Over the Edge (Fool’s Gambit #2)

1. Evelyn

1

Evelyn

I hadn’t expected to end my night playing therapist to a werewolf in a jazz bar bathroom, but life hasn’t been exactly going my way recently. And I’m not quite sure she’s a werewolf. She could be a vampire. It’s not like it matters, because whatever paranormal creature Elodie plays is about as realistic as the fact the show's producers are passing her off as fourteen years old. But isn’t that the time-honored tradition? Hot people in their mid-to-late twenties playing freshman in high school is about as classic as the lie I’ve been repeating all night.

“No. I’m totally fine with being here,” I comfort her.

I like parties, just not this party. But I couldn’t exactly back out when Avery, my oldest friend and confidant, is about to leave for eight months to rehearse for, then co-headline a North American tour. I don’t exactly want to celebrate her leaving, even if I should be excited for her.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to bring down the mood. It’s just so…” Her defined biceps shift as she leans back against the edge of the sticky bathroom sink. Werewolf, definitely werewolf. I think it’s the skintight red leather dress that threw me off for a second. But her brown skin has been emphasized by a spray tan that gives her an extra glow no undead entity would have.

I offer her a soft smile. “Overwhelming?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s supposed to be the best night ever.” She sags further.

Tonight’s party is good, but that’s not hard when you have live music and an open bar. Still, tomorrow there will be another party, documented for outsiders to experience through glimpses on social media, declared to be “the best night ever.”

“And we’re having so much fun we’ve run to hide in the bathroom,” I say, cheerily. I can practically see her Holy shit, I’m in New York! dreams lose a bit of their shine.

“Am I bad at this?”

“Where are you from?”

“Nebraska,” she says. “Is it that obvious?” Yes. More that she’s new to the people and places like this, not that there’s any Midwesternness about her that gives it away.

“Give yourself some time to get used to it, and you’ll be just fine.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Yes,” I say, because that’s far more relatable than the truth. It’s not like being the younger sister to an internationally beloved member of the boy band Fool’s Gambit is a typical bonding experience. Elodie seems nice enough, and if I can be a comforting stranger in a bathroom in some post-midnight hour, I’ll gladly be that for her.

I grew up around this; by the time I was fourteen, my brother’s face was on posters in my classmates' bedrooms. Everyone loved Fool’s Gambit, treating whoever your favorite member as a crucial personality trait. The lead singer, and my long-term personal nemesis, Wesley, was the charmer, for those who wanted a lighthearted clown. My brother, Drew, was the drummer for the ones who wanted a broody, shy type. Jared is a sweetheart and was the rhythm guitarist with a heart of gold who’s turned into a great dad. Then there’s Garrett, the bassist who is currently on my shit list after backing out of helping me move to Manhattan a few months ago.

It was weird growing up like that, sure, but it was something that’s become normal over the last fifteen years. Eventually, I was old enough to go to the parties, and by then I was desensitized to it. It was never new and exciting like it is for Elodie now. And because I’m friends with America’s indie-pop sweetheart, Avery Sloane, the award shows and after parties never stopped, even when Drew’s music career came to a crashing halt.

A desperate knock rattles the bathroom door, and I turn to Elodie. “Ready to face the music?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, putting on a brave face and rolling back her shoulders.

Music blasts as we push through the door, the bass so unrestrained I feel it in my skull. Blue and pink neon blankets the room, and the well-dressed attendees are scattered around the stage. Before the door has a chance to fully close, a girl in a velvet pantsuit rushes to grab it and locks herself in the bathroom. Elodie and I exchange a few more words before someone, maybe her co-star, whisks her away. It’s for the best because Avery finds me soon after.

With fiery red hair and a mosaic of dark tattoos contrasting against her pale skin visible from the slit of her black dress, she’s hard to miss. In heels, her height rivals even the tallest attendees of her party. As always, she’s unapologetic about the space she takes up. That’s how she’s always been with her appearance, words, and music. She doesn’t have time to care if it bothers anyone. It’s a trait I used to wish would rub off on me, but after knowing her for fourteen years, I’ve started to give up hope.

I’m loud in my own right, but it’s more that I word vomit in the hopes something I say is worth listening to. I like people and want them to like me right back, but sometimes I struggle with the whole having a filter thing. I dance like everyone's watching on purpose, so they’ll be comfortable enough to dance with me. But in a room like this? Most people here barely spare me a passing glance.

If you were to rank people in the room by their status, at face value, I would occupy one of the lowest rungs. That’s pretty much irrelevant because I met Avery when she was opening for Fool’s Gambit and the both of us were mere mortals in comparison to the sensation my brother was a part of. There’s a sort of kinship that can only come from being the only two young girls on a music tour. Years later, she keeps me along for the ride.

