I realize now that the mask was a huge mistake.

            I’m not going to beat myself up about it; this plan to murder Eamon was so last-minute, a few balls were bound to be dropped. Still, I’m not exactly pleased, or comfortable. The hard plastic curves of the mask are trapping my every exhale, forcing my warm, already-recycled breath back into my face over and over, and with every inhale, I wonder if the increasingly bad smell is the mask, my breath, or some unfortunate combination of the two.

            I clench the knife in my hand and focus on taking the shortest, shallowest breaths I can as I work to press the lines of my body against the wall behind me, molding myself to its flat surface before becoming perfectly still.

            All I have to do is wait.

            So I wait.

            And wait.

            At least five minutes pass.

Exhaling heavily and instantly regretting it, I squint through the slits in my mask trying to spot the time on the oven’s clock in my kitchen only ten feet from me.

It’s tiny, illuminated numbers inform me I’m completely wrong. It’s barely been two minutes.

            I stifle another irritated exhale, not wanting to breath in any more of this dank smell than I already have to, as my mind begins to pace the confines of my skull.

            Immediately I am imagining the hundred small things that could be keeping my husband, everything from a random text to one of his infamous immediate and sudden cravings for some random delivery food, all the while trying to remain completely motionless.

            I take another shallow breath.

            Anxiety, panic, frustration- I really don’t need these feelings these right now.

            I need to be calm.

            Completely calm.

            The doorknob turns, and I allow myself one small, silent inhale.

            The door opens, and Eamon steps inside.

            He is tall, so much taller than me. Six foot five to my five foot two.

            Good thing I’m standing on the credenza.

            As soon as the door closes behind him I leap, throwing myself onto Eamon’s back.

            The silver and pink rhinestone mask I wear, the one I wore on stage throughout our last tour and which I’ve grown to hate but that I know our fans will recognize and love that we included, digs into my temples as I wrap my arms and legs around the thrashing Eamon.

            Once I’m confident in my thighs hold of his waist, I raise my blade high in the air plunge it down as dramatically. Over the next several seconds I bring the knife down again and again into Eamon’s back and shoulder, my motions frantic and, frankly, ridiculous.

            But that’s all a part of the fun.

            Eamon stumbles around the room throughout my attack, pretending to struggle as the stage knife retreats back into its handle over and over with each of my thrusts, my stabbings barely registering on the muscles of his upper back and shoulders.

            I count out the seven stabs we agreed upon (a fair amount of stabbings, without growing boring or monotonous) then scramble up onto his shoulders. I’ve done this part on stage before at least half a dozen times, so I know exactly where on Eamon’s body I need to plant my hands and heels in order to swiftly climb my husband. When my thighs are on planted firmly on either side of Eamon’s head it’s his cue to take over.

He spins, reaching up to pull me down from his shoulders and into his arms.

Something else signature, stolen from our last handful of shows.

            Eamon is holding me, supporting me as if we have just finished the most romantic of tangos; then he lifts the edge of my rhinestone mask, exposing my face to the camera. I look up at him and shrug apologetically, as if to say “Sorry! I can’t help it!” before Eamon bends lower, his mouth covering mine in a slow, romantic kiss that ends with me wrapping my arms around his neck and giving in completely.

            At the three-second mark of our kiss (another agreed upon timing) I reach the stage-blade high once more, and stab Eamon one final time.

            Eamon sags dramatically, as if he has actually been stabbed, and the entire skit ends with us rolling on the floor together in laughter.

            I pull the mask off, throwing my many of cotton-candy colored hair and laughing once more for good measure, all the while counting backwards in my head.

These days we end our skits with at least ten seconds of this sort of seemingly impromptu romantic horseplay, all so it feels as un-staged as possible.

All to make our marriage seem real.

            My internal timer hits zero and I stop fooling around with Eamon mid-tickle. Pushing myself to a stand, I am immediately back to business as I quickly make my way to the tripod and stop my phone’s recording before turning off the ring light.

We’re finished. At last. Finally, Eamon and I can get back to our real lives. At least, for the rest of today.

