Would you rather your one-night hookup see you like this,” she gestures at my Raggedy Ann ensemble, “or naked but covered in blue body paint?”
“Blue paint,” I say without hesitation. “At least then he’d be distracted by the nudity.”
“Would you rather have to share a locker room with the entire Denver hockey team after they’ve played three back-to-back games, or spend three weeks living with Maisie knowing she’s been listening through the walls every time you’ve had sex?”
“Oh my god.” I groan, dropping my forehead to the sticky table. “You’re evil.”
“I’m helping.” Zoe pats my yarn-covered head. “Laughter is the best medicine. Besides tequila.”
The game continues, each scenario more outrageous than the last, until I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face, smearing whatever makeup I applied in my half-hearted costume attempt.
“Distinguished guests!” The DJ’s voice booms across the bar. “It’s time for our annual Halloween Karaoke Contest! Who’s brave enough to come up and show us what you’ve got?”
“You should do it.” Zoe’s eyes gleam.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head, making my yarn pigtails whip around.
“Come on, it’ll be cathartic. Sing out your feelings!”
“My feelings are best buried deep and repressed.”
But Zoe’s already raising her hand, and the DJ is pointing at our table. “Looks like we have a volunteer. The sad little rag doll in the corner!”
“I will murder you in your sleep,” I hiss as the crowd chants, “Doll! Doll! Doll!”
“You’ll thank me later.” She shoves me toward the small stage. “Pick something emotional. Let it all out.”
Somehow, I end up on stage, microphone in hand, scrolling through song options while the crowd cheers. And then I see it—Celine Dion’s “All By Myself.” It’s so on-the-nose it’s almost a parody, but three Witch’s Brew-hahas have obliterated my judgment.
The opening notes fill the bar, and I close my eyes, swaying slightly.
My voice cracks on the second verse, a warbling, off-key disaster that makes several people near the stage wince. But I push on, building to the chorus with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.
Then I belt out the chorus, definitely not wanting to be all by myself, one hand clutching my heart, the other reaching dramatically toward the ceiling.
I’m dimly aware that I’m making a spectacle of myself, that my makeup is running in black streaks down my cheeks, and that my wig is slipping sideways. But at this moment, I don’t care. The alcohol and the music and the raw emotion of the past few days converge into a perfect storm.
I throw everything I have into the final chorus, closing my eyes and picturing Brooks’ face as he told me to go to LA, as he all but pushed me out the door.
The note I attempt is so far beyond my range it might as well be in another solar system, but I hold it anyway, voice cracking and wobbling like a dying hyena.
When I finally open my eyes, the bar is silent. For one horrifying moment, I think they’re about to boo me off stage. Then someone starts clapping, then another, and suddenly the whole place erupts in applause and whistles.
“That was... something,” the DJ says, taking the microphone back with what looks like relief. “Give it up for Raggedy Ann!”
I stumble off the stage, face burning, only to trip over my own floppy costume shoes. I go down hard, arms windmilling, landing flat on my back with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. The crowd roars again, this time with laughter.
Zoe helps me up, barely containing her laughter. “That was the most glorious thing I’ve ever witnessed.” She steers me toward the bar where the DJ is holding out a cheap plastic trophy.
“I hate you,” I mutter, accepting the trophy with as much dignity as a drunken, literal raggedy doll can muster.
“No, you don’t,” she says. “You love me so hard.”
She’s right, and we both know it.
An hour later, we’re stumbling through the bar to leave, arm in arm, my wig more askew and Zoe’s cat ears somehow turned backward on her head.
“You know what the worst part is?” I stop to say, my voice slurring. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without him.”
“Do what? Live? Breathe? Go to LA and kick ass at your dream job?” Zoe turns to face me. “Sydney Holt, you are the strongest, most independent woman I know. You’ve been handling your life just fine before Brooks Kingston came along, and you’ll handle it just fine after he’s gone.”
“But what if he was right to push me away?” The question that’s been gnawing at me for days finally escapes because I’m too drunk to hold it in. “Jonah said Brooks had some horrible secret. Something that would make me walk away if I knew.”
Zoe frowns, her whiskers crinkling. “Did Jonah tell you what it was?”
“No. Said it wasn’t his to tell.”
“Well, I saw you two together, and that man looked at you like you hung the moon, Syd. And that was before this whole fake relationship thing started.”
“You think?”
“I know. And the way he was with you these past three weeks? No one’s that good an actor, not even for his dying grandmother. Which I’m so glad she’s not actually dying, by the way.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound watery and thin. “God, what a mess. And now I’m headed to LA for this interview, my dream job, hello, and he’s cleared to play hockey again, so our fake relationship had to end, anyway. I know it’s probably for the—”
I freeze mid-sentence, spotting a familiar figure sitting at the end of the bar, very close to us. Donny Dexter, his blond hair unmistakable even in the dim light. How long has he been there? How much did he hear?
“What?” Zoe follows my gaze. “Oh, great. Dickhead Donny.”
“If he heard me talking about LA...” I whisper, panic slicing through my alcohol haze.
“He didn’t hear anything,” Zoe tries to reassure me. “And even if he did, it’s not like you’ve accepted a job offer yet. You’re just interviewing.”
But we both know that in the small, incestuous world of local TV news, even the hint that you’re looking elsewhere can be career suicide.
Stations want loyalty, especially from their on-air talent.
And if Donny tells the station that not only am I looking to leave, but that Brooks Kingston won’t be available for future co-broadcasting spots because our relationship—our fake relationship—is over. ..
“If he heard, I’m screwed,” I say flatly, suddenly much more sober than I was two minutes ago. “Completely and utterly screwed.”