I sit through the first awards, numb and stiff, cognizant of Jared sitting with Cindy 2.0 a few rows ahead. He never once turns to look back at me. Or for me. Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m here.
When they come to Zo’s award, I afford him my complete focus, watching for signs of weakness or that he’s tired himself out. He walks onstage obviously frail but regal, the league statesman he has always been and more. The audience is on its feet for a standing ovation that seems to go on forever before he says one word. The whole room is charged with emotion and support for this man who has done so much for so many.
He waves them down to their seats with a smile. He takes his place at center stage and talks about his journey, how important it was to remain positive, thanking everyone for their support, and even how it’s not over and there is so much road ahead. I’m as proud as if it were me up on that stage.
And then it is.
“And I literally would not be here,” Zo says after a few minutes. “Were it not for Banner Morales.”
My name from stage startles me, and my face flames when I realize the camera and so many eyes have turned on me. I try to look natural, which never really works. Trying to look natural.
“Banner, come.” Zo beckons me with a hand, his eyes burning with emotion and gratitude.
I want to shake my head vigorously like a kid refusing her vegetables, but I cannot do that, not to Zo who stands bravely in front of all these people, literally a shell of himself, his body a husk for the boundless, soaring spirit still fighting inside. So I stand and I walk, gingerly picking my way down the row, conscious of the fact that I haven’t been able to work out as regularly or as intensely and have put on a few pounds. Wondering how square and wide my ass might look with the wrong camera angle. Regretting that I didn’t wear Spanx. Wishing I had worn something less revealing and wondering if the girls will stay safely tucked into the bodice of this form-fitting dress. And, of course, praying these high-ass heels don’t fail me now and dump me unceremoniously on the stairs as I make my way to the stage.
The lights are so bright, and I’m reminded why I never wanted to be on this side of fame, but have always been happy shoving others into the spotlight and onto center court.
“I would not be alive without this woman,” Zo says, blinking at tears, a rare show of public emotion. “This award is ours, Bannini.”
He never calls me that in public, and the word drips with intimacy because no one else in this building understands the significance of it. I study his face closely, and beneath the emotion, lies calculation. He holds the trophy in one hand, but the other circles my waist possessively.
“I humbly accept this award on behalf of me and the woman who has been my greatest blessing. Who has been my angel.” He looks down at me from his great height. The chemo, the pain, the hell he has suffered left its mark on a face that has always been strikingly handsome. Now the lines of character etched there, the hard-won wisdom make him even more attractive even with a ravaged body. You see his spirit in his eyes and his passion for life.
For me.
“Te amo,” he says, eyes fixed on me like I’m the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
The room fills with “awwws” at his romantic declaration. A public declaration he shouldn’t be making, considering he and I both know the state of our relationship. This smile feels like drying plaster on my face, but I look up to meet his eyes, only to find him staring out at the audience, that same calculation sharpened to a point, loaded with dislike. I follow his stare to find out who has displeased him, who bears the brunt of that look.
It’s Jared.
His eyes are glacial blue, iced with an answering look so loaded with malevolence I instinctively want to shield Zo from it. But I don’t know who to protect, him or Zo. They stare at one another like this is a contest of war instead of an awards ceremony. And then in sync, they both turn their eyes to me like I’m the prize.
Confusion, anger, hurt war under my serene expression. In a daze, I incline my head and smile appropriately through yet another standing ovation. Finally, Zo leads me backstage, still clutching both of his prizes, the award and me. As soon as we leave the glare of the stage and the scrutiny of thousands of people, I jerk away.
“?Qué fue eso?” I ask in a voice low enough that the nearby stagehands won’t hear.
“What was what?” he replies in kind, but I know him so well. He knows exactly what I’m asking.
“How long have you known?” I ask, tears burning my throat. Shame choking me. Anger forcing me to speak.
“That it was Jared?” he asks softly.
Hearing him confirm frees a sob from the cage of my throat. I cover my mouth to catch it, but it’s loud in the close quarters backstage. Several people turn to look at me, to look at us. Zo guides us into a shadowy corner.
“I’ve always known it was him,” Zo says in a voice of steel. “I knew it was him before it happened.”
“Before it happened? What does that mean? What are you saying? Did you say something to him?”
“Does it matter?” Zo snaps. “If you have not noticed, he is not alone here tonight. I knew the wait would kill his so-called feelings. He won’t be faithful to you, Bannini. You must see that he is not for you. You and I, we make sense. You, him . . . it’s not right. It never was.”
His words only reinforce what the small, knowing voice has told me ever since freshman orientation when I offered Jared a pencil, and he turned away without a second look. I blink up at him stupidly for a few seconds, processing too many things at once. What he did onstage. Him knowing about Jared. Jared showing up with my polar opposite. It’s all too much. I grab the hem of my floor-sweeping dress and walk briskly away from him.
“Banner!” he calls after me.
“Don’t.” I put up a hand to ward him off without looking back. “Just give me a minute.”
But I don’t get a minute, no reprieve. As soon as I round the corner, Jared stands there waiting in his fits-like-a-glove tuxedo, hair brushed down and tamed to dull gold.