When Stars Collide by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Thad took a step back. The closed door told him everything. He pushed it back open.

She stood in the center of the room, hairbrush stalled in midair, her vocalizations playing in the background. “I’m on vocal rest,” she declared. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand, all right, and I’m calling bullshit.”

Her head came up. She looked snooty as all hell. At the same time, vulnerable. “Which is meaningless since you don’t know anything about the human voice.”

“Maybe not, but I know when somebody’s pulling a scam.”

Her chin stayed high. “It’s not a scam!”

Her arrogance was an act. He could feel it, but he didn’t care. “Is that even you singing?”

“Of course it’s me singing!” Her chest heaved as she drew in one of her long breaths. “Even on vocal rest, it’s helpful keeping to a regular routine.”

“That’s crap. And I should have figured it out days ago. Serious singers like you who are on vocal rest aren’t supposed to talk much, isn’t that right? Hardly the case with you.”

She turned her back to him and moved away from the mirror. “I’m not discussing this.”

He was furious. They were friends. Good friends, despite the short time they’d known each other. They’d shared things about themselves. They’d laughed together, insulted each other, nearly frozen to death. The fact that she would mislead him like this felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

“Suit yourself,” he retorted.

Her shoulders sagged.

He turned on his heel and left the room. He was done with her.

*  *  *

Heartsick, Olivia sank onto her bed. She’d lost her voice. Not from laryngitis, allergies, polyps, or nodules—nothing was physically wrong—she’d lost it from guilt. And now Thad knew the truth about her.

The email Adam had sent before he’d killed himself had laid it out, and despite what Rachel said and what the psychologist she’d visited had told her, despite Thad’s opinion on the subject, Olivia knew she was responsible.

Rachel had witnessed the scene at the funeral. She knew Olivia’s singing was suffering, but she didn’t know how badly. Only the doctor she’d seen and Thad knew the truth.

Technically speaking, she had a psychogenic voice disorder. She couldn’t get a full breath when she tried to sing. Her heart would begin to race, and an unnatural, gritty quality distorted the full, rich tones that were her hallmark. Her reliable vibrato had grown unsteady. Without her customary breath support, her tongue fell back, and she strangled her high notes. Worst of all, she sometimes went flat.

She was Olivia Shore. She never went flat. But now she did, and in exactly twenty-five days, she was scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at the Chicago Municipal Opera.

She jumped up from the side of the bed, the thought of the looming deadline filling her with panic. She was doing breathing exercises and yoga, trying to meditate, and drinking copious amounts of water. After the disastrous drunken night when she’d attacked Thad, she’d restricted herself to a single glass of wine each evening. She’d never smoked, she avoided carbonated beverages, and she drank so much lemon and honey in warm water that she’d forgotten what plain cold water tasted like. She’d hoped this tour would be the distraction she needed to break the cycle she was trapped in, but it only seemed to be making things worse.

Everyone in the opera world understood medical issues could cause a singer to temporarily lose her voice, but her career would be impacted in all the wrong ways if word got out that she’d lost her voice for psychological reasons.

Each morning since the funeral, she’d played a recording of her daily vocalizing, hoping the familiarity would ease her breathing enough so she’d naturally begin to sing, but it wasn’t working. Her guilt was literally choking her.

*  *  *

As Thad ignored her on the flight to Dallas, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself she hadn’t been deliberately deceiving him. But the truth was, she’d been afraid he’d discover the secret she hadn’t been able to reveal to Rachel. By purposefully bumping up the volume on the recording whenever she knew he was nearby, she’d knowingly misled him.

They landed, and while Paisley stayed behind to gather the luggage, she and Thad, along with Henri and Mariel, took a stretch limo to the hotel. Olivia couldn’t escape the sinking feeling she’d destroyed a friendship that had become invaluable to her. She had to talk to him, but he was seated as far away from her as he could get. Finally, she pulled out her phone and texted him.

