9
After our private jet trip and two limo rides—to and from the airport—I’m fully appreciating the high life and a little buzzed from multiple champagne bottles and full-open bars.
Dale and I are snuggled up together in the back of a limo; he’s teasing his hand along my bare thigh.
The dress was even prettier once I put it on and styled my hair. Wit Wit gushed again over the sultry outfit when I sent her a selfie.
Dale’s outfit has my gaze glued to him. He’s almost unrecognizable from the scruffy guy I woke up with. Now he looks every inch the rock star.
The tailored black velvet blazer—also courtesy of funds from the record label—fits him like a sin, the open-collar shirt giving just enough of a peek at the toned muscles underneath.
His slim-fit black trousers sit low on his hips, and the entire look is finished with posh Chelsea boots.
It’s glam rock elegance with a razor-sharp edge.
I’m already looking forward to the evening being over so I can take him out of those clothes.
As he texts his bandmates, I help myself to some more of the Cristal from the limo’s assortment of beverages and take selfies to send to my family’s group chat as well as the friend thread with Olivia.
I could definitely get used to this.
My phone rings with an incoming FaceTime call. I’m startled to see the name on the screen.
Why would he be calling me? Did Robbie and I restart our friendship in this future?
“Robbie?”
His face fills the screen, full toothy grin and flushed cheekbones. His amber eyes practically glow, and his hair is doing that perfectly messy thing. “There she is. Merry Christmas, Mary.”
I pause at the name. Mary? Just Mary? He’s always called me Marygrace. Or at least my nickname, MGS.
“Merry Christmas?” I echo, unsure what to think.
Last time I saw Robbie at the bar things ended badly, and Christmas calls weren’t exactly our routine. I grip my phone with trepidation. Have we gotten closer together in the year since? Could I possibly have gotten my old friend back?
“I wanted to touch base about the Times Square gig,” Robbie continues. “I heard from a Broadway buddy. He was able to grab you ten comp tickets for your family.”
“Wow,” I say, confused. “Dale said there weren’t any more comp tickets left.”
At his name, Dale looks up from his phone.
Robbie lifts a brow. “He said that?”
“He tried his best to get extra tickets.” I turn to tuck myself into the corner as though there’s any space for privacy in this limo. Given everything that happened between us, I feel a little self-conscious talking to Robbie with Dale around.
“Really?” Robbie’s lips curl slightly.
“He’s been busy,” I say, defending Dale, who is now full-on scowling.
The two of them never got along in high school. After I started dating Dale senior year, I got in deep with his band and dropped out of glee club without telling Robbie because I couldn’t balance both.
My friendship with Robbie had been strained all school year, but it wasn’t until March when things exploded. It was during the local Battle of the Bands competition—Cobra Strike was performing in a slot I’d helped them secure.
I shudder as I remember that day. Minutes before their set, I got a panic text from Dale that he was stuck in traffic thanks to a bad accident.
Olivia and Brooke sent the same note apologizing that they’d be late for the show.
Naturally, Dale and I freaked out. Dale begged me to ask to delay their set, and I knew just who to talk to.
Robbie was a production assistant for the show, and I thought that was my way out.
I assumed he’d help us delay. Instead, he insisted that I take the stage, like it was obvious and no big deal.
I could do one song before Dale arrived.
I could even perform a song I wrote. The rest of the band was enthusiastic about my stepping in, too—I’d been to all of their rehearsals, including singing backup to help them practice.
I knew Cobra Strike’s songs. Hell, I wrote some of them.
And who knew, maybe the industry pros in the audience would notice me. So, I went onstage.
It was the wrong decision.
I thought I knew how to perform. I’d spent years onstage with glee club: counts, cues, bodies beside me, a place to stand.
But the Battle of the Bands was different.
I wasn’t part of Cobra Strike. I was a substitute.
And without my family or friends in the audience, and with the rowdy crowd making it very clear they wanted Dale, I panicked.
When the chanting for Dale started, something inside me extinguished. I didn’t know where to look, when to come in, how to breathe without a chorus around me.