            I detach my phone from the tripod and replay the footage, watching as I attack Eamon with the fake knife and we devolve into our fake love story for the camera and, ultimately, for our fans.

            Eamon remains on the floor where I left him. After several seconds he sits up, then heaves a sigh before laying back on the floor, his arms outstretched as he stares up at the ceiling.

            I try and force myself to pay attention to the footage, to completely ignore what he is doing, but the intimacy of the last few minutes has left me pathetically desperate for him.

            Six years of a being in love, then a year of being separated while having to pretend you’re still a couple will do that to you, I’ve learned.

            Not for the first time, I wonder if he is doing the same thing I am; distancing myself from what we’ve just done- trying to disassociate the Mel I am to our fans from the Mel I am in real life.

            God, I wish I was still the Mel our viewers think I am.

            I can barely bring myself to look at our videos from a year ago, in fact I don’t even try anymore; watching the me who was happy and excited about her future is one of the most painful things about Eamon’s and my separation.

            How happy we were, how lucky we felt.

            With one finger I scroll through the takes we’ve done. There are seven in all, and I’m fairly confident that this last one was the best, although the second may have better energy.

            As usual, I have to shove my self-deprecating insecurities aside, making a mental note that I need to text my colorist immediately as my usually vibrant bubblegum pink hair has washed out to a more baby-pink pastel and is showing a solid inch of my dark brown roots.

            On the other hand, Eamon looks perfect.

            Of course. He always does.

            I squint my eyes, then sneak a peek at the Eamon who lays on the floor, his eyes now closed.

            I frown in concern.

            If I didn’t know any better, I would think Eamon’s new health craze is having a poor effect. He seems too slender, the bulging muscles and sculpted abs he’s famous for a little too-prominent, a little too distinctive. It gives him an edginess I’m not familiar with, and along with the new haircut- a close cut shearing I’d expect Leo to experiment with but never Eamon- I can’t help but feel Eamon is on the verge of something…

            Could it be that Jules found him a new gig that he’s preparing for? Some acting role, or new solo album?

            My heart skips a beat.

            No, I tell myself, Eamon wouldn’t keep something like that from me. He wouldn’t move on without warning me, wouldn’t leave me hanging like that after all we’ve been through.

            It is something I’ve worried about, and a very real possibility. Of the three of us in Fuck Marry Kill, Eamon is undoubtedly the fan favorite and it’s obvious as to why.

In our music, it’s Eamon’s synthesized beats and presence which provide the perfect foundation for Leo’s brooding lyrics and my bright, positive vocals. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that of the three of us, Eamon is without question the most attractive; with his all-American chiseled features; his square jaw, dark waving hair, bright blue eyes and cut, athletic build, and the one dimple…all partnered with faintest of English accents from his childhood in Brighton.

There are many reasons why Eamon is the Marry in our Fuck Marry, Kill trio- and why I am confident that of the three of us, he would find the greatest fame all on his own.

That I need him more than he needs me.

            I force myself to focus on the shots themselves, on our energy and delivery. I’ll upload them all later to our shared google drive and Eamon will let me know which he thinks is best, and then I’ll schedule the post to upload tomorrow, October 1st.

This will be the second year our Halloween countdown on social media; the first year had been so successful and such a blast- every day the three of us working together to create Halloween- themed skits scattered around New York City. Not only had it been a hilarious adventure, but it had generated an immense following and kept our group in the limelight for a solid four months on the heels of our first tour.

We’d intended to repeat the Halloween countdown last year, but after all that had happened- what with my mother’s car accident, her funeral, then Eamon’s and my falling apart…

In the end we’d skipped the countdown, frankly having forgotten about it with everything else on our plates, but our fans hadn’t and had begun asking over social media these last few weeks if we planned to ever repeat the Halloween countdown.

So here Eamon and I were, starting the process all over again, except this time the laughter and fun is as fake as the props.

And, of course, no Leo.

            I only hope that doing this will be enough to keep our numbers up. With Leo refusing to make any videos with Eamon these days, it’s been difficult to keep up appearances. I’m literally counting the days until one of our followers puts together that the members of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” haven’t been seen all together in almost a year and uploads a video calling us out about it.

