Zoe
Philadelphia, 2024
I didn’t mean for it to happen,”
told her great-aunt.
She sounded wretched.
But nowhere near as wretched as she felt.
“So let me make sure I understand,”
said Bess, who, clearly, had no intention of making this easy.
was going to have to say it all out loud, going over every shameful act, every deceitful choice.
Every lie she’d told, every agonizing memory, every time she’d had a chance to do the right thing and had done the wrong thing instead.
She started at what she thought was the beginning—when the label called them back to New York City, to fill a last-minute vacancy on Saturday Night Live.
Jerry had made the call himself.
It had been December of 2003, almost a year after the first time she and Cassie had sung together onstage.
The Battle of the Bands felt like a lifetime ago, like they’d become completely different people than they’d been in Philadelphia.
They’d been in Washington— remembered the Washington Monument, rising, ivory white and undeniably phallic, thrusting into the sky, but if it wasn’t for that, they could have been anywhere.
After all the time they’d spent on the road, everything looked pretty much the same: highways and hotel rooms, the backstages of concert halls, the inside of the tour bus.
There was a world outside the bus’s windows—sometimes deserts, sometimes mountains; sometimes snowy, sometimes sere, or gray and rainy, or lush and green—but, mostly, that world blurred past while they slept or played cards or leafed through magazines.
After all those shows, the band was tight—so connected that they barely had to look at one another when they played.
Tommy would click his drumsticks together, counting off the beats, and Cam’s bass would come in, dark and sticky, and then Russell and Cassie would start to play, his guitar layered over her keys.
’s arm would lift, her tambourine flashing, and she and Cassie would lean precisely the right distance toward their microphones and start to sing.
There were no missed steps or wrong notes; no forgotten lyrics or fumbled key changes.
They were young and (mostly) gorgeous, and the Saturday Night Live invitation was nothing less than their due.
Jerry had arranged a packed schedule: three days to rehearse and shoot Saturday Night Live, then Total Request Live on Monday afternoon, where they’d debut their new single, which they’d play again on the Today show on Tuesday morning.
In between, and Russell would tape an interview with Howard Stern.
They’d asked Cassie, but Cassie had refused.
“Do you remember what he did to Carnie Wilson?”
she’d demanded, when had started begging.
, along with the entire Western world, had, in fact, heard that interview, and what Howard Stern had said, and done, to Carnie Wilson.
She knew about the scale Howard’s people had hidden underneath the welcome mat, and how Howard had shared the number with both the listening and viewing audience, and had then grilled Carnie’s boyfriend.
“How can you possibly be attracted to her?”
he’d demanded.
“Are you gay? Is this a beard situation? Are you just into her for her money?”
understood why Cassie was afraid.
The label had put them up in a hotel on Central Park South, nicer than the places they normally stayed at, and she and Cassie had been upgraded to a two-bedroom, two-bathroom suite.
There was a spacious living room, the drapes and carpets and furniture all in shades of blue and silver, full of flowers that the label had sent over, and several bottles of champagne from Saturday Night Live.
’s clothes, delivered by the label’s stylist, were already hanging in the closet.
All those years later, she could recall each outfit: the minidress made of golden paillettes with a pair of high gold heels that she would wear when they sang their first song, “The Gift,”
and a floor-length slip dress made of bottle-green silk that made her feel like a forest nymph for the second song, “Last Night in Fishtown.”
The third look was a crop top of dark wine-colored velvet, paired with boot-cut flared jeans so tight she had to lie on a bed and suck in her stomach to get them on, and high-heeled leather boots.
She would wear the jeans and velvet top when they shot the promotional photos of the band, the ones they’d use in the televised spots, and then the same pants and boots with a white, puff-sleeved top and a cropped blazer for TRL.
Poor Cassie had gotten just one outfit for everything: another boxy, shoulder-padded pantsuit with different tops to wear underneath.
That one had been navy blue, with silk lapels, a daring departure from the usual black.
“Do you want me to say something?”
had asked, walking back and forth across the dove-gray carpet to break in her new gold shoes.
Her sister had just shrugged.
