Cassie
On the road, 2004
They’d been in Austin, Texas.
She’d been sleeping, she remembered.
She’d been sleeping as much as she could, since Zoe and Russell’s wedding.
It made things easier.
When she was asleep, she didn’t have to think about Russell, putting a ring on her sister’s finger, kissing Zoe, singing to her in a ballroom full of candlelight and flowers.
During shows, when she sang, she could imagine that there was nothing but that moment, where she and Russell were together.
She could lie and tell herself that he was with her, and not with Zoe.
And when she slept, she didn’t have to think about anything at all.
And so, she spent as much of her time as possible in bed.
Which was where she’d been at midnight, when she woke up to the sound of someone knocking.
got to her feet, swung the door open, and stared at Russell, who never just showed up; who always messaged first.
It was one of the dozens of tiny ways that he accommodated her weirdness, one of the things he did to make the world easier for her.
“What is it?”
asked.
“Is something wrong?”
But Russell didn’t look upset.
He was beaming and his cheeks were flushed, hair disarranged.
He reached for her hands.
“Did anyone from the label call you?”
“What?”
’s brain felt thick and sluggish, like a bowl of cooling oatmeal.
“It went gold.
The album went gold!”
“Oh,”
said.
That was all she said before Russell grabbed her by the shoulders and whirled her into her room, dancing her past the bed, toward the window, then back toward the door again.
He was laughing, and found that she was laughing too, laughing and whooping and feeling his hands against her.
Finally, Russell flung himself onto her bed, on his back, and flopped down beside him (but gently, so the bed wouldn’t shake too hard and the bed frame wouldn’t groan).
She wondered if he’d told Zoe already, if the two of them had screamed with delight and gone bouncing around the room.
She decided that she didn’t want to know.
“Can you believe it?”
Russell asked.
“No,”
she told him.
Which was the truth.
The album’s release, the singles that had hit the charts, the band’s entire existence—all of it felt like a dream to her, as improbable and unlikely as winning the lottery, or putting a tooth underneath your pillow and finding a million dollars there when you woke up.
“We could go platinum.
We could win a Grammy,”
Russell said, sounding dreamy.
“Do you think so?”
“We’ve at least got a shot.
Of course the album’s been selling like crazy, but sometimes that kind of success can work against you,”
Russell was explaining.
“They want to give prizes to something obscure, not something popular.”
“Why?”
“To show how smart they are.”
What would a normal girl say? What would she ask, what would she do? Think, told herself, and rolled onto her side, to find Russell looking at her.
He was wearing a dark tee shirt and loose gray sweatpants.
His feet were bare.
“We’re smart,”
she said.
You’re smart, she thought.
“Indeed we are,”
Russell agreed.
“And even if we end up getting nominated, God knows they don’t always get it right.”
“What do you mean?”
Russell grinned at her and assumed his radio-announcer voice, one he’d probably honed after all those weeks listening to actual radio announcers.
“The year was 1990, and the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences gave its award for Best New Artist to none other than Milli Vanilli.”
grimaced. “Oh no.”
“You don’t remember?”
She found that she was smiling as she shook her head.
“I would’ve been eight years old.
I wasn’t really paying attention yet.”
“Ah, right.
Of course.
I forget you’re such a baby.”
was pleased, even though she knew that thinking of her as a baby wasn’t the same as calling her baby.
But babies were small, and sweet, and cute.
People loved babies.
Russell was still talking.
“The real tragedy is that they beat the Indigo Girls.
And I know it’s extremely uncool to like the Indigo Girls, but they’re the real deal.”
“What happens if we win?”
He shrugged.
“More fans.
More attention.
More money.
More touring.
More—just.
Well. More.”
“More,”
she repeated.
He must have heard something in her voice, or seen something on her face, because his own voice was gentle when he said, “Hey.”
He reached out.
thought he was going to touch her face, and maybe that had been his intention, but he pulled his hand back and patted her shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know.
Maybe I’m . . .”
Normal, she told herself.
Sound normal.
“Homesick?”
She cringed as soon as she’d said it, but Russell just nodded.
“Do you miss Curtis? Playing classical music?”
