Page 48 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“Absolutely.” Jimmy nods, going somber. “Do you think MASH is at fault here? Some people seem to think they’d still be together without it.”
“That’s where we’d disagree, Jimmy.” I memorized these sentences from Jazz’s laptop backstage, as Felix puttered around my hair and glued my eyelashes into place. My voice only shakes a little. “MASH just offers the answer to a question. It takes a certain type of person to ask that question in the first place.” I gesture at him. “You said yourself: You didn’t match because you’re married. You already have that true connection. We’re sad about the breakup, but it’s not on MASH. It’s a decision that Hayes Hawkins made. And he might have found a way to make it without us.”
“I hear you,” Jimmy says, nodding. “I hear you. That true connection’s really something.” His face breaks back into a comfortable smile, and he gestures between us. “I mean, you know.”
I smile at Miller, lean further into his side, and the audience sighs out anawww.I draw a breath: we’re in safer territory now.
“Whirlwind romance,” Jimmy says. “It’s been so fun to watch. But I want to know—and I think some people here probably want to know.” He raises his eyebrows, gives us a devilish smile. “Are you guys in love?”
There’s a short, solid silence. Suddenly it feels like no one’s breathing in the whole studio, like maybe no one here’s even alive except Miller and me.
I look at him, next to me on the couch in the blue button-down Felix picked last minute. Miller’s supposed to look at me, too—per the training, per all our practice, per every normal human instinct. But he doesn’t. He just takes a breath, looks straight at Jimmy, and says, “I’ve always loved Ro.”
The audience bursts into applause, saving me from responding. “There you have it!” Jimmy shouts, his voice cutting through the clamor. I’m still looking at Miller, but he won’t look at me now—he’s just smiling at Jimmy, at the audience, his mouth stuck like he’s gone plastic. “MASH:The future’s written inside your mind, guys. Download it from the App Store. Ro, Miller!” Jimmy waves at us again. “Thank you!”
We rise, hand in hand, and make our way offstage. Jazz and Felix wait there, each of them clutching their phones. Jazz is grinning, and Felix looks up as we step past the curtain.
“Wellplayed, Miller,” Felix says. Miller drops my hand, offers a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “You killed that. Someone from the audience leaked a clip and Twitter’s exploding.”
“And you were perfect about the Josie situation,” Jazz says. She steps forward to hook her arm through mine, guiding me toward the dressing rooms. I lose Miller in the shuffle—when I turn to find him, he’s disappeared. “That was tense, but you nailed it.”
“Where’s Miller?” I ask, and she glances behind us.
“Felix took him to grab his stuff. The car’s waiting outside, so let’s boogie.”
Five minutes later Jazz and I exit my dressing room, our arms stacked with garment bags, to find Miller and Felix waiting against the wall.
“Hey,” I say, but Miller barely looks at me. We start down the hallway and I notice his skin is flushed, bright red up his neck and cheeks. I have the sudden urge to touch him there. “Miller.”
He’s finally turning toward me when Jazz says, “Holy...” and we all look up.
Just beyond the double doors, there’s a sea of people with poster-board signs,#cancelMASHsplashed across them, andJUSTICE FOR JOSIE, and evenTHISISON MASH.They’re teeming around the stairs to the sidewalk, moving like an angry tide in the dark. A few security guards stretch their arms, hold them back. I can barely see our car in the street.
Felix squares his shoulders and pushes the door open. The noise is deafening when they see us, a rising tunnel of screams.
I step forward, but even before Felix has the door all the way open, something tugs me back. It’s Miller’s hand, white-knuckle-fisted around my wrist.
“Ro,” he says, and I can barely hear him over the shouting. “Get behind me.”
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When I step behind Miller, he keeps his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He’s squeezing so hard it’s like the thin bones are grinding against each other, pulse screaming through my veins. The pitch of the crowd is excruciating; they’re so loud it overwhelms me and I feel like I can’t smell the city air anymore, can’t see the steps right in front of me. I follow Miller, blind.
Felix is ahead of us, jogging through the thin tunnel of sidewalk to the waiting car. Jazz is behind me, shouting. Her words are indistinguishable; I have no idea what she’s saying. There are only four security guards out here, yelling wordlessly, their arms stretched into insufficient Ts. Miller is halfway down the steps when the first person breaks the line, holding her sign out in front of her like a shield.RO DEVEREUX ISN’T GOD.
I know, I think, right before all hell breaks loose.
I watch it unfold like I’m stuck behind glass. The girl’s sign is knocked out of her hands by the force of everyone behind hersurging onto the walkway in the space that she’s made. I see the hot, blank shock on her face. Her hair is braided into bear ears on either side of her head. She’s maybe sixteen.
Miller steps backward, his shoulder hitting my chin. He drops my wrist and reaches to pull me against him, turning as he does. He’s still reaching for me—arms outstretched, eyes wide, his mouth forming the one syllable of my name—when the surge spills over the stairs.
Jazz, appearing from nowhere, yanks me backward by the fabric of my sweatshirt. I stumble, falling to the ground, and watch from below as she grabs for Miller’s arm and misses. The security guards are shouting. Everyone is shouting. The crowd pushes toward us and Miller is swept up by the angry sea. The press of bodies swallows him whole, and I’m screaming his name when he reappears—scrambling over the railing in the middle of the split staircase. He’s almost over it when somebody shoves him. He falls roughly, jostled between bodies, and hits the concrete stairs shoulder-first. I can’t discern a single voice in the crush of shouting, but I hear him cry out when he lands.
It pierces me like a needle hitting bone, and I wrench out of Jazz’s grip to scramble toward Miller over the sidewalk. Behind me, the doors fly open and a wave of security guards floods the walkway. They’re holding enormous flashlights and shouting into the dark and as they move past me the crowd recedes, giving me room to breathe. Two of them stop over Miller, arms out to ward everybody back. I shove through, crouch beside him.
“I need an ambulance,” one of them says gruffly into hiswalkie-talkie. “South entrance, top of the stairs.”
“Miller,” I whisper. I know he can’t hear me; it’s so loud. “Miller.”
