13. Othelia
Chapter thirteen
Othelia
Present Day
The sun has just begun peaking over the horizon. I stare out at Lake Michigan, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, my black dress and cardigan giving no protection from the late November weather and the wind coming off the lake, but the bone deep numbness I feel today has nothing to do with how much the weather has changed since I was last here.
How has it only been a month since we were all smiles, sitting in a hospital room with my three favorite people? Just staring at the newest edition to our family.
“Sloane, she is perfect.” I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s the perfect mix of them both. Sloane’s dark hair and wide eyes, Rian’s nose and lips.
A second later, she pouts, the scrunch on her little face making her even more adorable. “Oh look, she looks like Rian on the bench when they lost last week,” I coo.
“Shut up, Tilly!” Rian growls back, his attention quickly turned back to the two most important people in the room.
The glow that surrounds them both is like a haze, a feeling of completeness that spreads around the room like the sun cresting over the water at dawn. Like they are both just absorbing in this new level of love, a different love, and it radiates from them.
The scrunched face turns into an ear-splitting scream that would give even me a run for my money. The two are oblivious, seamlessly moving together to get her what she needs. Tucked safely against Sloane as she feeds, the two just stare at each other.
“She is going to move mountains, Til. She will be a force to be reckoned with.” The glow from Sloane’s smile warms my heart.
“You’re damn right she will.”
A small cough interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see Dominic waiting for me, dressed in all black.
“The others have arrived, Othelia. They’ll meet us at the funeral home. I’ve also been in contact with Chicago PD and the street will be sectioned off from the public. I know you were concerned with the band and half the NHL all in one place, that it might become a media storm.”
I nod, straightening, taking one last look out on the water before turning and walking up to him. I place my hand on his chest. “Thanks Dom, I appreciate it. Today already feels impossible.” Breaking his protocol, he pulls me in for a crushing hug. Tears pool in my eyes as I grab him just as fiercely.
“We need to leave now if we’re to make it to your mother’s in time”
Releasing me, he steps back, straightening his jacket and inhaling through his nose. “One day at a time, Miss James,” he says and he holds his hand out. Only, I don’t want to live this day.
With my heels in one hand, I softly tap on the bedroom door. After waiting a few seconds and not receiving a response, I press down on the handle and crack open the door.
My eyes drift over the familiar space, dark blue walls covered in hockey posters and trophies. Built-in shelves and a desk cover the closest wall, still filled with books and homework, like he had just finished cramming for an exam and not graduated nearly a decade ago.
After no complaint at my intrusion, I push the door wider, taking in the shell of a man sitting on the end of a twin bed. Head bent over his knees, hands pushed into his unruly dirty blond hair that once matched my own. His normally hulking frame, a force to be reckoned with on the ice, seems half the size.
My brother, my protector, once the life of the party, now drained, hollow. He looks up at me, gray eyes rimmed in red, pierce straight into my heart. Leaning against the door frame, I drop my shoes in the doorway.
“You really didn’t need to try so hard to get me back into this house.”
He snorts, a flash of the brother I knew, before he shrugs. “Well, it has been a while.”
“Hey, at least your room is a time capsule, a shrine to your greatness. Mine is now a personal gym.” I make my way over to the bookshelves, running my fingers across the spines of the books, before landing on the worn leather spine of a book with no name. I slide my finger across the deckled pages, tilting the book and hearing a click of a lock opening. Feeling pleased with myself, I pull out the hidden draw, grabbing the contents before spinning back around to face Rian.
“I knew you had the goods hidden in here somewhere.” I open the small flask, taking a whiff before shrugging and taking a swig anyway. My face pinches as the acrid taste hits my mouth, followed by a nasty burning sensation. “Ok, good, might’ve been an exaggeration.”
Closing the distance, I hold the flask out with one hand. He grabs it from me, taking a swig, swallowing without even batting an eyelid. I drop to the floor, sitting with my legs crossed, and I fiddle with the hem of my lace dress.
“Serena wanted me to let you know we were heading to the church in fifteen minutes.”
He nods, taking another mouthful before handing it back to me. I screw the lid back on, placing it on the floor beside me.
Rian shakes his head, letting out an exasperated sigh as he looks up at the ceiling. “How the fuck am I supposed to do this?”
“No one’s expecting you to have your shit together today, Ri. We are all shattered over losing her. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“She was my life, T. I love hockey, but she was my breath. She gave me purpose and meaning. Something that made all the hard days worth it. I didn’t have to be the hockey prodigy with her. There were zero expectations. She just wanted my love, and God did I love her. I loved her so fucking much.”