He glanced at his screen. She half expected him to ignore her, but he didn’t. Don’t care.

This time he did ignore her. She recalled the little she knew about professional athletes and tried again. Haven’t u ever hidden an injury?

He studied the screen. His thumbs moved.Not from my friends.

His jaw set. Business.

She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth and typed. Forgive me and I’ll have sex with u.

His head shot up. He looked down the length of the limo at her. His thumbs raced over the keypad. Ur trying to bribe me with sex?

Those capital letters were a clear insult, which deserved a response in kind. It should be obvious by now that I’m emotionally unstable. Which is why I LOST MY VOICE!

As an afterthought, she added a hashtag. #compassion

His reply was brief. #bullshit

She sighed and tucked her phone away.

He glanced over at her. His thumbs started to move and then stalled. He tucked his own phone away.

*  *  *

Thad was in a foul mood, and the construction holding up Dallas traffic didn’t help. He was used to Chicago’s incessant road work, but Dallas seemed worse, or maybe his mood had more to do with what had happened this morning. He remembered the sprained ankle he’d once hidden for fear the Dolphins’ defense would capitalize on his weaker side, and the fractured rib he’d made sure no one knew about. But that was different. He had his teammates to think about.

But The Diva had her reputation at stake. She had to deal with audiences who would boo her, with opera companies that wouldn’t hire her, and with music critics who’d rip her to shreds if she wasn’t on her game.

Still, she should have told him because—

Because she should have.

*  *  *

Olivia had been doing most of the talking during their interviews all day to cover up his own muted responses. They ended the afternoon in a city garden being photographed for D Magazine. The garden shoot had been Mariel’s idea. Henri had wanted them photographed at a retro pinball arcade. Henri’s idea would have produced more memorable photographs, but in the end, Mariel was clearly the power play in the battle between them, and she’d won.

They hadn’t been back to the hotel for a full hour when he discovered Olivia had run off to the hotel’s indoor swimming pool. By herself. After what had happened in New Orleans, he grabbed his room key and raced to the pool in his gym shorts and a T-shirt.

She was alone swimming the length of the pool. Alone! No couples reclined on the white-cushioned loungers. No kids called out “Marco . . .” “Polo . . .” He stripped off his T-shirt and dove in.

As he came up next to her, her stroke faltered, and her eyes widened under her swim goggles.

“Good move,” he said sarcastically. “Coming down here by yourself.”

The Diva regained her rhythm. “You’re not speaking to me, remember?” She pulled away from him, the threads of dark hair that had escaped from her swim cap clinging to her neck.

It occurred to him that he might be sulking. He’d called bullshit on her. Maybe it was time to call it on himself.

But she was already half a pool length away. She had a strong kick, a long reach, and a smooth stroke—better form than he did. But he was stronger, and he set out to prove it, although being in waterlogged gym shorts instead of swim trunks handicapped him.

As he finally drew even with her, he spotted an ugly bruise on her arm from where she’d been attacked. That mark felt like failure on his part for not keeping a closer watch, but if he mentioned that, she’d only insist she wasn’t his responsibility.

He stayed even with her for a few strokes, the smell of chlorine strong in his nose. When she reached the deep end, she did one of those underwater flip turns he’d never quite mastered and took off again, showing no intention of stopping to talk to him. He pushed awkwardly off the end of the pool. He couldn’t match her style, but he damn well could beat her on endurance. He checked out the clock on the wall.

6:32

It was on. One highbrow opera diva versus one superbly trained NFL quarterback.

6:39

He didn’t try to stay even with her and let her swim at her own graceful pace.

6:45

He chugged along—all strength, no style. One end of the pool to the other.

7:06

Her stroke had grown choppy. She was tiring, but she refused to stop before he did.

7:14

The fading light outside the windows had developed an orange tint. He’d only been swimming for forty-two minutes. She’d been swimming longer.

