35. Nick
Chapter thirty-five
Nick
This ballroom has so many mirrors that it reminds me of one of those fun houses, where the mirrors present various distorted images back to you.
As I glance at my reflection, I don’t look like myself.
I look haggard and thin. I miss Maddie. The late nights and the demanding choreography are also taking their toll, especially because I have no appetite.
They want a bad boy. I’m giving them that. But not a sexy bad boy.
I slump in the armchair that looks like it came off the Bridgerton set and unbutton the top buttons of my shirt as directed by the photographer.
His staff is busy setting up their equipment and figuring out the right angle for the lighting.
Lucy Colgan arrives next, wearing a red dress that looks like she was poured into it and high heels.
She walks in like she owns the room, air-kissing with the photographer.
She stops short when she sees me.
“What are you wearing?” Colgan asks.
“You don’t like my striped pajamas?”
“You look like a felon. This is supposed to be a date,” Lucy says.
I pull out my phone and read the text. “It says ‘Photo opportunity with Lucy Colgan.’ Nowhere does it say that this is a date. I’m not dating anyone.”
“You knew this was supposed to be romantic.” She stomps her foot.
“You know I’m still in love with my ex-girlfriend. You also knew I was in a relationship when you tried to kiss me last time.”
“Okay, get a little closer,” the photographer says.
“What is that smell?” She gags.
I stifle a chuckle. I was taking no chances this time.
“I didn’t shower after last night’s performance.
And I just ran six miles on the treadmill in the gym in these clothes.
” And then to make sure she didn’t try to kiss me again, I saved all of my bandmates’ sweaty T-shirts from after last night’s performance and borrowed some sweat-soaked gym rat’s shirt and rubbed them on me right before I showed up here.
I smell awful. I’m only bearing it because I don’t want any pictures of the two of us remotely close to each other.
People were clearing away from me as I passed through the hallway to get here.
“Ugh. You really smell,” she says. “And not in a good way.”
“Alright, put your arm around her,” the photographer says to me.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t you dare. What if I were to smell like you?” She scoots away. Far away.
I put out my arms, as if to give her a hug, and almost gag at the smell from my underarms. Whew. Rank.
“You need to be next to him. I can’t take you halfway across the room,” the photographer says.
“No. Forget it. He looks like crap. No one is going to believe this.” She storms out.
“I hope you got the shot of us on separate sides of the room,” I say. “I think that tells its own story.”
“MusEn is not going to be happy,” the photographer says.
“Maybe not, but MusEn is happy right now with how we’re climbing the charts.” It was true. Two of our singles were in the top ten. And I was giving every performance my all.
I was not meeting fans, though. But that was not a clause in my contract.
If they wanted to add that, I had some changes too.
We were at a stalemate. But I was not going to be canceled that easily.
We’d kept most of our catalogue when we’d negotiated our contract, only agreeing to do a specified number of songs on an album for MusEn.
Our backlist was picking up steam on Spotify and other services too.
Some fans had also come out in favor of my dating Maddie, saying I had looked happy with her and that I should be allowed to date who I want.
Tonight, I’m playing “Breaking My Heart.” It’s not in our rotation, and MusEn doesn’t know, but I don’t care.
It’s the song I wrote in the apartment, listening to Maddie cry next door.
I wanted to hug her so badly and tell her not to cry—that I would change the narrative. Maddie is the only one for me.
But first, I need a shower. I put on my sunglasses, a bulky sweatshirt, and a droopy hat and leave. As I enter the elevator, all the other occupants flee.
Maybe I should ask YouTube woman if she wants to meet. I guarantee that would be the last time she would want to be near me, I think as I chuckle.