2
Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth. —Persuasion
I don’t even need to give my name backstage. “April Rain!” The beefy security guard calls. “HUGE! Fan! HUGE! Can we have a selfie or...” he chuckles. “An us-ie.” I agree. We snap the photo. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says.
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“Mr. West will be thrilled.” Will he?
He opens the door and waves me to a woman with a clipboard. This is definitely the upshot to being a celebrity, even a washed-up one. Sometimes, fame is a golden key. For the last few years, I’ve tried not to use it. But there is a strange comfort in knowing I still can. The woman with the clipboard tells me to wait. She texts something on her phone. I try to read her face. She seems flustered, worried. I suddenly have this crazy thought that Freddy requested that, at all costs, I am not allowed back to see him. “Just one minute,” she says. “I need to take this call.” She gets on her phone, turning her back to me and starts yammering. I’ve performed in enough venues that I’m pretty sure I can find my way back to whatever room they are using for the after party. I crane my neck down the hall, hoping to see him.
“How’s my hair?” I ask a random girl with purple hair packing up sound equipment.
She glances up from her work. “April Rain as I live and die.” She exclaims. “Don’t listen to any of the trolls. I love what you have done with your hair. And the extra weight. You are so, so brave.”
“Thank you?” I knew there would be comments like this if I returned to the spotlight. I had prepped myself for them. Told myself I was ready for them. At this moment, I am not so sure.
“Of course, I was devastated when you cut your hair. I mean, wow, it was so epic. But it is not a bad look. You look gorgeous even with your mascara smearing a little.”
“Oh, is it? Is there a bathroom I could use?”
“Yeah, sure. Right over there.”
I hurry down a narrow hall, speed walking to escape this fan’s “compliments” and slip into a bathroom. I gasp at my reflection. My white skin is even paler than normal, my eyes red-rimmed from crying. When that lady said my mascara was a little smeared, she was being generous. I am full-on raccoon eyes. I think with horror of all the selfies I’ve taken this evening. I can already imagine the headlines: April Rain Returns: But is she headed for rehab?
Ugh. I should have known all my crying would take a toll on my face. One of the drawbacks of radical self-acceptance is that I’m totally out of practice when it comes to worrying about my public appearance. While this mindset has been liberating, and I highly recommend it, it may not be optimal for staging a comeback.
“I love and accept myself,” I say out loud as I pull down enough paper towels to wipe the black smudges from under my eyes. I rummage through my small purse for lip gloss, which I apply as I whisper again. “I accept and love myself as I am.” And I do, I really do. But let’s be real. I haven’t seen Freddy for five years. I think it’s reasonable to want to look a smidge better than a raccoon in a dumpster fire.
New lips, new mascara, I’ve freshened my curls by getting them just a little wet and scrunching them. I look presentable—I think. Never mind this is a terrible idea. What in the world am I going to say to him?
“I love you. I always will.” NOPE, nope, nope.
“You were right and I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I miss you.”
“You were amazing up there. And will you marry me?” I sit down on the toilet and whimper cry. What on earth was I thinking? He doesn’t want to see me. But that song at the end of his concert. Gah! “All I do is miss you.”
No, I can’t take it seriously. That was part of his show. I should know that better than anyone. I was a pop star. There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute.” I wipe my eyes. There’s no hiding that I’ve been crying, but the mascara’s cleaned up.
I step out of the bathroom into the narrow gray hall. A teenage girl leans against the wall, looking at her phone while waiting for the bathroom. Even with her head bent down, I can see how lovely she is. I wonder if she knows this or if she miserably compares herself to others. I hope not. On seeing me, her eyes go wide. “April Rain!!!” She jumps up and down and then stops. “You are April Rain, right?”
“In the flesh.”
“Can I hug you? I just adore you.”
“I could really use a hug, actually.” She throws her arms around me. My eyes prick again with tears. I swallow. No more crying.
“Can we take a selfie?” My mind flashes for a moment to my reflection in the bathroom. Radical acceptance, I remind myself.
“Absolutely! What’s your name?”
“Marigold.”
“Marigold, what a fun name.”
“Sometimes I wish my parents didn’t try to be so clever. I’m guessing you relate.”
“Yep, my parents were far too clever with names.” People used to think April Rain was a stage name. Nope, it’s just my first and middle name. “I wasn’t even born in April.”
“That’s hilarious! I can’t believe I’m meeting you and Freddy West on the same night!” She puts her hands to her head to gesture mind blown. “Isn’t he amazing?”
“He is.”
“And I couldn’t believe how nice he was in person. I sort of expected him to be full of himself; I mean why wouldn’t he be—he’s unbelievably hot and his music!” She puts her hands on her heart. “It goes straight to my heart, but he seemed cool. Like, I don’t know; he doesn’t take himself too seriously.”
