Letting Him Go

Chapter 8 - Villain

"Hey."

I feel his fingertips graze my bare back, sending shivers up my spine. Impossibly blue eyes appear behind me in the mirror. I push the large gold hoop through my earlobe and slowly look up, taking in the reflection of our bodies standing together.

His golden-brown hair is combed back from his forehead in soft waves and his beard is full but neatly trimmed, framing his face and highlighting his maturity. His tall figure is irresistible in a simple black tuxedo with silk lapels and a bowtie, his wrist decorated with his favorite navy watch. Standing beside him, I match his height in my heels, wearing a black form-fitting dress with golden tassels that hug my waist and accent my sleeves. My eyes travel back up to meet his. They're gentle, like he's dreaming— a splash of blue against his entirely black and white ensemble. We make a lovely pair.

I turn around to face him. His bowtie is tragically crooked, again. I reach out to adjust it, carefully brushing a fallen lock of hair back from his temple. He smiles.

"Mom's waiting downstairs," he tells me.

"Okay," I blink at him. He hesitates, about to say something, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he contemplates his words.

"You look beautiful," he finally manages.

I feel my cheeks flush involuntarily, caught off-guard by his unexpected affection. He isn't usually one to give his compliments out loud— every thought or feeling is always expressed through his eyes.

And that's how I know. Standing in front of me and holding out his hand, I know that he's hurting. The faintest trace of sadness clouds his clear blue eyes— unnoticeable to the ordinary onlooker, but all too obvious to me.

It seemed as if the closer and closer we got to the Oscars, the less and less time she spent here. Ever since our conversation in the kitchen where I had addressed their undeniable love, she had distanced herself— running through the song once or twice with him every day before leaving as quickly as she came. I would watch him stand at the door as she walked briskly to her car, his arms still open from their short embrace and his eyes full of hurt and confusion. I couldn't help but wonder if it were all my fault.

"Hey Stef—" I gently caught her wrist as she marched through the kitchen one day on her way out.

"Yeah?" She spun around to face me. Her hair was falling out of her bun in waves around her face and her green eyes were wide and urgent, ringed with dark circles from lack of sleep.

"You don't have to do this to him, you know." I said quietly, my voice pleading and my fingers firm on her skin.

"It makes goodbye easier," she whispered, looking down at the floor. "It's the only way I know how." When she lifted her head again, her eyes were swimming in tears. I released her and she sighed, reaching up to touch my cheek before turning to leave me standing speechless in my kitchen, again.

He'd sit in the basement alone for hours at night, singing his opening verse with nobody to finish the song with him. I saw the sun rise in his eyes when she breezed through the front door holding his coffee, and the sun set when she left not even an hour later. I hated what she was doing to him, but I hated even more that she was doing this for him. And I couldn't fix it, not if I tried. The sadness rooted in his heart had crawled up to live in his eyes and with the approaching end of the awards season, it wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

The car jolts to a stop, grounding me back to reality. I look out the window at the flashing lights, the polished red carpet, and the beautiful white and gold backdrop. The Oscars. The world's biggest stage and every actor's biggest performance. Would they see through his dazzling smile? Would they see Bradley Cooper for the broken-hearted man he was?

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" Gloria's face appears in front of mine, the corners of her mouth turned up in an encouraging smile.

"Yes," I nod, squeezing her hand. Her eyes linger on mine for a moment before Bradley helps her out of the car. He reaches for me next and I take his hand, stepping out into the sea of expectant cameras and reporters— where absolutely nothing can go unnoticed.

"Bradley! Bradley! Irina! Gloria!" My head is spinning as we move slowly down the carpet in a train— Bradley between me and his mother, holding our hands tightly. I turn slightly into him, showing off the open back of my dress, and I notice his expression is soft and somber— he smiles, but his eyes are murky and troubled. He looks like he could cry. I have to fix this.

"Smile, love." I lean over and whisper in his ear. He glances at me, his lips curling upward into a genuine grin, and he laughs lightly.

"Okay," he playfully tugs his mother into his side for a hug. She slings her arm around his waist, looking at me through her dark glasses, and nods.

Thank you, she mouths, patting his chest.

I hear her before I see her. In fact, I smell her behind me— the sweet and melancholy scent of home, where we used to make breakfast together and where he wishes for her every day.

"Why, thank you, sir." My skin tingles with goosebumps at the sound of her musical voice, and I feel Bradley tense in my grip. I turn around and I have to keep my jaw from dropping.

Wow. For a while, there's not much else that reaches my brain other than, Wow. My heartbeat hammers in my ears, and the world around me seems to stop. Not a single person blinks nor breathes. She is divine. Standing in a sleek black gown with a protruding silhouette at the hip and elbow-length leather gloves, she is perfectly, classically Hollywood. Her platinum hair is swept off her neck and twisted into an elegant up-do, showing off her beautifully tanned skin marked with secrets, memories, and stories told in ink, weaving around her shoulder and down her arms. Her face is essentially bare and unimaginably flawless— long and dark eyebrows, naturally full lips, and brilliant green eyes lined with a hint of silver. She waves at the cameras, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttering in the blinding lights. The glittering diamond around her neck can barely compete with her luminescence. I recognize it immediately. That's Audrey Hepburn's diamond.

His hand has gone completely limp in mine and I dare to look up at him. He is utterly spellbound. Desire ripples through his eyes and his pupils are fully dilated—the bluest I've ever seen them, lost in a whole other world. He is unable to move. I try to nudge him forward but his feet are firmly planted as he gawks at her, his lips parted in awe.

She turns her head slightly and their eyes meet. A staggering electrical current passes between them as she catches him already staring at her. All the hurt, the sadness, the uncertainty, and the love flies through the air between them as if they're speaking without words, and I see a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. Please— not here, not now. I feel tears of my own stinging my eyelids and a sob climbing up my throat. I tug on his arm, hard, and he snaps back into reality, tearing his gaze away from her and raising his sleeve to quickly brush away the stray tear.

"Let's go," he mutters, abruptly ushering us towards the end of the carpet. Startled by his sudden change in demeanor, Gloria shoots me a questioning look over his shoulder. I'm sure my face is as white as a sheet as I stare back at her, completely helpless and barely holding myself together. My chest is burning with a familiar ache and my jaw is clenched in concentration to keep myself from crying, screaming, or both— whatever it is, I know that once I start, I won't be able to stop.

I shut my eyes, letting him lead me into the theater, and let out a shaky breath. This is the Oscars, and I am the villain of Hollywood's most tragic love story. They'll rip what's left of me to shreds, but they won't ever know. They won't ever know that I hurt for them more than anyone else. Because it's my fault. In no way at all but in every way possible, it's all my fault. They don't care about how I begged her not to do this, how I can't bear to watch the sadness slowly consume him in front of me. No, in this world, there is simply no other way that this story can be written. And I have to sit in the front row, knowing exactly who I am to the thousands of eyes that glare at me, and smile like an oblivious idiot through it all.