My heart breaks with each word. We all knew he loved Sloane. It was written on his face the second she accidentally spilled beer all over him at a party when they were eighteen. The second their eyes met, he was unequivocally hers. Through all of college and him being drafted into the NHL, with all the media and female attention. His love never wavered. They had the love of a lifetime until an undiagnosed heart condition stole her away in the middle of the night.
“She was so ready for all of this. Ready to grow our family. I’ve never seen someone more suited to being a mother. The love she had for Layla just burst out of her. Even when she was up all night, screaming her lungs out. She would put on Hopeless Mercy and dance with her all over the house until she calmed down.”
My heart clenches at the memory. Videos sent to me while I spent the last few weeks back on tour, now my last happy memories of my best friend. Sloane singing along to my songs with Layla, pretending to mosh with her tiny little fists. Tears well in my eyes and I look toward the window, biting down on my tongue to squash the urge to break down again.
“I was frustrated, out of my mind, but she was so calm and took everything in stride. We had fuck-all sleep and Layla had just crashed out on her chest. I rolled towards them and complained about how much harder this was than I expected. She just grinned at me and said, ‘but look at what we have created!’” He shakes his head as he stands, pacing towards the massive window overlooking the Chicago skyline, running his hands through his hair before letting them drop to his sides.
“We’d had less than three hours of sleep in two days and all she could do was smile, fucking grin, like we’d just won the lottery. Now she’s gone and I’m left here, lost. How the fuck am I supposed to look after Layla? How am I supposed to live up to that? She had the best mom anyone could ask for and she didn’t even have time to gain memories of her.” He grips the windowsill, squeezing his eyes shut before dropping his forehead against the windowpane.
I stand, walking over to him and hugging him from behind. Leaning my cheek against his back, he shudders out a sob in my arms. “She has you.”
He breaks, body shaking. He turns to face me, wrapping his large frame around me, engulfing me in his scent.
I place my hands on his cheeks. “She has you and you have me. I know I’m not her and my love can’t make up for all you have lost, but you are not alone. You’re my brother and I am here for as long as you need me.”
“What about the tour?”
“The guys get it, and the fans will understand. And if they don’t, then they aren’t the type of fans I would want, anyway. We can reschedule. It doesn’t matter, I’m not leaving. Even if living near Mom will be the most excruciating form of torture.”
Another snort, the sound lightening something in my chest.
“Now, let’s get downstairs before Mom blames me for us being late.” Scooping up his suit jacket, I hand it to him. I tuck the flask inside his jacket pocket before tapping my hand over it. “I’m sure we’ll need that before that day is through, and if you don’t, I sure as hell will.”
Turning and making my way towards the bedroom door, I stop at the sound of his voice.
“Thank you, Othelia. I know you have a packed-out schedule but I really appreciate you dropping everything to be here.”
A small smile graces my lips. “Always.”
“Othelia, I asked you to do one job: ensure your brother was ready to leave on time. Now we are running late and you know how I feel about that,” my mother grunts while fixing her hair in the hall mirror. As always, she’s the picture of perfection. Perfectly styled blond waves, expertly rolled into her signature chignon. Even as she’s aged, her beauty has never faded. A model from her teens, she prides herself on maintaining a high level of opulence and decorum even well into her sixties. Pity kindness never factored into her personality.
I stand at the base of the stairs, slipping my heels back on as per the rules of the house: no shoes allowed on the carpet. Even at twenty-six I can’t be trusted to walk on the carpet in shoes. I’m surprised that at this point I'm allowed to drink out of glasses and not be told to use plastic cups.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I turn to face my brother, winking, as I mouth, I told you so . The slightest lift of one side of his mouth, the briefest flash of a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes as he walks past us.
“Sorry, I was just gathering my thoughts,” Rian offers.
She turns to face him, placing one hand on his cheek. “That’s okay, love, you take as much time as you need.” This time I do roll my eyes. She turns to look me over, that perusing gaze I’m long used to. Bracing myself for the comment that is sure to come.
“Othelia, could you not find something more… suitable for a funeral?” Her eyebrows raise as she continues her judgment where, as usual, I am found to be severely lacking. “You are far too big to be wearing that type of outfit. You’d think by now you would be able to appropriately dress yourself, but I suppose those people you surround yourself with are hardly any better. If you told me sooner, I could’ve had my assistant send you details of stylists. I might get her to do it anyway. Although they are used to working with models, I am sure they could find more suitable outfits to fill your wardrobe. Maybe an update might make Clay change his mind about the break-up. Shame we can’t fix those silly drawings you have placed all over yourself.”