7:18

It belatedly occurred to him that her bruised shoulder had to be bothering her, yet she refused to give up. He was an ass.

He blocked her as she approached. “Uncle.” He set his feet down. “Damn, but you’re strong.” He took some deep, unnecessary breaths so she wouldn’t feel bad.

She didn’t seem to. They stood in a little less than five feet of water, so he could only see part of what looked like a modest black bikini. Her face was flushed, right along with the tops of her breasts. It was time to get this over with, and he tried not to look at the bruise on her shoulder. “I wish you’d been honest with me,” he said.

She pulled off her goggles and moved to the side of the pool. “It’s not exactly something I wanted to talk about.”

“You push me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Like . . . ?” She climbed the ladder, giving him an unrestricted view of her very fine butt. When he didn’t respond, she looked down at him from the pool deck. “Like talking about how being a backup makes you feel? Or what’s going to happen to you when you age out of the game? Or those mystery phone calls you’re always making? Or how about your track record as a serial dater?”

“Serial monogamist. There’s a difference.” She stood above him, water sluicing down her long, strong legs, goggles dangling from her fingertips. “You should have told me the truth instead of playing that recording every morning.”

“I’m telling you now.” She dropped her goggles on one of the white-cushioned loungers, pulled off her swim cap, and tossed her hair. As she wrapped herself in one of the pool towels, he drew his gaze away from her legs and climbed the ladder. She turned toward the long windows that looked out on a garden. He fetched a towel for himself, giving her time.

“In less than a month,” she said, “I’m scheduled to sing Amneris in Aida at Chicago Municipal Opera.”

“I know that. And the big gala at the Muni is the next night.” He hooked the towel around his shoulders. “I’m going to take a wild stab and guess that performing has become a problem.”

Her head wobbled in a jerky nod as she turned back to him. He’d never seen her look so defenseless. “When I try to sing—really sing, as opposed to warbling Garth Brooks with a karaoke machine—nothing comes out the way it should.”

“How long has this been going on?”

She collapsed at the end of one of the loungers. “It started the day I opened that email. I had a concert that night, and I noticed a constriction in my chest. The more I sang, the thinner my voice grew, until, by the end, I barely sounded like myself.” She plucked at a loose thread on the towel. “Since then, it’s only gotten worse. I’ve seen a doctor.” She seemed to be forcing herself to look at him. “I have what’s called a psychogenic voice disorder, a polite way of saying I’m crazy.”

“I doubt that.” He could either loom over her or sit down, too. He chose the end of the adjoining lounger. “You’ve lost your voice because you believe you’re responsible for your ex killing himself, is that right?”

“It’s abundantly clear that’s the case.” She pushed her feet into the flip-flops she’d left nearby. As serious as this conversation was, he wished she’d drop the towel. He was a dick.

“I told you. He was sweet, handsome. He loved me. We were part of the same world. We loved the same composers, the same singers. It seemed natural for us to get married, even though I knew how sensitive he was. But instead of ending it when I should have, I let it drag on.” She tugged on the strap of her bikini top. “I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I told him. Like I’d shot him. Ironic, right?”

“You didn’t shoot him. You broke up with him. It happens all the time.”

“Adam was a better person than I’ll ever be.” She pulled the towel tighter. “Thoughtful. Kind.”

“Kids and dogs. Yeah, you already told me.”

She tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “I did love him. Just not the same way he loved me.”

“Who doesn’t screw up when it comes to relationships? You made a mistake. It happens.”

“This mistake cost Adam his life.”

Thad didn’t like that. “Adam cost Adam his life.”

She gazed at him, looking both raw and mystified. “He thought we were forever.”

“People break up. Afterward, you get drunk, cry, whatever. You move on.”

She finally dropped the towel. It settled in a damp fold at her waist. “How do you break up with someone? What do you say? I assume you’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Sometimes they break up with me.”

