Page 96 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

“You’re crazy.” Olivia grabbed her Negroni from Sarah. The ice had long ago melted, but she didn’t care. “You don’t even know him.”

“He asked me out on what was supposed to be your wedding day.”

“Wedding day?” Olivia tried to focus because she was clearly missing something.

“You didn’t know that, did you? Less than a week after you broke up with him, he asked me out, and by the end of our first date, we knew we had something special. He loved me more than he ever loved you.”

Olivia scrambled to put the pieces together. “Are you talking about Adam?”

“Who else would I be talking about?”

“Thad! I love Thad!”

“That football player you’ve been seeing?”

“He’s not just any football player! He’s one of the greats. He’s—” The Negroni sloshed onto the floor. “He’s the greatest second-string quarterback of all time.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Of course I’m drunk! I can’t sing, and I’ve lost my way.” She couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Adam killed himself because of me!”

Instead of being shocked, Sarah scoffed at her. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? He sent me an email!” she exclaimed. “A suicide email. Technology, right? I mean, what happened to the old-fashioned suicide note? Now everything is electronic.”

Sarah cocked her head. “He emailed you, too?”

“‘Too’? What do you mean, ‘too’?”

“That bastard.” Sarah didn’t say it angrily. More like she wanted to cry. She sank into the couch. “Now there are three of us.” She picked up a cocktail napkin.

“Three?”

“You, me, and Sophia Ricci.”

“Sophia Ricci?” Olivia didn’t understand. Ricci was the lyric soprano who’d stolen the role of Carmen from a mezzo. Rachel had told her about that when they’d had lunch in LA, and Sophia had dated Adam before Olivia. But an email . . . ?

Sarah blew her nose on a cocktail napkin with a gold embossed, Drink up, bitches. “Sophia and I met at the Royal Academy. We’ve been friends for years, but I hadn’t heard from her in a while. A few days ago she called. She’s been having panic attacks, and she thought I could help. I don’t thi

nk she intended to tell me about the suicide email, but it came out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sarah hugged herself. “It seems he sent all three of us an email. Sophia’s and mine were identical. ‘You let me believe we were forever. You meant everything to me and I meant nothing to you.’”

Olivia’s mushy brain finally absorbed what it was hearing, and she finished what had been in the note. “‘Why should I keep on living?’ Yes, that’s what mine said, too.”

Sarah slumped into the couch. “You lost your voice, Sophia’s having panic attacks, my eczema’s out of control—my legs, back, chest. And I can’t stop eating. I’ve gained twenty pounds.”

“You look good.” A stupid comment, but that’s how Olivia was feeling now. Stunned and stupid.

“I loved him with all my heart.” Sarah swiped at her eyes with the napkin, smearing some of her makeup. Even in her drunken state, Olivia could see Sarah’s pain, and it made her want to cry right along. “I fell hard and fast,” Sarah said, “but I wasn’t blind to his faults. He was a wonderful teacher, and he could have been a great coach, but he wanted to be Pavarotti, except he didn’t have the voice.” She wadded up the napkin, looking at it in her lap. “When he lost out on a part, he blamed the acoustics or his accompanist. The weather. Sometimes, he blamed me. Not directly. More like, if only I hadn’t insisted on going to the Turkish restaurant, he would have sung better. Little things like that.”

Olivia circled back to the beginning. “But those emails? To all three of us? The Adam I knew was spoiled, but he wasn’t cruel.”

“He lost out on one too many roles. He fell into a severe depression and refused to see a doctor. He kept saying there was nothing wrong with him.”

“It was always other people.” Olivia gazed at what was left of her drink. It reminded her of sewer water, and she couldn’t imagine taking another sip. “You weren’t at his funeral.”

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