“Rosie O’Donnell wears suits like these.”
Cassie was never what you’d call talkative, but as the band had gotten more successful, she’d gotten even quieter.
In the past weeks, her silence had, thought, a different quality: less watchful and curious, more sullen and morose.
didn’t know what Cassie had to be sad about.
At every show they played, more and more girls and young women would push their way to the front of the crowds or wait backstage.
Plain girls, plump girls, girls with glasses, girls with braces, girls with limp, greasy hair or wild, frizzy curls.
Girls no guy would look at twice; girls who’d been lonely all their lives.
Those girls would be out by the dozen.
They’d cry when they saw Cassie, or they’d try to touch her—her sleeve, her hair, her shoulder—like she was some holy thing.
Like she could heal them.
herself would have relished that attention, but this emerging fan club only seemed to make Cassie uncomfortable; sadder, instead of happier.
told herself not to worry.
That, for once, Cassie could be Cassie’s problem, not hers.
New York City sparkled in December.
Skaters in Rockefeller Center went gliding along underneath the giant Christmas tree, the carved lions outside the New York Public Library wore red-ribboned wreaths around their necks, and all the store windows were crammed with gorgeous displays of the most covetable clothes, or toys, or shoes, or handbags.
As a Jewish girl, felt conflicted about enjoying the decorations, but there was no denying the beauty of the season, or how everyone seemed especially cheerful.
On Friday afternoon, the band went to the SNL studios to rehearse.
The host that week was an actress named Kimmy Brandt.
and Russell were doing a skit, where they pretended to be patrons at a diner where everyone was in a musical and sang instead of talking.
The producers had wanted Cassie to participate, but Cassie had turned them down with a simple “No thank you.”
supposed she admired her sister’s convictions, her boundaries.
Personally, she’d decided that there was nothing she wouldn’t do, no opportunity to be onstage or on-screen she wouldn’t welcome.
Maybe some producer or agent would see her and be blown away by her acting, impressed enough to cast her in a film.
Maybe she and Kimmy would become best friends.
Stranger things had happened.
After the skit, they ran through the songs: first, “The Gift.”
On a song like that, a thumping breakup anthem, was fine.
She knew that what her voice lacked in nuance and tunefulness, she could make up for in volume and intensity, and that people would be more interested in looking at her than hearing her.
But the second song, “Last Night in Fishtown,”
was a ballad.
There was no shout-singing, no thundering guitar licks or buzzing bass line to hide behind.
No way to fake it.
It was a quiet, introspective kind of song.
Cassie sang the lead, with joining in on the chorus.
That was how they’d done it at the rehearsal, a few hours before the real show.
But on Saturday night, with the television cameras wheeling around them to catch every note, every expression on their faces, Cassie had nodded at after the first chorus, and had taken the second verse, all by herself.
She’d never been in better voice, had never come closer to sounding like she belonged on the same stage as her sister.
“Last night in Fishtown / It all rotted from the head down / And it’s too dark down here to find our way again . . .”
Cassie joined her for only the final notes, which hung, for a moment, in an unbroken silence.
It felt perfect; like the sky had opened up and rained down glitter; like she was glowing, shining, forever marked by this moment.
She could picture the studio audience, just past the footlights, gazing at them raptly.
She could feel Tommy’s attention, the space between her shoulders burning with the intensity of his stare.
Best of all, Russell had been looking at her too.
Not at Cassie.
At her.
He’d given a flash of a smile, a quick thumbs-up ...
and then the applause had started, a thundering wave of it, and it had gone on and on, as stood there, holding her microphone, smiling shyly, looking down at the fringed Oriental rug that covered the stage, at the Christmas lights that hung behind them, wanting to inscribe all of the details in her mind so she would remember every bit of it, forever.
She’d been with Russell for six months by then, and if someone had asked her to describe the relationship, and she’d answered honestly, she would have said, “Challenging.”
She and Russell had great chemistry.
When they slept together—provided he was not distracted and hadn’t been drinking—the sex was great.
Or, at least good.
Most of the time.