He’d sounded defensive, and of course she picked up on it. “But it’s usually the other way around, isn’t it? Do you give them that old line, ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”

“Never say that when you’re breaking up with someone.”

“Now you tell me.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “So how do you do it?”

“I’m upfront from the start. I don’t have anything against marriage for other people, but I enjoy my life the way it is. I don’t like committing to the kind of beer I drink, let alone to marriage. I’m selfish like that.”

“I can’t believe in your long, serial monogamy journey, you don’t run into women who think they can change your mind.”

“They’re easy to identify. Also, not every woman is in a race to the altar, as you know. Plus, I have good taste, and most of the women I date are smart enough to see right through me.”

“You’re not that bad.”

He leaned toward her. “I’m too self-centered for marriage. And even thinking about taking on the responsibility of having kids makes me break out in a cold sweat.”

“So you’ve never had one of those dramatic breakups? Tears and screaming matches?”

“There’ve been some hurt feelings, but nobody sure as hell ever killed herself!”

“Lucky you.”

An older couple came through the door and headed for the whirlpool. The man had a furry gray chest, and unlike Olivia’s sleek swim cap, the woman wore one of those old-fashioned bathing caps with rubber flowers all over it.

The noisy bubble of the whirlpool kept them from being overheard, but he still lowered his voice. “Maybe you should have been upfront with him earlier, but waiting too long to break up with someone isn’t a crime. This is on him, not on you.” He could see she didn’t believe him. “You know what your trouble is?”

“No. Be sure to tell me.”

“You’re a perfectionist. You want to be the best at everything you do. Singing, acting, dancing, promoting watches, and relationships. In your mind, there’s no room for error. No room for mistakes. But whether you want to accept it or not, you’re human.” He realized she could shoot those same words back to him. But she didn’t.

“So am I forgiven for deceiving you?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On?”

He cocked his head at her. “On how serious you are about that night of sex you offered me if I forgave you for your grievous betrayal of our friendship.”

“I don’t think I was serious.”

“You’re not sure?”

She shrugged, looking more like an insecure teenager than a seasoned opera singer.

“So just to make certain everything’s out in the open . . . You want to get down and dirty with me, but you’re worried that could lead to a relationship. Which you don’t want.”

“Definitely not.”

“Hardly an insurmountable problem since neither do I.” He tugged on one end of the towel draping his neck as he briefly debated how far to push her. “Here’s my suggestion. Las Vegas. The last night of the tour before Chicago. You, me, and a bedroom. We have all the sex we can pack in before morning. And then . . .”

“Then?”

“We fly to Chicago. Hang out together for two weeks until the gala. After that, I dump you forever.”

She smiled. “Go on.”

“This gives us something to look forward to—Las Vegas—and it also solves the relationship problem you’re worried about.” It didn’t solve the problem of the danger she was in, a complication he still wanted resolved.

She thought it over. “Just to clarify . . . You’ll look past my small deception, but only if I have sex with you?”

“Your brutal, hurtful deception. And, as a gentleman, I’m deeply offended that you believe I’d bargain with sex. Unlike you.”

She tilted her head so her hair fell over one shoulder. “I’m forgiven, right?”

“As long as you promise to be straight with me from now on.”

“I promise.” She made a cross over her heart that was such a little girl move, he wanted to kiss her. “We have three days of interviews in Chicago, then a two-week break while you laze around and I work hard in rehearsals. Assuming I have the voice to show up at rehearsals.” The distress he’d hoped never again to witness clouded her eyes. She combed her fingers through her hair. “But as soon as those rehearsals start, we’re done.”

“Hold on. Once the gala is over, we’re done. It’s our last obligation to Marchand, and no way are you depriving us of those two weeks of sexual bliss.”

“Wrong.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “We have sex the last night in Las Vegas. Sex for those three nights we’re in Chicago before rehearsals start. And then you dump me on Sunday night, right before my rehearsals start on Monday morning.”

