Page 27 of When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars 9)

“No.” They hadn’t reached the summit, but she turned and began heading back down the trail. Then, because she didn’t have to make eye contact with him, she said, “It’s Rodolfo’s love song to Mimì in La bohème.”

“And?”

“Che gelida manina . . . It means, ‘What a cold little hand.’” She shuddered. “I told him not to sing it.”

“Who?”

The sun was coming up, and so was the temperature. She fixed her eyes on the observatory in the distance. She didn’t have to say anything. She could clam up right now. But he was steady and solid, and she wanted to tell him. “It’s a popular audition piece for tenors, but Adam couldn’t manage the high C. He had to take it

down a half tone—high C becomes a top B-natural. But that only showcases a weakness. I tried to talk him out of auditioning with it, but I couldn’t.”

“Adam?”

“Adam Wheeler. My former fiancé.”

“And this is how the asshole treats you? He calls you up like some lunatic and—”

“You don’t understand.” She took an unsteady breath. “Adam is dead.”

5

Olivia shuddered. “That song . . . It’s a voice from the grave.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Thad phrased it as a request, but it sounded more like a demand.

“It’s not a happy story.”

“I can handle it.” They’d come to a bench on the trail, and he gestured toward it, but she didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to look at him. She did, however, want to tell him. She wanted to let down the guard she’d been holding on to so tightly it was choking her and tell this man she barely knew what she’d only been able to hint at with Rachel.

She moved ahead of him so she didn’t have to make eye contact. “Adam was a good tenor, but not a great one. He was fine in the more undemanding comprimario parts—secondary roles. He had the will, but not the instrument to handle bigger parts.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me.” She’d also worked harder than Adam, but she worked harder than nearly everyone, and she couldn’t fault him for not keeping up. “We had everything in common—music, our dedication to our careers. He’d go into schools and talk to the students about music. He was great with kids. Loved animals. A sweet, sensitive man. And he adored me.” She stepped over a rocky trench to a smoother section of the trail. “When he proposed, I accepted.”

“Did you love him?”

“He was perfect. How could I not?”

“So you didn’t love him.”

She hesitated. “I was happy.”

“Except when you weren’t.”

Except when she wasn’t. She slowed to keep from slipping on a patch of shale. “I knew it bothered him that I was at a place in my career he couldn’t reach.” She was ashamed of how often she’d attempted to make herself smaller so she didn’t hurt him. She’d turned down a role she should have taken, and when a rehearsal or performance had gone especially well, she downplayed it. But he always knew. He’d grow silent. Occasionally, he’d snap at her for something inconsequential. He’d always apologize and blame his bad mood on lack of sleep or a headache, but Olivia knew the real cause.

They rounded a bend. “I don’t like to fail, and I got very good at self-deception. Even though I was growing more and more unhappy, I wouldn’t admit to myself that I’d stopped loving him.”

“Since none of those rings you like to wear have a diamond in them, I’m assuming you came to your senses.”

“Too late.” Thinking about it still made her cringe. “A week before the wedding, I called it off. One week! It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done. I waited too long, and I broke his heart.”

“Better than condemning him to a bad marriage.”

“He didn’t see it that way. He was devastated and humiliated.” She couldn’t dodge this next part, and she finally looked up at him. “He killed himself two and a half months later. Exactly nineteen days ago.” Her throat caught. “There was a suicide note. A suicide email, really. Modern life, right? He told me how much he’d loved me and that I’d ruined his life. Then he hit ‘send’ and shot himself.”

Thad winced. “That’s tough. Killing yourself is one thing, but blaming it on someone else . . . That’s low.”

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