Bed was where they connected the best, a place where they didn’t have to make conversation, or music, where they both wanted the same thing and could just be bodies, coming together in the dark.
But for the rest of the time, the out-of-bed time, things were harder.
Russell wasn’t that much older than , but his experiences were different.
All his life, he’d immersed himself in music in a way that she had not.
’s focus on the female pop stars of the 1990s and early aughts had been deep but narrow, informed by MTV.
Russell was a reader, a serious student of music.
And he seemed to know everything about every kind of music there was.
Name a record, and he’d heard it.
Name a genre, and he could tell you about its best practitioners; name an artist, and he could rattle off a list of that person’s albums and songs.
Jazz, blues, classical, musicals, even Gregorian chants.
Russell knew them all—knew their history, and how they connected and influenced one another.
couldn’t talk to him about any of that.
Cassie could . . . and so Russell spent more time talking to Cassie than he did to . Which was fine, told herself. As long as he came back to her, as long as she was the one holding his hand, sharing his bed, what did it matter who he sat with on the bus? Why should it bother her that he sometimes seemed to be looking for excuses to get away from her? Sometimes she’d sit with him while he talked about Philip Glass and Laurie Anderson with Cassie, who knew who both of those people were, and had listened to their music, but, usually, she’d get bored and wander back to her seat on the bus or her hotel room. Or she’d flirt with Tommy, if she thought that Russell needed a reminder of how desirable she was. “I’ve got the worst pain, right here,”
she’d tell Tommy, indicating her shoulder.
“Rub my back?”
Tommy would rub her back for hours, if would allow it.
He’d probably have learned to braid her hair, if she’d asked.
Tommy would happily accompany her to the mall, when Russell and Cam found a nearby park to play basketball during the handful of hours they were free.
Tommy was cute, and sweet, and he never made her feel stupid about the things she didn’t know.
It was relaxing, even restorative, thought, to spend time with someone who adored her unconditionally, a guy she wasn’t constantly trying to win.
Tommy, of course, wanted to be more than friends.
And wasn’t completely uninterested.
Nor was she uninterested in Anson Kendall, the actor she’d met at the party the label had held when their video debuted, who’d talked to her for twenty minutes by the bar, and had smiled when he’d asked for her number.
And there’d been the man in their hotel gym in Topeka who’d handed his water bottle when she’d gotten off the treadmill, red-faced and panting, whose gaze had been frankly appreciative as he’d asked if she had plans for the night.
And the cute guy who’d waited for her, in the rain, after their show in Kansas City, with a bouquet of roses and a handwritten note that said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
had left that note out on the desk in her hotel room that night, hoping that Russell would see it ...
but, if he had, he’d never said anything.
tried to tell herself that what she felt for Russell was true love; love that wasn’t tainted with fear or insecurity; love that had nothing to do with her place in the band.
But sometimes, she’d wake up in the middle of the night.
In the darkness, she could force herself to think the truth, to be honest, even if it was only with herself.
She liked Russell.
He was cute, and kind, and talented.
But knew she was hanging on to him as hard as she could for reasons that had nothing to do with his attributes—his sweet smile, his gentle hands—and everything to do with her own failings.
As long as Russell loved her, her place in the Griffin Sisters was secure.
And if Russell was done with her, the label would be, too.
The Griffin Sisters would become the Griffin Sister, or even just Cassie Griffin.
And so she hung on hard, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Even though she wasn’t convinced that there wasn’t a better guy out there for her, somewhere in the world.
Even though she felt—or imagined that she could feel—Russell trying to pull away from her. Even though she knew, when she was honest enough to admit it, that she felt drawn to other men.
But that night, in New York, everything between them—everything in the world—had been perfect.
The first after-party began right after the show ended, at a restaurant inside Saks Fifth Avenue.
Walking through the store’s front doors, past the displays of perfumes and purses on her way to the elevators, still in her green silk wood-nymph dress, with her heels click-clacking on the marble floors, felt like the heroine of the children’s book about the girl and her brother who’d snuck into a museum in New York City after hours.