She shook her head no before she’d had a chance to think it over.
“Are you liking any of this at all?”
His voice was as gentle as his hand had been, and he was close enough for her to get a hit of his scent, hotel soap and warm male skin.
“I know being onstage isn’t your favorite thing.”
“I don’t mind.”
Her voice was too loud; she’d spoken too abruptly.
“I—I’m getting used to it. I guess.”
“People love you.”
She shook her head.
“No, they don’t.
Not me.
They love the songs, maybe.
Or, you know.
The band.”
“No,”
Russell said.
His voice was steady.
“It’s you.
You’re what makes us special.
They love you.”
They love you was not I love you.
Still, felt pleasure, warm and sweet, blooming inside of her, at the same instant a question occurred.
Where was Zoe? Had he left her behind, asleep in their bed? Had he wanted to give the news first? Or did Zoe know already?
At the thought of her sister, closed her eyes, thinking that she could feel her heart aching.
She’d always thought heartache was just another made-up thing that songwriters put in their songs, but, lying next to Russell, still tingling from his touch, she could feel an actual physical throbbing in her chest.
She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him close and tell him how much she loved him; how much she understood him, how she’d be so much better for him than Zoe.
But she couldn’t.
Of course she couldn’t.
She opened her eyes and found that Russell was still looking at her.
For a long moment, she looked back, holding his gaze, unblinking, barely breathing.
He took her hand and got to his feet, pulling her upright.
“Come here,”
he said.
He held his arms open, and she stepped close, leaning into him.
Russell wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his chest.
His scent was all around her, and when she turned her head to press her cheek against his chest, she could feel his warmth, and hear his heart, beating in her ear.
It felt like a long time that they stood and swayed together, holding on like the other person was a raft in a storm-tossed sea.
More clichés that also felt true.
When Russell moved one of his hands up her back, to gently cradle the base of her skull, she thought she would die of pleasure, that her body, unable to contain this amount of bliss, would simply explode.
Being this close to him, feeling him, hearing him—it was almost too much.
If she looked at Russell—if she remembered that Russell was looking at her—she would die.
“Hey,”
he whispered.
They were so close that could feel the push of his breath on her lips as he shaped the words.
She made herself open her eyes.
Russell caressed her cheek with his thumb, then cupped her face in his hands. “,”
he whispered, and bent his head, gently brushing his lips against hers.
At first, stood motionless, frozen with disbelief, then shame.
She’d never been kissed.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands or her lips or her tongue.
But Russell was careful with her, his mouth gentle, respectful, like this, too, was a dance, only now he was showing her the steps.
He brushed his lips against hers, lightly, and she pressed back, shivering as she felt his tongue touch the seam of her lips, and it was like some undiscovered part of her brain took over, and, just like that, her body knew what to do.
She let her hands reach out, touching the soft skin of his neck, feeling along the broadness of his shoulders, the length of his back.
Russell kept one hand at the base of her neck, rubbing gently, the other around her shoulders, keeping her close.
When he deepened the kiss, it felt like ’s entire body had been poured into just her lips and her tongue, like every nerve ending she had was there.
When he slid his hand down her back, then reached under her sweatshirt, gliding his palm against her bare skin, she gasped.
“Okay?”
Russell whispered.
She wanted to tell him yes.
To close her eyes, press herself against him, let whatever had started to happen keep happening.
Her body, mute and sullen for all her life, was suddenly speaking up, fiercely and urgently, telling her that it knew what to do.
Instead of listening, pulled back.
“You’re married.”
To my sister was left unsaid.
Russell kept his hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles.
She felt him struggling in the brief silence, until he said, his voice low and angry, “It isn’t real.”
She looked at him, certain that she’d heard wrong or, somehow, misunderstood.
“What do you mean?”
She’d been there, at the wedding—had held the satin-wrapped stems of her sister’s bouquet, had stood, stoic, under the branches that were not exactly a chuppah but, Zoe had explained to her mother and her grandmother and her great-aunt Bess, not exactly not a chuppah either.
“And we’ll raise the kids Jewish.
