Page 91 of His Two Hidden Masks

A moment passed, and another.

“Then why aren’t you talking?”

He inhaled and propped himself up on one elbow. He moved a finger up and down the curve of my body, as if tracing an invisible line from my hips to my breasts. It gave me shivers.

“I started performing as Strand on a dare from a woman,” he said, his hand moving in a steady rhythm, his eyes not meeting mine.

“My brother and I were both at university in Dublin. James always knew he wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps. He did all the internships, all the right things. My grades were shit. I couldn’t focus on school. All I heard in class was music.

“When I slept, when I studied, melodies, notes, words. Music consumed me, and she was the only person who understood. The woman, her name was Rebecca. Bex, for short.”

He said her name as if the word carried a physical weight. My stomach twisted as he spoke her name.

“You loved her,” I said softly. It was not a question.

“Yes,” he said, his finger still moving from my hips to my breast and back again. “She knew that my family would never allow me to pursue being a musician. It was just impossible for them to understand or allow.”

“But you are so good,” I said. “You’re famous.”

“That was later,” he said. “That was after Bex dared me to wear a mask. It was her idea. The mask, the name. She helped launch my career. The first performance was in Dublin.

Next, we went to London and she booked me in in some underground clubs. We traveled to Los Angeles. We went to New York City. You see, I needed someone to know who I was, at least at the start. It took me a while before I figured out how to manage things on my own.”

“You mean nobody has known who you are?”

“I have gotten very good at hiding. Eccentric musicians can insist on the most complicated riders. Private dressing room, no cameras, no lights backstage, no crew contact.”

He smiled as if recalling an inside joke. “I did eventually come out to my parents.”

I laughed. “Really?”

“Really. It isn’t that much different,” he said. “I had an identity that nobody knew about. A secret life that I couldn’t share. They had just assumed I was a fuck-up, managing to underachieve and in danger of draining my trust fund.”

He laughed and sighed together, as if remembering the past was painful and funny at the same time.

“What happened to Rebecca, to Bex?” I said.

“What happened to Bex?” he repeated, exhaling slowly. “She loved me and I loved her until one day, I didn’t love her quite as much as before. We were young, everything was new and exciting and things were changing for me so fast, but not for her.

“I broke things off. I thought it was best for us both. I kept performing, and she would call me. I didn’t need her in the same way anymore, so she would leave messages. She’d write letters. She’d send flowers. She’d show up at shows and at my door late at night.”

“She stalked you,” I said.

“Yes. She wasn’t well. At some point, she convinced herself that Strand was real. She didn’t love me anymore. She was in love with Strand. I thought she was being dramatic, I didn’t understand how truly sick she was.” He shook his head.

“This sounds awful, Dylan.”

He smiled, but his expression held pain. “It was, mostly for her. I thought she was just trying to guilt me into going back to her. If it weren’t for her, Strand would never exist. I never would have played for people who loved my music, who loved that part of me.”

“So, you did love playing,” I said, that question finally answered. “And yet you stopped.”

“It was all I ever wanted,” he said. “Or at least, that is what I thought.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin.

“What happened to her?” I whispered. I wanted to know him and understand his pain.

“Strand played his final show in Central Park. It was a cold, February night. There were two acts before Strand went on. It was a festival of rebirth. We played to mark the end of one season and the beginning of the next. Sound familiar?”

“It was your Carnival,” I said.

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