where Becca is enjoying a post-show drink with her rowdy castmates. Still wearing the eye patch from her last sketch, she screams, “Bridgette!” upon seeing me, and the rest of her cohorts echo my name with enthusiasm.
“You were so great!” I cheer, presenting her with a bouquet of chocolate-dipped pretzel rods instead of flowers, as is our tradition.
She grabs the salty-sweet treat, ripping off the cellophane and ribbons I so carefully tied together. “Yesssss, thank you!” she says through a giant bite. “Performing makes me so hungry.”
“Well, you deserve it! The show was hilarious. I loved the bit about Jane Austen on Tinder.”
“Really?” Becca beams, flipping up the eye patch. “Sam said it was dumb.” She sticks her chocolaty tongue out at her boyfriend, who for some reason has begun putting more stage makeup on, even though the show is over. “See? Bridgette liked it.”
“Bridgette is too well-read,” Sam replies, smearing some gray cream through his closely cropped black curls to make them look like he’s aged fifty years. “I prefer lowbrow comedy.”
“Oh, shut up, you do not!” Becca teases, throwing an empty water bottle at his head. “And stop playing with the makeup! I don’t want you looking like a cradle-robbing creeper when we’re out tonight.”
He laughs, brushing out the hair product. “B, where’s that boy of yours?”
“Oh. You know.” I don’t bother coming up with an excuse. They’ve heard them all before.
Becca wraps an arm around me, pulling me in. “Come out with us tonight, little sis. We’re thinking karaoke and chili fries,” she says, quickly steering the conversation away from my invisible boyfriend.
She’s a bit sweaty from the stage lights, but I stay close anyway. “Now that sounds like a winning combination.”
“Right? The chili gives you a solid base layer of confidence to take the stage.”
“I thought that’s what beer does for you.”
“Either way! You can’t lose.” She grins. I know what she’s trying to do. Becca revoked her Matt Rodriguez Fan Club membership a while ago, though she hung on longer than both our parents. Since moving in with her, there’s been no way to hide my romantic tailspin, and she’s said more than once that she’s tired of seeing me cry.
“I don’t know. I don’t really feel like going out.”
“C’moooooooooon,” she begs, grabbing my hands and spinning me around the small backstage dressing room. I almost trip over some of the costume pieces strewn on the floor. “That’s exactly why you go out. To change your mood! And even if you’re sad, it will fuel your singing. Just ask Adele, or Kelly Clarkson! Both of whom are excellent karaoke choices, by the way.”
“Yes, please come,” Sam chimes in. “I’ll be singing Journey, and you don’t want to miss that.”
I laugh, so thankful to have these two goofs in my life. “I love and appreciate you both, but I’m just gonna go home.”
“You sure?” Becca gives me puppy dog eyes. I nod. “Okay, but if I find out you sat alone in the dark on a Friday night, eating the rest of my Ben and Jerry’s because of…him, I’m going to be pissed.”
“I won’t. Cross my heart.”
She kisses my forehead. “Okay. Thanks for coming tonight.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I call an Uber and leave the laughter-filled theater for the warm summer night. As I wait, I watch a couple stroll down the sidewalk, arm in arm, whispering something sweet to each other. I can’t hear their words, yet I melt into their moment, desperately wishing I could feel the way they look. Light, easy. Happily sharing a beautiful Chicago evening with someone I love.
I check my phone for messages from Matt, but there are none. I do have a notification that Vaporizer recently started an Instagram Live, though, so I click, only to see him outside Wrigley Field, fully dressed in his white super suit, celebrating a Cubs win with a bunch of fans, holding some kind of radioactive-looking energy drink. Oh, great, a sponsored ad. Some emergency.
My Uber arrives, and I slide into the backseat, but out of nowhere, the front passenger door swings open and a masked man jumps in, pressing a gun to the driver’s head.
“No!” I scream, as another man climbs into the backseat with me, pressing his hairy arm into my throat so I can barely breathe. I gasp, squirming against my seat and trying to reach for the door handle, but he has me pinned.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says smugly, cigarette smoke on his breath.
I try