Russell’s hand was warm in hers, and she’d passed so quickly from the car into the building that she didn’t have time to feel the cold.
They stepped into the elevators, and out again, into a restaurant packed with people—performers and writers and their partners; friends and relatives; random celebrities: a movie star here, a rapper there.
There’d been an open bar, waiters passing appetizers—tiny crab cakes and mushroom tartlets on phyllo dough; skewers of chicken with spicy peanut sauce.
hadn’t eaten dinner, but she was too excited to have more than a few oysters and a glass of champagne before they’d all piled into a taxi and gone on to the dive bar hosting the next party.
That bar, remembered, had been down a half flight of steps.
It had a low tin ceiling, a pair of vintage pinball machines in the corner, and a spiral staircase in the center that rose up to a restaurant on the ground level.
It had been loud, and hot, and there had been trays of sliders on the bar, along with more champagne, and tequila shots.
remembered the burn of the alcohol, the sting of the salt, the sour bite of the lime.
One of the SNL writers, a freckled, redheaded guy named Kevin Teagarden, had backed into a corner and yelled his life story in her ear, until Russell had rescued her, swooping out of nowhere with his sweet smile, saying, “Can I have my girlfriend back?”
At five in the morning, a few of them had ended up at a Midtown diner, gobbling greasy bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches washed down with hot coffee, trying to stave off their hangovers.
The entire band was there, except for Cassie, who’d gone back to the hotel after half an hour at the first party.
had felt sorry for her sister...
but only for a minute.
There had been parties to attend, champagne to drink, and then Russell to slow-dance with, barefoot, in front of his hotel room window as the sun came up and washed them in a gentle, rosy light.
“I love you,”
had said, as Russell eased the straps of her dress down, first baring her right shoulder, then her left.
Had he said it back? Or had his mouth been busy elsewhere? That morning, their lovemaking wasn’t as urgent or hurried.
Instead, everything was slow, honeyed, the both of them wrapped in a tingly champagne glow.
When Russell was moving inside of her, had cupped his cheeks with her hands, gazing into his eyes, thinking, I will never be happier than I am right now.
She’d slept, and then opened her eyes to find Russell looking at her, tracing the line of her forehead and cheek with one fingertip.
“You are so beautiful,”
he whispered.
had closed her eyes again as he’d spooned her, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her neck and cheeks.
This is good, told herself.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted.
They had showered and gotten dressed in the clothes that had appeared, like magic, on the racks in their rooms.
slipped into a pale-pink velour Juicy Couture tracksuit and a brand-new pair of UGG boots, and Russell wore an Ed Hardy hoodie that he’d rolled his eyes at but had worn at ’s urging.
They’d gone out together, into the bright, brisk morning, to buy coffee and bagels, and eat them on a bench in the park.
They’d rambled through the city, holding hands, looking into the windows of the shops on Fifth Avenue.
Russell had waited patiently when insisted on going to Bergdorf Goodman and to Saks; had pretended to have an opinion on the perfumes she’d sampled and the dresses she tried on; had smiled indulgently when paid six thousand dollars for an Hermès handbag, and complained that she’d had to add her name to a waiting list for the Birkin bag she coveted.
“Don’t they know who you are?”
Russell had teased.
That night, the label had treated the band to a feast at Nobu.
hadn’t eaten much sushi back in Philadelphia, but by then it had become her favorite thing.
She could feel other diners’ eyes on her, and she swung her hips as the hostess led them through the dining room, where gorgeous platters of sashimi and hand rolls were set out on the long, lacquered table, the slivers of fish glowing orange and ivory, like jewels on beds of rice.
The wasabi made her whole face tingle, the bits of salmon and fatty tuna melted on her tongue, and the lychee martinis Jerry ordered were icy cold and went down as soda.
Jerry and Helen and CJ had kept the cocktails coming, calling for toast after toast.
“To a fabulous performance on Saturday Night Live!”
“To a huge world tour!”
“To your number one song!”
“To your number one album! May it be the first of many more!”