And then for the first time ever, my voice cracked. I tried again, and nothing came out. I froze, feeling the panicked eyes of Cobra Strike’s bandmates on me. I felt awful letting the entire band down.
Fortunately, Dale arrived in time to save the set.
And as I retreated backstage, I realized something devastating: First, I had experienced stage fright so traumatic I didn’t ever want to sing in public again.
And second, Robbie had put me there. He’d pushed me into a spotlight I wasn’t ready for.
He made me uncomfortable and risked the band’s chances of getting discovered.
Backstage, alongside Brooke and Olivia, who also arrived late because of traffic, I laid into him.
I was mad at him for pushing me and upset with myself for failing.
He yelled that I had stopped being me, that all I cared about was impressing Cobra Strike and Brooke and Olivia and that the old me would have taken the opportunity to shine in the spotlight.
By the time Dale finished the set, I’d blown my friendship with Robbie to pieces. But Dale stepped in and we both told Robbie to back the fuck off. And he did for eight years. Until now in this strange alternate universe.
“Marygrace?” Robbie says now, bringing me back to the present (or future).
“Yes?”
“I said I hope the New Year’s Eve performance goes well.” I feel a little pressure easing up in my chest, grateful he’s not trying to start a fight tonight. “You did a good job getting him that spot. Cobra Strike wouldn’t be what it is without all your hard work.”
I nod absently, remembering how Dale said something this morning about how I landed him the gig.
Robbie continues. “I know it’s not the same as performing, but you might have a career as a band manager after all. You always did fight for him.”
“Thank you,” I say, remembering how that was the exact thing that Robbie and I argued about in school, how I did everything for Cobra Stike. Well, I was right, wasn’t I? Look where we are because I never gave up on Dale.
“Well, I won’t take up any more of your and Dale’s time,” Robbie says.
I nod. “Thanks for the comp tickets. My family will be thrilled.”
He hesitates for a moment, before saying softly, “You sing lead, MGS. I’ll be backup, remember?”
I flush. I do remember. We said that to each other the day before at the Evening Star. I’m delighted to hear him use my nickname after just calling me Mary at the beginning of the call.
“You got it, RoMo,” I tease, using my old nickname for him.
Robbie smiles at me for a heartbeat, before he shouts louder so Dale can hear, “Happy holidays! You’re going to kill it tonight!”
Dale just salutes, though I doubt Robbie can even see it.
When the call goes dead, I look over at Dale, who is still watching me with lifted brows.
“What?” I ask, annoyance sliding over me.
“Dude’s so jealous of me.” Dale smirks, his expression shifting back to his usual cool and calm.
“He was doing me a favor,” I say. “And you, too. Aren’t you looking forward to seeing your biggest fans aka my nieces and nephews cheering you on at New Year’s?”
This gets a slow but gradual grin from him again, and I swallow the rest of my champagne as the limo pulls up to the venue—an exclusive members-only club, according to my hurried Googling after rereading the invite.
Seeing the paparazzi lining up on the step and repeat outside the club sets my nerves going in all the best ways.
I did this.
This celebrity VIP treatment is all because of me.
Dale helps me out of the limo and then drops me into a swoony, definitely not PG kiss, to a crowd of cheering fans and paparazzi calling his name.
I feel Dale’s kiss in my toes, just like the old times.
Except now I’ve got a ring on my finger, a rock star fiancé, and what’s more, I’m the one making his dreams come true.
I don’t know how Madam Lunas pulled this off, but hats off to her and Merry Christmas to me.
Flashbulbs pop, blinding me like sparklers, and people gasp and shout as fans and paparazzi watch Dale Quigley of Cobra Strike kiss his mystery girlfriend on the red carpet. A mystery no more. I brighten as I put my hand on his cheek, ring sparkling for all the world to see.
He waves away the questions, loops an arm around my waist, and leads me into the building.
Dale looks every bit the rock star front man, and in my couture gown, I perfectly complement him. Everyone we pass is stealing glances at us.