Isn’t that what matters?”
she’d asked, when they’d made mention of the absence of a rabbi and the carefully nondenominational ceremony, which did not include the traditional seven blessings and ended with the groom stomping on a glass only because Zoe had decided it was “fun.”
had heard Zoe and Russell say their vows, had watched him put a ring on her sister’s finger, and it had felt like she’d swallowed broken glass.
could feel Great-Aunt Bess looking at her sharply, her eyes narrowed behind her bifocals as her gaze moved from Russell to Zoe to , then back again.
had left the party as soon as she could to escape that scrutiny.
Russell took a step away from her (No, no, ’s newly awake and vocal body cried, come back, come back!).
He yanked at his hair again.
He said, his words clipped and precise, “When Zoe told Katie Couric we were engaged? We hadn’t even discussed getting married.
Not once.
I had no idea she was going to do that.”
stared at him.
Of all the things Russell could have told her, this was the very last one she’d expected.
“And then—well, there wasn’t any way that toothpaste was going back in the tube.
Jerry was thrilled about all the publicity.
And if we’d had to make an announcement to say it wasn’t happening . . .”
“You would have looked like a jerk,”
said.
She found that there was a part of her that could admire her sister’s manipulations; a part that could marvel at how expertly Zoe had trapped him.
“And so.”
Russell squared his shoulders, a lone football player facing an onrushing horde of defenders.
“I went along with it.
What choice did I have?”
No choice, thought, feeling the words setting her blood alight.
He didn’t have a choice.
Zoe had made him do it, against his will.
Of course the marriage didn’t feel real to him.
In a rusty, croaking voice, she asked, “Do you love her?”
Russell pressed his hands against his eyes and muttered something couldn’t hear.
She waited, until he dropped his hands and sighed.
“I’m an idiot,” he said.
“No, you’re not,”
said, her voice surprisingly steady.
“But I need to know.
Do you love her?”
Russell reached for her hand.
let him take it, but when he tried to pull her closer, she resisted, settling her weight in her heels, so that he wouldn’t be able to move her, until she had her answer.
She’ll never love you like I do, she wanted to tell him ...
but she made herself wait.
Russell gathered up both of her hands, squeezed them, and brought them to his heart.
His eyes were very dark, and his voice was low and rough.
“I don’t love Zoe,”
he said.
And then he bent his lips close to her ear, as thought, Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please oh please oh please.
And Russell whispered, “Not like I love you.”
It was too much.
Too much for her poor heart.
looked up at him, certain that all of her fear and yearning were right there on her face, completely obvious, unmissable and unmistakable.
“Even though I’m not pretty?”
Russell cupped her head again, touching his lips to her temple, and said, “You are. To me.”
Inevitable, she thought, when they were in bed, and she was underneath him, her hands on his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him.
This was inevitable.
It was as if they were two stones that had been rolling toward each other since the world was made, working their way slowly around the earth’s diameter until they met.
It could not have happened any other way.
It took approximately sixty seconds from the time they’d stopped having sex for the guilt to swoop down and leave feeling sick with shame.
She and Russell were lying on their sides, facing each other.
His hand was on her shoulder, his fingertips touching her hair, and she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to say her sister’s name in the dark room, which conferred the same kind of invisibility that the stage lights did.
She wanted to stay in the safe dark forever.
But she made herself ask.
“Tell me how it happened.
You and Zoe,”
she said.
“Tell me what happens now.”
Russell made a humming noise, and could feel his hesitation.
His voice was gruff, and he sounded ashamed as he said, “At first, she kind of...
threw herself at me.”
Hastily, he added, “And I wasn’t complaining.
Zoe’s a great girl.
A lot of guys would be lucky to have someone like her interested in them.”
He turned onto his back, rolling his head from side to side on the pillow.
“It was never going to be anything serious.
Only then the tabloids started covering us, and Zoe clearly wanted to be with me.”
He snorted.
“That sounds a little vain, doesn’t it?”
“Zoe had her reasons.”
’s voice was cool.
She sounded detached, and unbothered, even though that wasn’t how she felt.
“I know the band was her idea, but—”
She closed her eyes, like a true believer getting ready to blaspheme in a church.
“She’s not very good, is she?”