They’d been in a private part of the restaurant, not exactly a room, more of a large nook, with beaded curtains keeping them mostly out of sight, but could feel the other diners looking at them, could sense their attention and excitement when they’d realized that they were in the presence of a bunch of capital-S Someones.
Midway through the meal, a young woman had approached them.
She’d been carrying a notebook, and her hands and voice had both been shaking when she’d said, “You’re my favorite band.”
hadn’t even minded much that the girl had asked for Cassie’s autograph first.
“This is perfect,”
had whispered to Russell.
And then she’d said, “Take me dancing.”
There’d been a car at their disposal for the night.
and Russell, Cam and Wendy, CJ and Tommy, and two girls Tommy had met at one of the afterparties had piled into the SUV.
They’d gone to Tao, tumbling out of the car in a tipsy, laughing pack, following the security guard past a phalanx of photographers hanging out by the entrance, who knew who they were, and knew their names.
“! This way!”
“! Over here! and Russell! Give us a kiss!”
Inside there were disco balls glittering from the high, high ceilings.
Paper lanterns cast a dim, reddish glow over the dancers; the brick walls were decorated with paintings of dark-eyed geishas.
The music was so loud you could feel it in your fillings, and you’d see your skin ripple if you stood close enough to the speakers.
swore she spotted Paris Hilton in the VIP section, wearing a white satin minidress and pink platform shoes, holding court on a couch behind velvet ropes.
The lights and the music bathed her, held her wrapped in their enchantment.
felt like she could dance all night, between the noise and the glow, the thrill of other famous people nearby, and the three bumps of cocaine she’d done in the bathroom.
She’d sniffed, wiped her streaming eyes, touched up her lipstick, and smiled at the famous, beautiful goddess she saw reflected in the mirror.
Russell had been waiting outside of the ladies’ room.
He’d settled his hands on the tanned curve of her waist, bared by her crop top, and she’d leaned into him, her skin suddenly hypersensitive to the textures of his jeans, his shirt, his skin.
“I love you!”
she’d hollered in his ear.
“What?”
“I love you!”
she’d said, yelling even louder.
“What?”
Instead of repeating it, had closed her eyes, raised her arms over her head, and let the music take her.
They stayed out until almost five in the morning, and she’d barely gotten into bed before it was time to get out.
The makeup artist had frowned at the circles under her eyes before pouring a huge glass of water and waiting until she’d swallowed every drop.
“Lucky you’re young.
You can get away with this,”
she’d said, in a heavily accented voice, before taking ’s chin in her hand and examining ’s face in the cool wintry light that came through the window.
“Don’t take it for granted.
It won’t last forever.”
Once had been made up, her face painted and her hair curled into loose waves, she’d gone downstairs, hearing whispers as she walked through the lobby and into the waiting SUV, where she’d tried to ignore her pounding head, her sweaty temples, and how any sudden movement made her feel like she was going to hurl.
In the MTV studios, she sat, legs crossed in dark-rinse jeans, in an armchair, with Times Square behind her and an audience of two hundred people, mostly teenage girls, in front of her.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, could see what looked like a thousand more fans thronging the sidewalk, bundled up in scarves and mittens and winter coats, carrying posters with the band’s name, with pictures of Russell and and Cassie.
Carson Daly lobbed softball questions at them, and the fans asked them things like who were their influences and what was their favorite song to perform.
“You two seem very happy,”
Carson said, nodding at and Russell.
Carson was handsome, but his features were almost too regular, his hair stiff with spray.
Russell was better-looking, she decided, and squeezed his fingers.
“Oh, yes,”
she said.
“Very, very happy.”
“Any new developments?”
Carson asked, his smile turning slightly sharklike.
“Any news you’d care to share?”
For a terrifying moment, felt her mind go blank.
What news? What developments?
Russell was the one who answered, smiling gently as he shook his head.
“We’re very happy,”
he said, which seemed to satisfy both Carson and the fans.
She felt her sister stiffen in the director’s chair beside her, and thought, Poor Cassie.
Cassie could handle the singing just fine, but she was obviously desperately uncomfortable being this close to fans, without the boundaries of a stage or the benefit of darkness.