“Really?”
“Haven’t you met him?”
“Oh yeah, he’s great.” And I’m not lying. He is really great. Before Freddy, all the guys I dated had been other young celebrities like myself. A part of me assumed some of his charm was that he didn’t belong to my world. And that all the “normal” guys out there would be equally as grounded, authentic, and sweet. I was in for a world of disappointment. Now after dating my fair share of “normal” guys that I met at college, I realize Freddy is exceptional. Or he was. I have no idea who Freddy is now. But with every moment, my courage to meet him decreases. I spy a platinum blond head marching towards us. My heart plummets. This is definitely NOT the time to meet Freddy.
“April Rain!” A brash, carrying voice calls my name.
An improbably good-looking man hurries over to us. He is in his late thirties, maybe early forties with bottle-blond hair and teeth so white they glow in the dim backstage area.
“Is that Johnny Love?” Marigold whispers.
All I do is smile and nod. Yes, it is. Johnny Love, Hollywood’s most notorious celebrity gossip. This is not how I wanted to make my comeback. (If I even want to make a comeback.)
He joins us with a smile so bright it threatens to cause a power outage.
“April Rain! Look at you! College made you even more stunning. If that’s possible.” He hugs me like we are old friends; we are not, and he does that air kiss thingy on both cheeks. He steps back and rakes his eyes over me.
“I own all of your vinyls, even the holiday album. Did I hear that you might be putting out a new one?” he asks.
“Johnny,” I say, trying for my most charming smile, not at all sure if I still have it in me to deliver one on cue. “If I record a new song, you’ll be the first to know.” I may have laid it on too thick. My voice has a slight southern accent.
“Promise.”
“You bet.” Anything to get him to leave me alone.
“Wonderful!” He narrows his eyes. “So why are you here? Are you and Freddy collaborating?”
“No, no, umm...” I scramble for an explanation. My name has never been linked with Freddy’s in the press. When we dated, it was important to me to protect his privacy. And when it was over, I desperately wanted to protect the memory of that relationship. But if Johnny Love starts digging, it won’t take him long to find our history. He has a full-time staff, not to mention a bevy of sources. “I like his music and...” My thoughts swarm with all the very true things I absolutely cannot say: I wanted to marry him. I’m still in love with him. I’m the mysterious muse he writes all those sad songs about.
“And... ?” Johnny leads me on. I realize my mouth is hanging open. I have no idea what to say when a tall guy with a man bun interrupts.
“April Rain!” He draws out my name like it’s his favorite dirty joke. I’d be offended, but I’m so grateful for the distraction. I take a second look and realize I know him.
“You’re the drummer for Freddy West.”
“Totally!” He points the beer bottle he’s carrying to his chest. “That’s me.”
“The concert was amazing.”
“Ahh! Thanks!” He takes a swig. “I bet you miss this. Where have you been? Rehab?”
“Um, no! College.” I answer a bit tersely, sensitive to all references to rehab and my family.
“That’s right. Somewhere like Idaho.”
“Iowa.”
“Hey! So close.” He puts up a hand for me to give him a fist bump for guessing another state that starts with the letter “I.” I don’t think he’s joking here. Marigold, the friendly teen who has returned to my side, snort laughs. “Could I snag a picture with you?” he continues.
“Why not?”
After I take the photo with the drummer, I tell him again how much I enjoyed the concert.
The guy beams. “Dude! It was outrageous! Right? Hey, Freddy knows you’re here, right? He’s a total April Rain fangirl. We are always listening to your stuff in the van—like always.”
“Is that so?” I ask, trying hard not to let that little bit of news go to my head. I catch Johnny Love eyeing me curiously. I try to stay cool and calm on the outside, but inside, so much is happening—Freddy still listens to my music. I. CAN’T. EVEN. I want to jump up and down and squeal! But at the same time, I’m panicking because drummer dude (I really should have asked for his name) is going to fetch Freddy. I need to get out of here. Plus, Johnny Love looks far too interested in the conversation. So, Freddy likes my music, no big deal, millions of people like my music. Don’t read too much into that Johnny Love, except, of course, I am reading everything into it.
“So, did you see Freddy?” Drummer boy asks. I can’t refer to him as little drummer boy because this guy is roughly the height and heft of a sasquatch.
Marigold answers for me. “Yeah, he’s awesome.” And I swear her pupils change into hearts.
“Cool! Cool! It’s been great meeting you,” mutters drummer dude. (That name works.) He comes in for a sweaty hug, and I really don’t mind because it means this whole nightmare is nearly over.
As he lets go and I step away, he waves and repeats my name with a bit of wonder.
“April Rain... who would have guessed.” He takes a chug of his beer. “I used to be your biggest fan.”
Used to Be.