“No,”
Russell said.
“She’s not.”
“And so, the marriage?”
She wanted to ask about his plans; if he was going to stay with Zoe forever, or if he’d thought about an end point.
She wanted to know if there was a world where she and Russell could be together.
“It’s real for now,”
Russell said.
He sounded glum.
“I don’t think she loves me.
Not really.
I think she loves the attention.
And . . .”
Russell exhaled noisily, then said, “I don’t love her.”
’s heart felt like a kicked, starving dog that had smelled food, and heard someone calling to it kindly.
She felt hope flaring inside of her, sharp-edged and bright.
“We haven’t slept together in weeks,”
Russell said.
“Not since the honeymoon, really.”
wondered what really meant, what ground it covered, what behaviors it might encompass.
She decided that she’d been brave enough for one day, and didn’t ask.
“Are you going to stay together?”
she asked instead.
“Is there a plan?”
The pause felt like it lasted a lifetime.
“When the tour’s over,”
he finally said.
“If the band takes some time off.
I think there’s a way we can . . .”
He sent his hands into the air, side by side, pressed against each other, then veering apart.
“The issue is finding a way to do it where Zoe doesn’t get blamed.
Where the band doesn’t suffer.”
nodded eagerly.
Zoe not getting blamed, the band not suffering, that all made sense.
And now she understood how this had happened, how neatly Russell had been trapped.
It seemed horribly unfair, ridiculously cruel.
But knew she had limits.
There were lines she wouldn’t be able to cross without hating herself.
“Russell . . .”
She squeezed her hands into fists and made herself say it.
“We can’t do this again if you’re still with her.”
Her heart was beating very hard as Russell nodded, then reached up to grasp a lock of her hair.
Her stupid hair that never looked right, that always frizzed or tangled, no matter what the stylists did to it.
Russell touched it like it was beautiful.
Like it was rare and lovely and precious.
He stroked her cheek, ran the ball of his thumb lightly over her lips, until felt her eyes flutter shut.
“All I want,”
said Russell D’Angelo, “is you.”
“We didn’t mean for it to keep happening,”
said, in her little treehouse, as Cherry leaned forward, listening carefully, and Wesley sat at her side.
“And then, when we couldn’t stop, when we couldn’t keep away from each other, Russell wanted to tell people.
He thought he could talk to Zoe, and make her understand, and then they would figure out a way to end things so it didn’t look like either of them was at fault.
And then we would give it some time, and after a while, we could be together.”
“Did you believe him?”
Cherry asked.
sighed.
“I wanted to believe him.”
She did not add, And I was very young.
“We talked about how to handle it.
We tried to come up with a plan and, when we couldn’t do that, we tried to stay away from each other.
Which didn’t really work.”
She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes.
“We made each other happy.”
“For ten minutes?”
Cherry asked.
“For three weeks.”
let herself remember that handful of precious days they’d had, that brief, glorious interval when had loved someone and been loved in return.
She and Russell truly had tried to be careful, but as the days went by, they got a little less attentive.
Once, right before a show, Russell pulled into his dressing room, kicked the door shut, and kissed her until felt like she was swooning.
Backstage, a few minutes later, Zoe had given her regular preperformance pep talk, telling her that she was talented, that she deserved to be there, that everything would be fine.
For the first time, did not feel grateful or relieved.
She’d been impatient for Zoe to stop talking.
She’d felt guilty, and terrified that Zoe would be able to smell Russell on her, somehow, or that she’d look at and know.
They’d had close calls.
In Toledo, Russell had gone onstage with the tiniest bit of ’s lipstick on his cheek.
had been dismayed when she’d noticed, but part of her had been proud, that she’d claimed him, somehow, and had marked him as her own.
Then, on their way to Cleveland, they’d been on the tour bus late at night, bodies turned toward each other, talking quietly, their faces moving closer and closer together, until their hands were touching and they were close enough to kiss, when had heard Zoe’s voice, and pushed Russell away from her, hard.
“Oh, hey, you two,”
Zoe said, her voice light, her expression untroubled.
But knew her sister well enough to see how her eyes had narrowed, so briefly that it would have been easy for someone else to miss.
saw, and was pleased.
