Chapter 3
Solange
Tyler had chosen a restaurant with the kind of atmosphere that announced itself quietly: good lighting, unhurried service, and a menu that listed only dish names, no prices. That was either an aesthetic choice or a generous assumption about the people who ate there.
When the check arrived, he picked up his phone and started scrolling, so I slipped my credit card into the billfold and handed it to the server. Neither of us said anything about it, because we had long since stopped saying anything about most things.
"Stay at the hotel with me tonight," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Your dorm is terrible. Sharing a room is bad enough, but that curfew they have you on — you're not sixteen."
"It's not a curfew, it's a company rule," I said, signing the receipt and putting my card away. "And opening night is tomorrow. I can't go AWOL the night before a performance."
"You wouldn't be going AWOL. You'd just be sleeping somewhere with a private bathroom."
"Tyler."
"Fine, fine. I heard you." He stood up, shoving his chair back hard enough that it scraped across the floor with a sound that made the nearby tables glance over. "But even if you're heading back to the dorm, you're coming to the hotel first. I have something for you."
I hesitated.
I didn't want to go back to the hotel with him — I knew well enough what he had in mind. But Tyler almost never gave me things, and the deliberate way he'd said it made me pause. I thought it over, and in the end I went.
The hotel was four blocks away, a small suite on the seventh floor. When he pushed open the door, I took in the state of the room: clothes draped over the chair, more clothes on the floor beside it, his backpack lying open and half-spilled near the foot of the bed. He walked in ahead of me, kicked the clothes aside with his foot, and crouched down to unzip the front pocket of the bag.
I watched him, and when he straightened up, there was a small velvet box in his hand — deep navy blue.
He held it out toward me with a slight lift of his chin, the corner of his mouth curving just enough, waiting for me to open it.
Inside was a necklace. It was delicate, almost weightless, with a single small diamond suspended at the center. The style was simple enough to go with anything, the kind of piece that read understated at first glance but, precisely because of that restraint, suggested it had not been cheap.
"Tyler, you didn't have to—"
"It's just a silver chain, don't make it a thing," he said, brushing it off. "I picked up some work a while back, made a little money, wanted to get you something." He shrugged one shoulder. "It's not expensive. Don't read into it."
I looked at the necklace in the box, and something settled warmly in my chest. I looked up at him and said, "Will you put it on me?"
He lifted the chain from the box while I turned to face the mirror, sweeping my hair to one side. His fingers worked at the back of my neck, searching for the clasp. The tiny fastening gave him trouble — I could see it in the slight furrow of his brow as he concentrated — and when the necklace finally settled against my collarbone, I heard him exhale.
I looked at the pendant in the mirror. The stone was small and clear, catching the light sharply. Beside it hung a tiny metal tag, engraved in thin script with two letters: T&S. Tyler said he'd had it custom-made.
"It's beautiful," I said, and I meant it.
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. I turned my head and kissed his cheek. Then he lowered his head, his lips moving toward my neck, and I understood immediately what he was doing.
"Not there," I said, pulling back. "Opening night is tomorrow. I can't go onstage with a mark on my neck."
He lifted his head. The irritation in his eyes was unconcealed. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
He let out a short, cold laugh, took hold of my waist, and turned me around to face him. I flinched back instinctively, but he caught my jaw in his hand and tilted my face up. The kiss was rough and forceful in a way that made me uncomfortable, but I kissed him back — because if I didn't, we would fight over it, and because his necklace was still warm against my throat.
I thought that maybe he and I were in the same place now, that we both understood the love and the urgency between us had gone quiet, but we were still trying, and as long as we kept doing what couples do, we could tell ourselves something was still there.
His hand left my jaw and slid beneath my collar. The urge to pull away was almost immediate; I grabbed his wrist and pushed, but his grip only tightened. He turned his wrist and locked his hand around mine, and when I tried to pull free, he pressed my hand flat against the wall behind me while his other hand caught the hem of my skirt.
I turned my face to the side, wanting it to stop, knowing that if I stopped it he would shut down completely and wait in silence until I came back to him and gave in.
Then my phone rang.
The sound broke through everything. I heard Tyler exhale sharply through his nose. I pushed him back, turned away, and dug my phone out of my bag.
"It's the stage manager," I said.
"The stage always comes first." His voice had that particular edge he used when he wanted to be cutting without quite committing to it.
I didn't answer him. I turned away and unlocked the screen — and at that exact moment, his fingers dug into me from behind, hard. I nearly cried out. I didn't. I shot him a look, stepped forward out of his reach, and answered the call.
The stage manager explained that the lighting technician had accidentally overwritten the entire cue sequence that afternoon. Every position, every parameter — gone. With opening night less than twenty-four hours away, he needed me back at the theater to walk the lighting plot again from scratch.
"I can be there in twenty minutes," I said, already reaching for my coat and bag from the chair.
Tyler dropped onto the edge of the bed behind me, arms crossed, his expression gone flat and distant.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"The lighting data was deleted. They need me to walk the positions again—"
A beat of silence. "Right now?"
"Yes, right now. Opening night is tomorrow, Tyler. I don't have a choice." I put my phone in my bag. "Can we talk about everything else after the show? Please?"
"Can we talk about everything else after the show." He repeated it back in a thin, exaggerated imitation of my voice. He knew I hated that.
"This is the first time I've been cast as a principal as a soloist," I said, hearing the urgency creeping into my own tone. "You know how much this means to me."
"Yes, it's the first time you've been cast as a principal as a soloist." He did it again, word for word, watching me with undisguised contempt. "So?"
"Tyler, tonight I really—"
"I bought you a necklace. I booked the hotel. I've been accommodating you all evening," he said. "And now you're telling me you have to leave because of work. Do you actually not hear how that sounds?"
"I'm not—"
"Or is it him?" His voice dropped, flat and cold. "You turned red when he had his arm around you. We finish dinner and suddenly you can't get out of here fast enough. Are you that eager to get into his bed?"
"Tyler!" The word came out louder than I intended.
"Go ahead," he said, his face full of contempt. "The great Solange always has a reason."
I went still. The anger moved through me like something with no direction. "A reason for what," I said.
"For not being with me. For never staying." He held my gaze. "Every single time, you find one."
I wanted to explain. He wouldn't look at me. I stood there, watching him, and found I had nothing left to say.
The silence held for a moment. Then I reached into my bag, took out a ticket, walked over, and set it on the bed beside him. "Tomorrow night," I said. "I hope you'll come."
Tyler glanced at it. He didn't say anything.
I picked up my bag and walked out.
