Behind the Curtain (Sequel to "Letting Him Go")

Chapter 9 - Apollo

**Hello! It has been brought to my attention that I may have accidentally broken a lot of hearts with my last chapter...Sorry about that. I tried my best to fix it here, but you already know I'm all about keeping it nice and sad ;) **

---

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" His voice is low and careful over the phone.

I pause. Is it? The concert rages on behind me and I press my hand against my ear to hear him better, turning around to watch her onstage from my hiding place between the curtains. She's beautiful and she's explosive, basking in the glory of performing in her hometown. ENIGMA at the Apollo is everything we've ever dreamed of.

But I know better than anyone else that her high will come crashing down as soon as Shallow begins— just like it does at every show— and as always, I'll be waiting in the wings to catch her when she stumbles offstage and collapses into tears. It's been four months since the Oscars and singing without him still hasn't gotten any easier. So I'm sure— I'm sure that I need to do this for her tonight.

"Yes," I tell him firmly. "Peter is coming to get you. Can you be ready in five minutes?"

---

We move briskly through the walkway behind the stage, just as the familiar guitar part begins to echo through the theater. My stomach twists instinctively at the thought of her sitting at the piano— alone and heartbroken— and my pace quickens. I look over at him as he keeps up with ease, his long legs effortlessly striding in time with my hurried steps— a small duffel bag swinging by his hip.

We encounter a group of dancers huddled together in a corner as we weave through the curtains. One of them glances up at the sound of our approaching footsteps, his eyes widening as he immediately recognizes my company. His jaw drops.

"No way."

"What is it?" His friend frowns up at him, noticing his shift in attention. Panic washes through me as I spot the flickering phone screen in his hands. They're live-streaming.

"Shut it off NOW." I bark, before any of them can turn around.

Eight pairs of startled eyes snap up to acknowledge me— shock, recognition, and confusion flooding their expressions all at once as their eyes fall on the man walking beside me. His unmistakable blue eyes twinkle from underneath his Phillies baseball cap as he offers them a tight smile.

"Yes sir," a voice squeaks and the group disperses. We breeze past them, headed for my usual spot next to the spare piano between the third and fourth curtains— where she comes running into my arms to cry after every single show. Every time, it takes all the strength in her little body to hold her broken heart together as she sings the final chorus of Shallow alone. And every time, she whispers against my chest when her sobs finally subside: "Give me my meds, I want to sleep. I don't want to feel anymore." Then we wake up the next morning and do it all over again— each time just a little more difficult than the last.

Her back is to us as she sits at the piano, her hands flying over the keys as she sways along to the timeless melody that fills the air— a melody meant to be sang by two.

Tell me something boy,

Aren't you tired trying to fill that void?

Or do you need more?

And then the words stop coming out. They tangle with the tears in her throat and sink back down into her chest as she bows her head in defeat— the crowd engulfing her in a sea of applause, gently encouraging her to continue. My heart drops. 11 years and hundreds of shows later, this is the first time I've ever seen her fall apart onstage. And I have no idea what to do. I look away, squeezing my eyes shut— praying for something, anything out there to give her the strength to carry on.