That’s right, she imagined saying.
He’s mine.
Except, thought, with a spasm of anger, her sister probably wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe that Russell could want her, could choose her over Zoe.
Not unless Zoe saw them in bed together, naked.
In the ensuing years and months, she’d have time to wonder: Had she wanted it to happen? Had she wanted to obviate the possibility of the conversation, to do an end run around Zoe’s skepticism, her inevitable disbelief? You and Russell? Oh, Cass.
Whatever you think is happening, it isn’t real.
could picture the precise look her sister would get, the cloying sympathy on Zoe’s pretty face.
Did Russell say something to you? Is he teasing you? Don’t worry, she would say.
I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to stop.
Boys had done things like that before.
Boys had played cruel tricks.
Laughed at her.
Back in sixth grade, in February, Matthew Munson had left a Valentine in her desk—on a dare, it turned out.
In eighth grade, a boy had walked up to her in the cafeteria at lunchtime, asking, with a perfectly serious look on his face, if she’d go to homecoming with him.
By then knew not to trust any kindness extended to her by the opposite sex.
She’d built armor up, constructing an internal world, a secret realm for just herself, the piano, and the songs that could explain how people were.
And her sister.
She’d let Zoe in.
And then she’d let Russell in too.
She knew Russell loved her, that what they had was real.
She knew, too, that Zoe would never believe her.
Not unless she had evidence to the contrary.
Maybe a part of resented Zoe for her beauty, and envied Zoe for her ease in the world, for always knowing what to say.
Maybe that part of hated herself, too, for needing Zoe to help her navigate regular human contact.
Maybe that part—that small, hateful part—had caused what had happened to happen.
Three weeks after and Russell had first kissed, they’d had a rare night off in Detroit.
The band had gone out to dinner, at an old-fashioned steakhouse downtown.
The restaurant was below street level, with a speakeasy atmosphere: red velvet swags, dark leather banquettes, wood-paneled walls, and an old-fashioned phone booth tucked into the corner.
At that point, every meal was a celebration, every day brought some bit of good news: another week with the number one album, a third single entering the Hot 100, ticket sales so strong they’d crashed the Telecharge network.
There was always wine at those dinners, always cocktails beforehand, usually a bottle of champagne that someone would send over or the restaurant would give them for free.
Fans would stare, or stop by their table, asking for autographs, or pictures snapped with hastily purchased disposable cameras, and if she’d had a glass or two of wine, instead of cringing, or hiding in the bathroom, would pull her shoulders back and smile.
That night, when dinner was over, Zoe announced that she was meeting a friend, a former high-school classmate attending the University of Michigan, who’d driven in from Ann Arbor to see the show.
and Russell had gone back to the hotel, to ’s room, where they’d planned to enjoy the luxury of uninterrupted time together.
They’d had no idea that when CJ had handed out the hotel-room keys after dinner, he’d accidentally given Zoe a key to ’s room instead of her own.
Or that Abby, the vocal coach, who’d tagged along for the night, had started feeling sick on their way to meet Zoe’s friend.
They didn’t know that Abby and Zoe had turned around and come back without even reaching their destination.
They’d had no idea, until they were in bed together, both naked, with Russell on top of her, and heard the click of the lock, the sound of her sister’s indrawn breath.
had pushed Russell off of her, sending him scrambling for his pants.
She made herself sit up, but, beyond that, she couldn’t think of what to do or what to say.
Part of her was terrified, and part of her was glad, relieved that this confrontation had finally come, that she and Russell wouldn’t have to hide any longer.
And how much would it matter? Russell had told her that he and Zoe weren’t really together, and had believed him.
Maybe Zoe would be relieved that she’d be able to stop pretending.
Maybe she’d even be happy for her sister.
“Russell.”
Zoe’s voice was cold, her face pale and still.
Russell turned his head to look at Zoe.
He’d worked his jeans up over his hips, but his chest was still bare.
Zoe had pointed toward the hallway.
“Outside,”
Zoe had said to him.
Russell picked his shoes and shirt up off the floor and followed her out the door, without so much as a look back.
had never seen him again.