            I bite my lip. I have to find a time this week to coordinate something that looks like we’ve hung out together, all three of us.

            Putting our new album together has actually been the easiest part; the studio has been fantastic about keeping Leo and Eamon’s recording sessions from overlapping, probably because they’ve dealt with musical group drama a thousand times before. Although I would be lying if I said it wasn’t a pain in the ass to record everything multiple times for the two of them while playing both mediator and telephone.

            But four of our albums twelve songs aren’t complete despite months of work, and we still have to figure out touring is going to work with two of our group refusing to be anywhere near each other.

            I’m spiraling so hard I don’t notice that Eamon has sat up and is watching me. When he speaks, I jump, almost knocking over the tripod.

            “Hey,” his voice is rough, and a shiver of want has me gripping the phone in my hand, “How was that last one? You think we got it?”
            I raise my eyes from the camera to Eamon, to my husband and best friend of the last nine years, and nod my head vigorously in response, not trusting my voice so soon after we’ve spent the last two hours being so intimate.

            Honestly, even if we didn’t have the shot, I don’t think I could handle another take. This is the first “romantic-type” post we’ve done in almost six months- Eamon pointing out just last week that if we don’t do something romantic soon people are going to begin asking questions. Hence this “Killer Mel is too excited for Halloween!!” video- we’ve got to play into the characters we’ve built for our public, and to the public I am the adorable rapscallion, the naughty girl, the hilarious prankster to Leo’s stoic brooding and Eamon’s chivalric golden boy image. It’s a trio that has somehow struck gold online and with audiences.

            Ironic then, that I am the bad girl when Eamon was the one that cheated.

            Remembering this is the equivalent of an ice bath and a hot poker all in one- immediately all sexual needs for Eamon ae shaken from my body.

            Or so I tell myself.

            Still, at the very least I have better control of myself remembering the night I uncovered the affair.

            That Eamon could hold my hand beside my mother’s grave, that after I’d collapsed he’d carried me to Vivian’s town car, that he’d held me as I’d sobbed the entire drive home, all the while texting another woman…

            There are just some things a person can’t forgive. And while infidelity was an obstacle all on its own, stumbling across a series of X-rated texts on your husband’s phone the day after your mother’s funeral while trying to order in food because you’re too broken to stand let alone cook or find your own phone, had been too much to bear.

            Was still too much to bear.

            Eamon stands, then takes the three steps it takes to reach me. Moving quickly I pocket my phone, then focus on folding up the tripod.

            I can tell he wants to say something, so I jump in first.

            “I think takes two and seven are the best, but I’ll upload them for you to look over tonight.”

            I bend down, scooping up the props we’ve left discarded on the floor- the fake knife, my mask, and a sweater Eamon had come in with but discarded after the first take- and force them into his hands.

            “Here, take these, our -my apartment is overflowing.”

My face flushes at my mistake.

Why can’t I just remember that he doesn’t live here anymore?

“I’ll email you some sketch ideas for the rest of the week’s posts,” I continue as I grab the tripod in one hand and hand it to him before moving to the door, “I’m thinking we should stick with Halloween pranks, peppered with some updates about the tour.” I turn to look back at Eamon as I pull the door open, my question stumbling forward before I’ve thought it through.

            “Have you heard anything from Jules?” I feel a flush blooming on my chest, “about any new solo jobs, I mean.”

            Eamon smiles sadly, shaking his head.

“No, nothing yet, you?”

            I shake my head and force a strained smile.

            “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then…”

I open the door to the hallway, half-hoping that Eamon will leave and half-wishing he would stay.

He asks, his voice only slightly lower than usual, “Are we having dinner tonight?”
            I shake my head.
            “No,” I snap in response, “Sorry, just…no, not tonight, I’ve got a lot of work to do, and Jules should be calling me any minute now.”
            Eamon’s eyes darken in disappointment, but he nods and shrugs.

            “Alright,” he says, “I guess I’ll just see you in the morning.”

            I step away from the door, further into the home we once shared as Eamon moves to leave it.      