Inside the building, a burly uniformed doorman greets us as he checks our names on a list before ushering us through glass doors to a huge ballroom.
The place is stunning—with a vibe that is both vintage and modern. The high ceilings are lit by amber-toned lamps, and the room is bedecked with understated luxury, from velvet upholstered chairs and aged mirrors with gilded frames to large contemporary canvases from up-and-coming artists.
The holiday decorations are minimalist—gold and silver snowflakes and flowers—not my taste, but then I don’t see how decor like Mom’s candy cane throw pillows would work here.
If not for Dale pulling me forward, I might’ve stopped right at the door, becoming an impromptu Filipino doorstop as I gawked at it all.
“No need to stare, babe,” he says, whispering in my ear. “You’re the prettiest thing in this place.”
I grin and let him pull me into the room.
The energy grows more and more electric the farther we go.
A stage is set up all the way at the back, and an opening act is performing moody Christmas covers.
The room smells like rich mahogany, earth tones, worn leather, and spicy cologne.
Elegant people are milling about in “rock formal” attire.
Men in tailored suits with edgy details like jacquard prints and leather.
Women in haute couture designer gowns, coupled with statement heels and bold or vintage jewelry.
Dale grabs two flutes of champagne from a server and hands me one.
“Merry Christmas, babe,” he says, clinking my glass. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
I stare into his cool blue eyes, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. His text breakup with me all those years ago feels almost like a distant memory. He really hurt me, but now that he’s back in my life, I’m getting a glimpse of the Dale I used to love. And a future we might have together.
“Dale!” a voice exclaims and I turn to find a man with long salt-and-pepper hair hustling toward us. He’s wearing a maroon suit and has that aged rocker turned music executive look to him. “There’s my next headliner,” he exclaims, clapping Dale on the back.
“Kristoff.” Dale greets him with a smile.
“And is this the fiancée I’ve heard so much about?” He looks me up and down.
“This is Mary,” Dale says.
“Marygrace.” I reach my hand out to shake Kristoff’s, but he just smiles and turns back to Dale.
“Some ravishing arm candy, Quigley. You’ll be disappointing a lot of fans showing up with her. Now,” he continues, cutting me out of the conversation completely. “I need you in the greenroom.”
I stand awkwardly, waiting for Dale to bring me back into the discussion, to explain to Kristoff that I’m the one who has landed him these gigs and that I should be involved in whatever operation planning conversation they’re having.
But he’s caught in Kristoff’s gaze like the man is the only person in the room.
At last, Kristoff takes him by the arm and leads him away.
“Wait!” I hustle in my stilettos to catch up to them.
“Yes, Mary.” Kristoff pauses to glance back at me.
“I’ll just take him and get him set up in the greenroom.
We’ll need to do some photo shoots and sound checks.
All terribly boring stuff. You should stay here, enjoy the party.
You can watch your boyfriend perform when it’s his set.
We have a VIP area roped off for the band’s… entourage.”
I stop in my tracks, shocked at his tone.
“Fiancée” is all I can manage out of my now stiff lips.
“What?” Kristoff clears his throat like I’m wasting his time.
I glance at Dale, who is avoiding my eyes, staring at his rock god shoes.
“I’m not part of his entourage. I’m his fiancée,” I repeat.
“Right,” Kristoff says. “Well, you can watch his set in thirty minutes or so.”
“Dale?” I hate the quiver in my voice. “Shouldn’t I be back there with you? As your manager—”
“It’s all right,” Dale says in a thin voice. “Please. I’ll see you after the show.” His eyes are soft, but his tone cuts deep.
He turns with Kristoff and walks away. I watch him smiling and waving at fans, signing an autograph or two as he goes. My chest feels too tight. I thought he needed me? I thought he couldn’t do any of this without me?
He disappears behind a pair of discreet doors.
Was that all just for show? Pretty words to make me happy?
I squeeze my arms around my chest and head for the nearest bar. I’ve had enough champagne. Time to break out the hard stuff.