I recoil, even though I don’t want to. You’d think by now I would be used to the comments on my weight or style (or lack thereof). No, I am not thin. My hips are wider than some, my large chest filling out a natural hourglass figure. My soft curves are something I love, something that has taken me a long time to be proud of, especially in my line of work.
Being the lead singer of a rock band, my looks are always the talk of someone. I can’t leave my house without someone taking my photo or making a comment. I learned early in the business to avoid any sort of tabloid and limit my online presence.
I resist the urge to look in the full-length mirror as she turns, picking up her bag and sunglasses off the hall table. I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she hit her mark.
“They’re called tattoos, Mother. And I left him, not the other way around.”
She makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “Yes, well… at least you had the decency to cover some of them.” She gives me one last once-over before turning away and holding the door open for Rian before following him outside, leaving the door to slowly close in front of me.
Once she’s out of sight, my insecurities keep me from continuing without a quick glance at the mirror, taking in the long-sleeved black dress I’ve paired with tights and a large brimmed black velvet hat.
Sloane had picked this dress for my first album launch party. We had both fallen in love with the embroidered roses on the collar and cuffs, a delicate gold chain embellished the waistband of the A-line skater skirt. She had described it as the perfect balance of witchy goth vibes, while being perfectly adorable.
It also compliments my curves, hitting the peaks and dips in all the right places, which had made me feel invincible that night of the launch party. I hoped some of that invincibility would rub off today.
Those memories had me grabbing this outfit over any other in my wardrobe. Sloane bouncing from shop to shop, directing shop attendants to bring anything and everything. We spent hours looking for the perfect dress. It was the best afternoon considering life and commitments had kept us away from each other for months at a time.
I smooth out my long silver hair braid and cover my red-rimmed eyes with black sunglasses. I wrap my arms around myself as an extra barrier to the blustery day before I make my way towards the door.
The memory of Sloane’s excited squeals as I exited the dressing room carry me forward.
I sit on a stool with my guitar and overlook the gathered crowd. The service concludes after close to two hours. When the main service wraps up, the minister opens the floor to anyone wanting to share a memory of Sloane. Over an hour of friends and family sharing the best memories they have, cementing in all our minds, just how shattered we all are at the loss.
My brother had asked me to perform a song while Sloane’s casket was carried out of the chapel. In over ten years of performing in public, I have never felt so nervous. Today, there is no hiding behind flashing lights and smoke machines. Today I am just Tilly: a heartbroken girl sitting alone, singing for her best friend, hoping that wherever she is that she can hear me.
I choose to play an acoustic version of Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven”: Sloane’s favorite. British rock, something she could never get enough of. I can’t count the amount of times we drove down the highway on one of her adventures or to one of Ri’s away games, with The Beatles, The Rolling Stones or Led Zeppelin playing so loud the back window shook. We would sip on frappes and sing our hearts out.
Looking up at the picture of Sloane’s smiling face on the slideshow of memories, taking one shuddering breath to steady myself, I slowly play the opening chords.
My eyes wander the mourning crowd: tears falling, people cradling each other, until they land on a familiar set of stormy blues. His gaze pierces through me, as he ignores Maverick sitting to his left. His eyes soften as he drinks me in, and I look away, not capable of facing any of the emotions that he drags to the surface.
The movement of six men standing pulls my attention back to the front of the church. I seek out my brother, finding him standing stoic next to the beautiful box that now holds his wife: the mother of his child. His blood-shot eyes are the only sign of the shattering of his heart that I know is happening within.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I block everything out, concentrating on the words as they flow through me, sending all my strength to Ri and baby Layla, who will have no memory of this day and the change that will occur in her father. I sing of being strong and finding a way through this, even if we don’t want to, even when it feels impossible. I silently pray to whatever god is out there that wherever Sloane is, she is at peace, able to watch us so she can still enjoy Layla’s life, even if she can’t be here with us anymore.
As the song finishes, the casket is pushed into the hearse, ready to take her to her final home. Leaving my guitar against the stool, I make my way down the aisle overflowing with crying loved ones.
Walking up to the hearse, I find Rian standing next to it, eyes blank as he stares through the glass at the casket now overflowing with Japanese peonies and lotus flowers: Sloane’s favorite. I slip my hand into his and squeeze, placing my other hand against the glass.
I whisper my last farewell to the other half of my crazy.
“I love you, Sloane.”