touched his boot to some guy’s back that was just sitting there, and when the guy looked up at him, he nodded at me. Not long after, the stranger went to the payphone in the corner.
Mitch handed off the microphone to a confused Jane, but she took it greedily after the initial shock had worn off. She started to sing a sad ballad.
While I stood there, watching her, listening to her, the blue balloon seemed to encapsulate me. The mysteriousness surrounding her was suddenly clear.
Sense. I had made it.
She was good enough for Brando. He wouldn’t put her on such a high pedestal, one that he felt he could never reach. She was a hometown girl—beautiful, talented, but not destined to leave. Brando would make room for Jane, just like Emory Snow made room for his wife.
I would be the pedestal love, roses forever placed at my feet, the one that no other could touch, but I’d also be the sacrificed love.
The current-day Àstrid.
Genetic phenomena can never truly be explained, only experienced, but there are times words can explain the feeling. Whatever it was that I had with Brando, the connection, burned deep when I looked at her and thought of him. This sensation was different from the others that I had, not panicked, but searing.
I wanted to cry and fight all at the same time. I desperately wanted to save my heart and capture his. I knew that whatever we shared was not limited to tragic accidents but open to anything that would take him away from me.
Her.
Mitch chose the moment of revelation to grab me by the arm. The smell of stale cigarettes and fresh booze wafted from him, but his cologne sort of masked the stench. He took me by the arm and made me dance with him. I didn’t want to at first, but just like everyone else, he seemed to dismiss my wants.
He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “You don’t belong here. Not in this bar. Not in this town. Not with Brando. You need to go. You’ve always been destined to leave this place.”
I stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held on tight, almost protectively.
“We’re a lot alike, kid. Me and you. We both love the idea of love. I tried to let her go, you know.” He twirled me out and then pulled me close. “I did. But I’m only a man. And look at us, Scarlett. Look at the mess we’ve made. I’m like Brando in that way. I know what I have is too good for me.
“Damned if I’m not a selfish bastard though. But I know your kind too. You’ll be split in two. You’ll only have one half of yourself; the other will always belong to him. You’ll dance yourself into emaciation, because nothing you eat will stick. It’s not your body that’ll be sick, but your heart and soul.”
I turned my face, tried to extract myself from his hold, but he held steady. I called him some words that no one even bothered to blink at—this crowd seemed seasoned—and then because I couldn’t think of anything else to call him, I called him Peter. The name Violet sometimes called him.
He went rigid, but before he could react, Possessive Eyes barged through the crowd, located me, and then tapped Mitch on the shoulder. Mitch dismissed him with a cocky shrug and a swat of the hand. Possessive Eyes turned Crazy Eyes and rammed Mitch with his beefy hands.
A chain reaction seemed to follow.
Dancers were no longer dancing but shoving. Friends were no longer being friendly but taking pot shots. I tried to maneuver through the fracas, but Crazy Eyes caught me by the arm. Out of nowhere, Brando punched him and he spun out of control, landing on the floor with a thunderous plop.
“Puddin’!” a faded redhead gasped, her eyes turning mean.
Before we could make our escape, she jumped on Brando’s back, and like some scene out of a movie, I swooped up a beer bottle and knocked it over her head. She fell to the floor with an equally impressive thud.
Brando quickly lifted me up and sat me on the bar, placing himself in front of me as three buff dudes with necks as big as the Michelin Man’s waist hustled toward us.
One of them shouted, “That’s Puddin’s old lady!” And charged.
“The fuck she is,” Brando said, knocking him to the floor.
I hid my face in my hands, hoping for the best, dreading