Chapter 21 Lex
Lex
Rumor has it that the real “Sylvia Simmons” might make a surprise appearance at this year’s Silver Hope gala, held at the iconic Elysian Fields Ballroom.
Sources say that Chicago piano performer Stevie St. James, known for her mysterious history with actor and producer Lexington Hall, is in talks to join the star-studded event, and there’s even speculation that she could attend as Hall’s date. ’”
The word date has a nasty bite.
My mother pauses for dramatic effect on the other end of the line. When I don’t respond, she keeps going.
“‘“Their relationship is complicated,” a source tells People . “There is a lot to unpack there.” If confirmed, St. James’s presence could add a prominent buzz to the already acclaimed event, further fueling relationship chatter among Hall’s rabid fanbase.
Reps for Hall, twenty-one, did not respond to People ’s requests for comment. ’”
I can feel her scathing look from the other side of town.
“What the hell is this?” she blares over the speakerphone, her fury echoing through the sweeping space.
“I’m guessing a People magazine article, given the context clues.”
“Lexington, I swear to God, if you bring that girl to—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I stand from the couch and toss my smoking cigarette in the ashtray while Rudy yells obscenities at Mario Kart like he’s trying to perform an exorcism on the game console. “She doesn’t concern you.”
“She does concern me. She has information that could ruin your life.”
More than you have?
I don’t say it out loud though. We’re “beyond” that.
“We’ve made progress, you and me,” she continues, voice softening marginally. “I’d hate for you to backslide now.”
Right. Because I haven’t already backslid, ass first, off a steep cliff and landed right in the middle of a dumpster fire of everything I never wanted.
“It’s really not a big deal,” I tell her, pushing back my overgrown hair and sauntering into the kitchen for an energy drink. “Rudy’s got it covered.”
Rudy holds up his fist in agreement.
“Rudy is no Bianca,” Mom scoffs. “She would never allow this circus act to unfold.”
Rudy lifts his middle finger.
“He’s more than capable,” I assure her.
“What’s your game plan here? You really shouldn’t go digging up things that are meant to stay buried.”
“It’s about publicity, Mother. That should excite you.”
She hums under her breath, considering it. “I just don’t want you to fall into the same traps.”
I’m always trapped, forever boxed away in La-La Land, another victim of Hollywood and its iron fist. But I’ve accepted it now. It’s who I am. Who my mother always wanted me to be.
She won.
“Listen, I have a thing I need to get to. I’ll see you at the gala tomorrow.”
My mother tries to keep me on the line, tries to worm her way into my business and change my mind. “Lexington, I aggressively caution you against this.”
“Great. Hanging up now.”
“I love you,” she says.
“I know.”
Click.
I toss my phone onto the black marble countertop and press forward on my palms. Rudy pauses the game and spins around on the gaming chair, giving me a pointed look. “Don’t start,” I warn.
“I didn’t start shit.”
“Did Adrian text you yet?” I glance at the oversize wall clock, a minimalist design with sleek walnut wood and a polished brass frame. Some uppity gift from a producer I’m forced to showcase in the event he ever stops by. “She should be landing soon.”
Rudy stands from the chair and stretches his arms over his head. “Someone’s anxious.”
“I just want to stay on top of things.”
“She touches down in twenty minutes. He’ll text me when she’s in the limo.”
“Good.” Straightening from the counter, I shake my arms out at my sides and crack my neck. “Run the plan by me again.”
“Because you’re not anxious.”
“Fuck off. Tell me the plan.”
When I reach for one of the endless packs of cigarettes littered around the condo, Rudy whips forward and snatches it from my hand.
“Shit’s terrible for you.”
“You’re terrible for me.”
“I’m the guy keeping your head above water.
You’d drown without me.” The words are sharp, but his eyes are soft and filled with truth.
“And the plan is rock solid. All you need to do is act—your specialty. Luckily for you, Stevie’s a smokeshow, so it shouldn’t take much effort to hold her hand, give her a few award-winning smiles, and whisper sweet nothings into her ear. ”
My teeth grind together, enamel chafing. I think back to over a week ago, her playing the piano in some goth-like outfit, all curves and flowy fabric and dark-berry lips. Rudy isn’t wrong. The quiet, pretty farm girl has morphed into a bona fide knockout.
But this is just another role, another performance. I’ve worked with plenty of stunners and have stayed happily immune to their coy smiles and advances. Stevie is no different. In fact, it’ll be ten times easier, given the fact that she despises me.
I hop up onto the kitchen island and pop open the energy drink. “And the interview with Starline?”
“Stay vague. We want to keep people guessing and questioning the nature of your relationship so we can maintain the buzz.”
“So, what, just say we conveniently reconnected after the series debuted? They’re going to go after her, claiming she’s trying to capitalize on my success.”
“Let them. Negativity has a higher trending rate.” Rudy leans back against the fridge, his slate-gray button-down blending with the stainless steel. “Then you can be her shoulder to cry on when she inevitably discovers her hashtag trending on Threads and starts to spiral.”
My eyes slant. “Are you seriously going to try to play matchmaker?”
“Beg your pardon? As your highly respected agent, who is eight years your senior, I would never stoop to such childish gimmicks. I’m offended.” He stretches a phony-ass, white-toothed grin, a contrast to his dark skin. “But yes. I’m absolutely going to do that.”
I jump down from the counter and swoop past him. “Get out.”
“Where are you going? I wanted to banter.”
“Text me when she lands.” I flick a hand in the air, waving him off without a backward glance. Hopefully the slam of my bedroom door sees him off.
When I’m alone, I deflate against the door, hands in my pockets, and glance around the sparse space that is no more than a California king, a cocobolo desk, a nightstand, and a door that leads to a sprawling closet filled with monochrome suits.
A memory drifts through my mind: a tiny attic bedroom, candles on ledges, a quilted bed with dozens of sea-blue pillows, and a teddy bear tucked in the corner. Posters taped to colorful walls, scattered books, and an upright piano with a cherrywood finish and well-worn ivory keys.
Music.
Not just the sound of piano chords or dreamy lyrics but the kind of music that infuses each breath, grounding you in the moment. The music of living, of truly being present. But living is a privilege, and I know that survival is what counts.
It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself to think of those days, to humanize myself. It’s funny how just a few months of your life can still glow brighter than all the rest. Almost twenty-two years I’ve lived, and my clearest memories are of that bedroom.
That rooftop. That stage.
It’s like hearing your favorite song play. Millions of songs exist, bleeding into all the others, but a century could pass, and you’d still remember every single word to that one.
Every beat. Every note.
I shake away the mirage, dislodging the memories that don’t serve me anymore.
Still, something has me strolling toward my nightstand and popping open the drawer. It’s not filled with much. A notebook scribbled with words, dialogue, and unstructured ideas. A script. Pens, cigarettes, keys to things I don’t remember but are likely important.
And a little pendant. A blue-green star.
I stare at it for a long moment before sliding down the side of the bed and slumping to the floor. I haven’t had the willpower to get rid of it, and I haven’t had the nerve to mail it back to her. So there it sits. Tucked away and lusterless, tossed in a pile of random things next to my bed.
A good-luck charm.
But I’m still waiting.