Page 26 of Sing For Me

Eva

Sitting in the back of the limo on my way to my first event in more than a year, it’s everything I can do to keep from throwing up.

“You’re fidgeting with the dress again,” Marissa says next to me. I can tell she’s trying to project a spirit of calm for my benefit. But from the way her eyes keep darting to my face every two minutes, it’s obvious that she’s every bit as nervous about this as I am.

“Thanks,” I mutter, smoothing down the now-puckered fabric of my satin evening gown.

Silence settles over us, thick and oppressive, as the driver navigates the streets of downtown Los Angeles. “Look,” Marissa blurts out suddenly, breaking the tension. “Are you sure you want to be doing this tonight?”

I twist in my place on the bench seat to face her. “Mar—”

She holds up a hand. “Seriously, Eva. You don’t have to go to this thing. I don’t care whatDennissaid.” Her face twists in distaste when she says my manager’s name.

“It will be fine,” I say, wishing I felt half as confident as my words. “I need to get back into the swing of things eventually. This event is pretty low pressure. That’s why he suggested it.”

She snorts. “Low pressure? Half of the fucking industry will be there.”

“It could be worse. It’s not like he’s asking me to give an interview or go to an awards show or something. This isn’t a public event. No red carpet.” I attempt a cheesy double thumbs-up and Marissa shoots me her patented don’t-try-to-shit-me expression, honed over many years as the personal assistant to various celebrities in this town.

“If I recall correctly, hedidask you to give an interview. More than once. In fact, I’m pretty sure he tried to book you on SNL just last month.”

I shift in my seat. “This event is our compromise.”

Marissa’s jaw flexes several times before she speaks again. “You don’t have to compromise, though, Eva. This is your life. No one should be pressuring you to do anything right now.”

“It’s been more than a year.”

Her eyes flash in the dim light of the limo’s interior. She doesn’t say anything, but I know exactly what she’s thinking—time since the incident is irrelevant when I’m still walking around like a basket case most days.

Irritation flickers to life in my chest. “I need to work, Mar. I can’t just let this…this…sabbatical or whatever go on indefinitely.”

“It’s not a sabbatical,” she snaps. “You’re recovering.”

“I’m fine.” My voice is sharp, not at all the way I usually talk to my PA. Of course, Marissa is much more than that—she’s become a true friend in the years since I hired her. Her loyalty in the last fourteen months, in particular, has cemented her role in my life. I honestly don’t know if I would have made it through in one piece without her.

She studies my face for a long moment, probably taking in both my annoyance and the stab of guilt I feel for snapping at her. “I know you’re fine,” she finally says, more gently now. “I just want you to remember that recovering is a process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. If you don’t feel like you’re up for this—”

I reach over the seat to grab her hand, interrupting her. “I know,” I tell her, voice soft. “But I feel like I’m ready. I really do.” It’s a lie and we both know it, but what choice do I have? I’m not willing to sacrifice my entire career, all the things I’ve worked so hard for, just because I had a really bad night fourteen months ago. “Besides,” I add, managing to inject more certainty into my tone, “this is a really good cause. I would much rather attend a charity event than some stupid meaningless label party.” I squeeze her hand. “Okay?”

She lets out a long breath. “Okay.” Her grip tightens in mine. “But if you need to get out of there, you let me know, okay?”

I laugh at that. “Like you would need me to tell you. Pretty sure you developed a sixth sense for my freak out ages ago.”

The car begins to slow and I look out my window, stomach dropping as I realize we’ve arrived at the hotel where the gala will be held. The driver pulls into a long line of limos and town cars dropping off attendees so I have a few minutes to try to get myself relaxed.

As we crawl along towards the front entrance though, relaxation is the furthest thing from my mind. Up ahead I can see bright lights. Swarms of people crowd behind metal barriers, the consistent flash of cameras lighting up the sidewalk.

“That fucker,” Marissa hisses, her gaze fixed on the scene ahead, her expression outraged.

My heart has started a familiar too-fast rhythm, my breathing getting shallow. Attendees step out of the cars in front of us, waving to fans and stopping to pose for pictures in front of the line-up of photographers and reporters.

“I thought he said no red carpet?” she rants. “I could just kill that asshole. Why on earth would he think springing this on you as a surprise would help the situation?” She shoots me a worried look. “I’ll talk to the driver, find us a back entrance or—”

I hold out a hand. “No. It’s okay. I can do it.”

“Eva.”

“Seriously.” I take a deep breath, and then another. “We’ll just be quick.” I manage a weak grin. “You haven’t lost your skills, have you?”