The cover band on stage transitions into a new song just as Avery reaches me. My brows arch into a you can’t be serious look .

“This wasn’t on the approved setlist. They must have gone rogue,” she explains with a shrug. “It’s not my fault that Lyla West has been hanging out in the Hot 100 for so long.”

I don’t hate the song. I mean, I liked it enough to write and record it. There’s the simple fact that it’s always a bit jarring to hear my own lyrics in someone else's voice, especially when they don’t know Lyla West is in the room with them.

“I don’t mind,” I insist.

“It’s my party. I can tell them to stop.”

“Don’t. People are dancing,” I tell her, and she follows my gaze to the dance floor in front of the low stage. Bodies gyrating. Wide smiles. Drinks held high and spilling over onto sweat-drenched skin. Something like pride swells in my chest knowing I contributed to the collective euphoria.

“Just like they will when you finally release the next one. Any progress?” she asks in a voice loud enough to cut through the music, but low enough no one else can eavesdrop.

The feeling in my chest curdles, warping into the low-grade anxiety that has been my constant companion these last few months. “No.”

“It’ll come to you. It always does,” she says with a confidence I wish I had.

“You’re right,” I say, not wanting to admit this album doesn’t feel the same as my last three. I moved to Manhattan seven months ago to dedicate myself to working on it and ever since then I’ve barely managed to write more than a chorus before scrapping it. My manager, Vincent, is patient and has been so great with how I’ve wanted to manage my career, but I can tell he's getting anxious about my rapidly approaching deadline. “Having a good time tonight?”

“Enough. This is my funeral, and I intend to regret being alive in the morning.” she says.

“Interesting sentiment from the hostess.”

“Like you would want to take my place. I wore black for a reason.”

“Different reason than every other day?”

“This particular shade is for Wesley,” she says. Her voice is heavy with the years’ long resentment she’s carried for her ex-best friend turned co-headliner. I don’t blame her; Wesley Hart's ego is reason enough to hate him, even if it weren’t for Avery or the fact that he slept with my brother’s girlfriends on multiple occasions. I like people, but Wesley? I make a special exception for him.

“Good to know it was made custom for the occasion,” I play along.

Avery’s face morphs into a plastic expression and I turn to find a man dressed in an overpriced white T-shirt and slacks coming our way. I offer to get drinks and leave them to talk. At the bar I grab our usual. Filthy martini for Avery and Aperol Spritz for me. The olives in the martini swish along the inside of the glass as I dodge elbows and party goers who have lost their spatial awareness. When I get back two more people have joined the conversation. Avery flashes me a thank God, I need alcohol to get through this conversation look as I hand over her glass. I don’t have a chance to shoulder my way into the circle because my phone lights up in my purse. My brows pinch as I check the incoming call.

“Sorry, I should really get this,” I yell in Avery’s direction then falter. I blink, startled as I reexamine the caller ID.

There’s not exactly a quiet corner in the bar, but I manage to put some distance between me and the loudest party goers before picking up.

“Hello?”

The silver beading of my dress digs into my arms as I hug myself to fight the chill of the hospital room. Even if I wasn’t having the time of my life at Avery’s party, I’d prefer it to the stark, unlit hospital room. Particularly because the man lying unconscious in the bed hooked up to an IV and heart monitor is the one who’s been avoiding me since I moved from Nashville to Manhattan.

If he were awake, I would ask him about it. But I guess the whole reason I’m here is because he’s out cold.

I’m halfway through what must be my hundredth time cycling between Instagram and my messages when there’s a metallic clink. I look up to find a bleary-eyed Garrett examining the IV in his arm, yanking it toward him as he squints, which makes the IV stand bump the edge of his hospital bed.

Garrett has these classic features that would make him a believable lead in period dramas. A sweep of blond hair that’s usually diligently styled but is currently disheveled, sticking up at odd angles, yet manages to look roguishly intentional. Sharp cheekbones and a long, narrow nose with a flat tip, like whatever master sculptor was diligently chiseling him accidentally chipped off the end. Maybe I’d be lured in by his looks, that is if I didn’t know him.

“Good morning, or maybe night? I’m not sure since it’s three a.m. and I’m supposed to be at home in bed.” I uncross my legs and stand up from the chair shoved in the corner.

“Eve?” His voice cracks on the nickname. He’s the only one who shortens my name that way, like he’s making some point by doing it. Like I’m still his bandmate’s little sister who hovered around with childish hopes of being included.