Cassie was wearing a suit identical to the one she’d worn on Saturday Night Live, only with a blue shirt underneath instead of a black one.
could see how the arms of her chair were digging into her body, how her hands gripped the seat’s armrests.
Poor Cassie, thought again, and leaned her head on Russell’s shoulder.
There’d been a commercial break, when they’d gone to set up for their performance, and that was when felt that sense of slippage again, that feeling that she was losing her place in the world, hanging on to an unraveling thread.
“How about we let Cassie sing ‘Fishtown’ by herself?”
Russell had asked in the huddle.
For a moment, the words hadn’t registered, and, when they did, felt like he’d stabbed her.
She’d looked at Cam and Tommy to intervene...
but Tommy had been eye-fucking some young woman—employee or intern or audience member, wasn’t sure—and Cam had been doing some complicated yoga pose, and Cassie had been as mute and expressionless as ever as she’d nodded, then plodded to take her seat behind the piano.
And then she’d sung brilliantly, as beautifully as had ever heard her sister sound.
knew she’d been good, when she’d taken the part on Saturday night, but there was the difference between being good and being excellent; between a decently made pancake and an unforgettable seven-course brunch.
Cassie had performed with her eyes closed, as usual, with her face mostly expressionless, but she’d infused the song with such feeling, such sorrow and pain, such a heart-rending ache, that even , who’d heard every word a hundred times, at rehearsals and sound checks and all the takes they’d done recording the album, found herself close to tears.
By the time Cassie sang the final words—your taillights kiss the dark; a long goodbye—and let the last notes fade, at least a third of the girls in the audience were in tears, and Russell was looking at her sister like Cassie had invented music—like she’d made the world and had started it spinning.
felt like a grape on a greased plate, after someone had tilted the plate sideways, and she was helpless to keep herself from falling.
That night, instead of coming to the suite she was sharing with her sister, Russell invited Cassie to his room.
“We’ve got to finish this song,”
he told .
“Sure,”
she said, her voice and face expressionless.
He nodded, and then he and Cassie were gone, and was alone.
She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to be dispassionate, to see herself the way the world did.
A few days ago, when they’d arrived in New York, Jerry had called her into his office, all by herself.
He’d eyed her up and down, then slid his hand around her waist.
His fingers were small, but they hurt when he pinched the flesh at her sides.
“Let’s keep an eye on this,”
he’d said.
He hadn’t said more than that, but wasn’t stupid, and she’d heard the rest: Stay thin.
Stay pretty.
That’s what you’re there for, and you can be replaced.
For a long time, had looked at herself in the mirror, as the minutes went by and the skies went dark and Russell stayed away.
There, by herself, she’d come up with a plan.
When the alarm clock went off at four in the morning on Tuesday, had groaned theatrically, dragging herself into the shower.
By the time she emerged, wrapped in a hotel bathrobe, the hair-and-makeup team was setting up.
Cassie was already parked in a chair, draped in a cape, with a hairstylist eyeing her head, sighing over the task that awaited.
felt that sense of splitting again, her body moving through its day, her spirit hovering to watch from a distance.
She put on her jeans and boots and cropped wine-colored velvet top.
At six a.m., an SUV collected them and took them to the studio.
A stage had been set up in the middle of Rockefeller Center, with space heaters in each of the corners, so that Tommy’s and Russell’s and Cam’s and Cassie’s fingers wouldn’t be too chilled to play their instruments.
A crowd was already gathering as the sun came up, girls and their mothers bundled into wool coats and down puffers, holding signs that said “I ? The Griffin Sisters”
and “I Luv U Russell”
and “I’m Your Flavor,”
with an illustration of an ice-cream cone beside it.
The five of them sat in the greenroom, smiling and waving at the camera at the producers’ direction.
“Coming up, just moments from now, we’ve got the Griffin Sisters, playing their brand-new single ...
only on the Today show!”
The show’s makeup artists touched them up, brushing powder onto ’s face, patting a sponge on Russell’s forehead.
At precisely 7:18, they’d trooped out onto the stage, to the screams and cheers of the audience.