“Fine. I’ll compromise. We have the last night in Las Vegas. Three nights in Chicago. And the two weeks while you’re in rehearsal. I’ll have dinner and a back rub waiting for you when you come home. The night of the gala, I dump you.”

“Exactly how is that a compromise?”

Because he wanted it to be.

She pointed a long, elegant finger at him. “There’s no compromise. As soon as rehearsals start, I’m on the job, completely focused, and we’re over.”

“Now, Liv, be reasonable.”

“The only time we’ll see each other again is at the gala. We’ll greet each other like old friends, pose for photos, and go our separate ways. That’s it. We’re history. No dates. No cozy dinners. No lakefront walks. Nothing.”

“You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?”

She shifted her knees. “Do you agree or not?”

“This is like a bad labor negotiation, but I agree.” For now, anyway. Once things unfolded, he intended to revisit the situation.

“Great.” She gave him a bright smile. A smile he had to spoil because he couldn’t stand the knots that had formed in her shoulders, the tension in her neck.

“Liv, you need to get your head together.”

“How do you suggest I do that?”

“Ease up on yourself about Adam. Accept your many imperfections—which I’ll be happy to keep pointing out, starting with your tendency to run off by yourself.” A thread of an idea formed in the back of his mind. “You also have to start singing for me.”

She jumped from the chaise, leaving the towel behind. “I told you. I can’t sing!”

The elderly couple in the hot tub looked over at them. He rose and blocked their view of Olivia. “I didn’t say you had to sing opera. Maybe some blues. Rock. ‘The Wheels on the Bus.’ I don’t care. I’m only a football player, remember? I won’t know if what I’m hearing is good or bad.”

“We’ve listened to jazz together, remember? You know music. And that’s the worst idea ever.”

“Is it? I have to deal with Clint Garrett, remember? A guy with all the talent in the world who still manages to choke under pressure. The two of you have strong similarities.”

“Such as?”

“You’re both a hell of a lot of work.”

What had only been the glimmer of an idea began to take shape.

*  *  *

When Thad pounded on her bedroom door an hour before they were scheduled to leave for Atlanta the next day, she politely suggested he go to hell. Unfortunately, that didn’t discourage him, and the next thing she knew he’d barged inside her room, grabbed her hairbrush from the dresser, and held it out. “Sing!”

“No.”

“Don’t mess with me on this, Olivia. We’re going to try a little of my kind of therapy.”

She pushed his arm away and tried withering him with her most condescending look. “Opera singers don’t use microphones.”

He was un-witherable. “Right now, you’re not an opera singer. You’re an ordinary singer. And they use mikes.” Once again, he extended the stupid hairbrush. “I was thinking I’d enjoy some Ella or Nina Simone.”

“Try Spotify.”

His lip curled, but not in a good way. “And you brag about your work ethic. What I see is a woman who’s given up. Instead of fighting the good fight and doing the work to fix what’s wrong, all you want to do is whine.” As if that weren’t scathing enough, he added, “I’m disappointed in you.”

Nobody was ever disappointed in Olivia Shore. She snatched the hairbrush from his hand and gave him Billie Holiday. A few stanzas of “God Bless the Child” sung so badly it was a good thing Billie was already dead, because if she’d heard Olivia’s choppy phrasing, she would have killed herself.

Thad smiled. “You could take that to Carnegie Hall right now.”

She threw the hairbrush at him. She targeted his chest instead of his head—unnecessary, as it turned out, because he plucked the hairbrush right out of the air before it could land.

“I’m that good,” he said at her expression of astonishment.

If only she were.

“And you’re not as bad as you think.” He patted her cheek. “I ordered us breakfast. Strawberry cheesecake French toast.”

She regarded him glumly. “Only for me, I’m sure. While you have an arugula-kale smoothie with a side order of garden grubs.”

“Now don’t you worry about it.”

As it turned out, she never got to enjoy that French toast because she made the mistake of checking her phone before she sat down to eat.