“Did you think you put someone else down to be called in a case like this? What a weird typo to make, but I guess that would make more sense than choosing me. You know, since you haven’t talked to me in months,” I say through a forced smile. I won’t let him get to me. He does, usually, but I know I get to him, too. I get a certain pleasure in cracking his stony exterior.

I’ve known him for nineteen years, back when he wasn’t a household name, and he was just one of the boys practicing music in my parents’ garage every afternoon after school. Well, every afternoon until the world became obsessed with Fool’s Gambit. No one could get enough of them. Even after the band broke up ten years ago, people have kept the boys tucked in the part of their hearts designed to store nostalgia.

But to me, they were just the guys in the garage. People who weren’t mine, but a part of my life, nonetheless. Always have been, no matter how many sold out stadiums they had with tens of thousands of fans screaming their names.

We’ve grown up, grown complicated. My brother barely plays anymore. Wes has his solo career, but still makes sure his ego is everyone’s problem. Jared has a family. And Garrett went and got his law degree.

“Nice dress.” He nods. Somehow, he manages to look in control of the situation, like the hospital is exactly where he wanted to end up tonight.

“Thanks, I thought I’d dress up for the occasion. It’s not like I was at a party or anything,” I say.

“You didn’t have to go through all that effort,” he says dryly.

“It’s not like you gave me much of a choice. You see, when a hospital calls asking you to come in for an emergency, it’s kind of a dick move to not show up. Kinda like if you tell someone you’re going to help them move but then stop talking to them.”

Fine. I’m bitter and it’s three in the morning. I’m supposed to be buried in my overpriced comforter right now, excuse me for being a bit annoyed.

“You can leave now that you’ve upheld social norms.” He cocks his head toward the door, effectively dismissing me.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to make that call. I’m going to go get someone who can provide medical advice and then they can tell me whether or not I should leave you.”

There’s probably a button he could push, but I don’t like fighting, I don’t like blowing up, and this is a good enough excuse to walk away before I say something I’ll regret. It’s always hard with Garrett, though. There’s this urge to push and get some reaction out of him.

I find a nurse then wait in the hall for the verdict. I’m not particularly fond of hospitals, though I doubt many people are. A hospital was where my family started to fray. Drew collapsed on stage during Fool’s Gambit’s last performance. It’s weird seeing someone who you’ve always looked up to, someone strong and full of life, look so distant and small.

He was fine, but also not fine. Concussed. But that didn’t do any lasting damage. After that day he stopped playing music. Stopped talking to our parents. Barely talked to me until our parents were getting on my case for the smallest things. He said it over and over again.

“ I’m fine .”

Depression and anxiety are a bitch, but we only started talking about that recently. He’s doing better now that he’s going to therapy and taking medication. He’s happier than ever, living with his girlfriend Lacey and running his bar in Atlanta.

Still, I’m not the biggest fan of hospitals.

I collect his belongings and I’m given a bundle of wrinkled clothes, slightly bent glasses, wallet, watch, and keys. The doctor is leaving just as I get back and she holds the door open for me as I enter the room.

“I thought you might want to walk out of here in something that covers your ass,” I say, then drop his belongings on the bed. It’s a nice ass. I’ve looked a few times. You know, to see what all the fuss is about. The world won’t suffer if he showed it off a bit.

“Thanks.”

I leave the room again and a few minutes later he steps out in a rumpled designer suit. His glasses sit at an odd angle on his nose.

I fold my arms over my chest, still determined to stand my ground. “Care to explain why I’m here?”

“Wes isn’t reliable,” he says flatly.

“So you just skipped over any other viable options. Got it.”

“I knew you’d show up,” he explains simply. It’s not like I can refute that, since I’m already here. I would show up for anyone, though. He’s not special.

“How convenient for you. Because from what I remember, you didn’t show up for me seven months ago.”

“I sent movers.”

“I remember,” I snap, my voice rising. “It was so fun to open my door at eight in the morning expecting you and finding three huge strangers instead. Makes a girl feel really safe in a new city.”

Up until now, I’ve lived in Nashville or its surrounding suburbs my entire life. I was a bit anxious about the process until Garrett agreed to help. It wasn’t like I expected Garrett to become my best friend. But it hurt when he didn’t show up and explained it away with an excuse about work. It made me feel small, the same way I do now. I’m just a convenient person to have around, not someone he cares about. Got it.

“I guess I should have told you they were coming.” He shrugs, his voice bordering on disinterested, but something flickers across his face.

“You guess?”

“Um, are you ready for the discharge paperwork?” a nurse asks hesitantly, her eyes flicking between us. She’s not the only one looking at us. When I glance around the room a few other staff members start to hurry along.

“Thank you.” He takes the pen and clipboard then shoots me a sharp glance. “I’m ready for this to be over with.”

Likewise.