Page 73 of Red Hot Harmony

Shanice slung back in her chair. Considering where we were, she looked fairly composed, but her jerking foot clearly communicated anxiety.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked. “I think I lost mine on the way here and I need to get a hold of someone.”

“Sure.” She unlocked the device and handed it to me, but I realized it was absolutely no use to me because I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart. Not Camille’s. Not Frank’s. Not Eden’s. Not Javier’s. Technology made us lazy. A person we wanted to speak to was just a press of a button away, but we never planned for the worst.

After staring at the phone for a few seconds, I pulled up my email server, tried to log on, got slammed with the two-factor authentication because the device wasn’t recognized and sort of gave up.

Shanice took notice. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“My publicist.” The digital clock showed a few minutes past seven. The party was probably in full swing and Camille was probably pissed at me to the moon and back.

My heart gave a twitch in my chest at the thought.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure my publicist has her info.” Shanice took her phone back and made a call.

Two minutes later, I was talking to Eden. I explained the situation with as few details as possible out of respect to both Malik and his wife. Or ex-wife? The status of their relationship was just as confusing as the map of a New York City subway system.

“Jesus fuck,” she rumbled, her voice low and stunned on the line. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Looks like it.” Then I changed the subject, not wanting to discuss someone else’s health anymore. It felt like an invasion of privacy. “I need you to get a hold of Camille. We had a thing together but this happened and she probably thinks I flaked out on her. Please?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

“Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll call her as soon as I get my hands on a phone.”

I returned Shanice her device and sat in silence for a few minutes, turning everything over in my head.

This thing between Camille and me was so fragile and new, and at that very moment, I was afraid of losing her more than I was afraid of losing my ability to play a guitar. The realization was like a punch to my stomach and made me shudder.

“You know”—I looked at Shanice—“he never got over you.”

She arched her brow. “Are you implying I’m the one to blame?”

“No. I’m just curious what that other guy has that Malik doesn’t?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my fucking friend. Because he was the only one who had the guts to get to know me when I was in rehab. I hated what I’d become. I hated my body that didn’t listen to me. I hated my mind that didn’t want to calm down. But he made me believe in myself, made me believe that there was more to life than what I’d lost.” I paused to take a breath. My treacherous hands shook and I clenched them into fists. “So, yeah. I have a right to know because I need to know how to take care of him.”

She stared at me for a few heartbeats, her expression hard and unreadable. Finally, she said, “People fall out of love, Dante. It sucks, but it happens, and that’s what happened to us. Life’s not a lake. It’s a river and it runs forward, and if he can’t understand that, he’ll be stuck in his own hell for the rest of his days. And I don’t want that, but I can’t give him what he wants. He needs to learn how to accept that we’re over, that things change. He needs to move on with his life. If you could help him do that, it’d be the best gift you could give us.”

I waited for more, but she gave me nothing else and, oddly, after several tense seconds of silence, I knew it was enough for me.

I nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s all I ask and that’s all he needs.”

There was a soft noise of the door swinging open behind me. I spun in my chair and saw the nurse.

“He’s awake,” she explained with a small smile, blush hitting her cheeks. “He asked if the...hmmm...person responsible for him waking up in a hospital is here.”

I shot to my feet. “Present.”

“He’d like to see you.”

I returned home in an Uber that Shanice was kind enough to get me using her account.

The street I lived on looked dark and ominous as the car crawled up the hill. The driver kept to himself. He probably knew a man in my condition wasn’t up for a conversation or even small talk.

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