At 7:21, Katie Couric, bundled into an overcoat, with leather gloves and a knitted hat, introduced them, and they’d played “When You’re Here.”
had watched the camera, on its dolly, swooping around her sister, close enough to catch every change in Cassie’s expression, every note she played, while stood, shivering and ignored, feeling the wintry air against her bare skin, barely bothering to open her mouth for her “ooohs”
and “aaahs”
or shake her tambourine.
When the song was over, and the crowd had stopped clapping, Katie invited the band to sit in director’s chairs that production assistants had swiftly lined up at the front of the stage.
heard the familiar words and phrases blur in the air around them: Congratulations and world tour and number-one single.
Then Katie Couric turned to her.
“And Griffin! A number one album, a brand-new single, and a world tour with your sister and your boyfriend! You must be on top of the world!”
licked her teeth to make sure they’d be gleaming when she smiled.
Here we go, she thought, as she reached for Russell’s hand.
“I’m so happy, Katie.
I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
For everything you said, and something else too.”
“Oh?”
Katie asked her, with a conspiratorial grin.
Her eyes sparkled.
She leaned in close.
“Anything you’d like to share?”
“Yes,”
said .
“Russell and I are getting married!”
The rest of the show passed in a haze of congratulations, joyous screams from the crowd (whether a few of them were pained, couldn’t tell), questions about when the wedding would be.
“I’ll keep an eye out for my invitation!”
Al Roker had said, chuckling.
Russell had smiled and nodded, nodded and smiled, gripping her hand tightly enough to hurt.
counted herself lucky that he hadn’t immediately pulled back and said, What are you talking about? or told her—or Katie Couric—No, we’re not!
Back in the greenroom, saying goodbye, finding her coat and her bag, couldn’t bring herself to look at Russell, although she did see the shock on her sister’s face and the furious look on Tommy’s.
The band was silent as they piled into the SUV—first Cassie, then Cam, then Tommy.
Before she could climb aboard, Russell took her hand.
His voice was low and steady as he said, “We’re going to walk.”
let him take her hand and lead her toward Central Park.
It was funny, she thought—onstage, with her tambourine, she was famous, easily recognizable as prey worth stalking ...
but now, in a black puffer coat, with the hood pulled up and Russell, in a baseball cap, beside her, she was completely anonymous.
The gray clouds seemed to press down on them; the sky threatened snow.
pulled her coat around her more tightly as Russell led them along the sidewalk.
He kept a brisk pace, barely looking at her as they joined the throng of pedestrians—moms pushing strollers, attendants pushing wheelchairs, walkers and joggers and happier-looking couples walking arm in arm.
Finally, he found a bench and sat, pulling down beside him.
crossed and recrossed her legs.
Russell folded his hands in his lap.
“What the fuck, ,”
he said, his voice tight.
“Why would you—how could you—”
“Because I love you,” she said.
Russell turned to face her.
There was still Today show powder on his cheeks and Today show gel in his eyebrows.
Underneath them, his eyes were wild.
“Tell me the truth,”
he said to her.
“Is this really what you want?”
swallowed hard.
She’d been so certain, last night in the hotel room, when she’d finally come up with a plan that would assure her spot in the band forever.
She really liked Russell.
She did.
She was happy with him.
But now she felt herself gripped with terror.
Marriage ...
she was twenty-one! A baby! No one she knew her age was married, except for Julia Darnell, back in high school, and that was only because she’d gotten pregnant senior year.
made herself stop thinking about poor Julia, who’d brought her newborn daughter with her to graduation, and who was, her friend Sammi had told her, currently getting a divorce.
(Sammi had been delighted to renew their acquaintance, once she’d heard the Griffin Sisters’ first single on the radio, and had even apologized for kicking out of Girl Power!, back in the day.)
She put out of her mind the man in the hotel gym and the man who’d waited with roses in the rain, the up-and-coming young male movie stars and comedians.
She took all her doubts about whether Russell wanted her and whether she wanted him and put them in a box.
She pictured a wedding on the beach; bare feet and red lipstick, a simple satin slip dress, like the one Carolyn Bessette had worn to marry John F.