            “’Night.” I say as Eamon steps into the hallway and crosses the five feet to the door of his own apartment right across the hall. As Eamon unlocks his door he looks back at me questioningly, and I realize I’m watching like some creep.

            I panic and slam the door shut, then groan and collapse to the floor. I groan, bringing a hand to my head, which is when I spot Eamon’s laptop, sitting open on my velvet green couch.

            I frown.

            He’s going to need it if he’s going to finish working on those tracks he promised he’d get done…over a week ago.

            Which means I’m going to have to return it to him- again. Because this isn’t the first time he’s left something behind. I’m starting to think he’s doing it on purpose.

            A buzzing in my back pocket has me jolting from the floor. I reach for my phone, pulling it free as I say a silent thank you to Jules for calling just when I needed her to.

            But when I glance down at my phone’s screen, my heart sinks and it’s as if all the air has left my body.

            Remy Jeffries.

My father.

My estranged, vacant father whose abandoned me. Twice.

The father I’ve who couldn’t be bothered to drag his “real” wife to my mom’s funeral last

year.

            The man who I called a full two months ago practically begging to have dinner with me and who never got back to me.

            Until, apparently, this very moment.

            The phone continues to ring, and I bring my thumb to hover over the accept call button. But there my thumb stays, hovering between accepting and declining my father’s call.

I force myself to breathe, small tufts of angry air exiting my mouth as I try and make myself answer.

In inhale a sharp, angry breath and watch it go to voicemail.

Whatever my estranged father has to say, he can say it to a machine.

            I remain on the floor, my legs splayed out in front of me like some discarded rag doll as I stare down at the screen of my phone, awaiting his voicemail.

            I tell myself not to expect much; maybe an apology, maybe an invitation to get dinner…

But then my hopes are raised and I’m wondering if maybe this is all a big misunderstanding. Maybe he does want to know me, maybe he’s been taking his time to figure out how he will explain me to his wife and adult children, maybe he wanted to be at Mom’s funeral but really couldn’t for some perfectly logical reason.

             A new voicemail alert pops onto my screen and I immediately tap the icon, revealing my estranged father’s fourteen-second voicemail.

            I press the play button and listen as my Remy’s casual and condescending tone echoes from my phone’s speaker.

            “Melissande, Hi, it’s Remy.”

            He pauses, as mumbling something to someone else.

            “Sorry but dinner won’t work this month, Jill’s parents are coming to visit next week. Why don’t we talk after the new year? See if we can get something on the calendar then.”

            I hear the echoes of a nearby car honk.

             “I have to run. Let’s talk soon.”

            The call ends, and I realize I am clutching the phone in a shaking hand.

            Two months.

It took him two whole months to blow me off.

            No mention of my birthday in two weeks. No mention of the first anniversary of Mom’s death last month. No invite, no real apology, nothing.

            My phone pings with another text, and my eyes flick to the screen in the hope that it’s Jules.

            But it isn’t her- it’s Eamon.

            Hey- my Spidey sense is going off- you ok over there?

            I take a deep ragged breath and push myself to a stand, tucking my phone in my back pocket as I make my way across the wall to Eamon’s front door.

            I lift my fist to knock, but the door is already opening, Eamon standing before me.

            I smile weakly up at him, not able to stop a betraying sniffle.

            “Maybe Thai tonight?” I ask, “We haven’t had Thai food for a long time.”

            Without a word, Eamon opens his arms and I step into them, his warm body enveloping me. I reach up to pull Eamon down to kiss me.

            Our kisses these days are never gentle, always urgent, desperate, passionate. He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, whatever sorrow I felt falling away as I fill my senses with him. He brings his hands to cup and press me to where he is already hard. I free my hands to pull at his belt, and he walks us backwards into the bedroom.

            Eamon stumbles, then breaks our kiss to glance down at what his feet have found.

            “What is it?” I ask, my hands already gripping at the front of his shirt, “did you step on something?”
            Eamon lays me on the bed, kissing me one last time, then returns to the floor and picks up what he has stepped on.

            Crawling back on top of me, he dramatically reveals what he has found, whipping the fake knife in my face.

I jump, fooled by my own prop, and suddenly we are laughing again.

            But this time, the laughter is real.