Kennedy Junior.
Her arms and shoulders lightly tanned, a crown of flowers in her hair.
She saw herself, walking on the sand, down an aisle made of seashells and votive candles, as A-list movie stars and pop stars looked on.
Her spot in the pop-culture firmament and her role in the band would both be assured; cemented into place with the bonds of holy matrimony.
The label couldn’t kick her out if she was married to Russell.
And no one would ever know that she’d been the one to pursue him, that she’d gotten him drunk that first night and half forced her way into his bed.
No one would know that she felt, sometimes, like she was holding on to him the way a mountain climber clings to a rock face, desperate and terrified of falling.
She turned to him, feeling the coldness of the bench and the sidewalk seeping up into her skin.
She took his hand.
“This feels right,”
she said, through cold-chilled lips.
“Doesn’t it feel right to you?”
Without waiting for him to answer, she continued, “And it’s not like we can, you know.
Put the toothpaste back in the tube.”
“You could say you were kidding,”
Russell muttered, but he didn’t sound hopeful.
“This will be a good thing! You’ll see,”
she said.
“We’ll get tons of free publicity, right before the world tour.
It’ll be the wedding of the year!”
“That’s the wedding.
What about after? When we’re married?”
He turned to look at her, full in the face.
“We haven’t known each other that long—”
“It’s been a year,”
interrupted. “Almost.”
“We’ve only been together a few months,”
Russell said, speaking precisely.
“But we’re a good fit,”
she said, before he could.
“Aren’t we?”
She watched his chest rise and fall, saw his breath emerge whitely in the December air.
It was still morning, even though felt like she’d been awake for a week.
For a year.
She wondered what he was thinking, if he was trying to figure out how to walk back her announcement, which had probably made its way around the world by now.
She could guess what Jerry would tell him: the damage that un-announcing an engagement would cause, how it would set them back, harm everything they’d been working toward.
Un-announcing an engagement would set them back, while a wedding would slingshot them forward.
She wondered if he could guess what she was thinking, which was that it didn’t have to be forever.
Nobody’s marriage had to be forever.
She could say the words, make the vows, and then, in a year or two, or five, or ten, after she’d made herself indispensable and no one could imagine the Griffin Sisters without her, she could change her mind.
Russell’s shoulders were hunched, his face tense and shuttered.
She thought back to the picture she’d seen, of a long-ago Russell, with his bulky, shapeless body and his curtain of dyed black bangs.
Part of him still had to feel incredibly lucky that she wanted him, suspected.
And so she pulled off her hat, and shook out her hair, and smiled at him, touching his arm.
“I’m happy with you,”
she said, and licked her lips, watching his gaze follow the motion of her tongue.
“We’re good together, right?”
He nodded like he’d been hypnotized.
Which, maybe, he had been.
felt a little bit like she’d been hypnotized too.
A number one album.
A sold-out tour.
Riches past imagining; fame beyond anything she’d ever dreamed about.
If she could manage to lock it in.
If she could convince him to go along with this.
“So?”
she asked, eyebrows raised, her heart in her throat and her pulse hammering wildly.
“Okay,”
he said, in a voice that was almost inaudible. “Okay,”
he repeated, and took her hand.
In the kitchen, in South Philadelphia, watched her great-aunt get to her feet.
She felt the same way she’d felt on that park bench on that cold December day, like her life was hanging in the balance, like she was waiting for a judge to deliver a verdict, and it would not be a good one.
Bess made her way back to the stove.
She collected the kettle, and then carried it to the sink to refill it.
“You remember the wedding, right?”
asked.
“Of course I do.”
Bess’s face gave nothing away.
“I was there.
You were a beautiful bride.”
shook her head.
Had Russell developed feelings for her sister before the wedding, or after? She’d never asked, but, if she had to guess, she would have said before.
By the time they were standing on the beach, promising to love and cherish one another, forsaking all others until death did them part, she thought that Russell had already given his heart away.
All of the events that would lead to his death had been set in motion.
The final verse had already been written.
The end had already begun.