Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ANTHONY
I am not a morning person. Especially not after another night of staring at a blank page until two a.m., willing words to come.
My muse keeps very inconvenient hours, but every artist I know lives with the same quiet terror: that one day she’ll leave and never come back. So we indulge her like a temperamental toddler, grateful for whatever scraps she offers.
Unfortunately, as has been happening a lot recently, my muse showed up just long enough to give me two half-lines of lyrics and then left.
I think the problem is she doesn’t recognize me anymore. She knew the guy who used to write raw, hungry songs in his friend’s basement. I’m not sure she knows what to do with this version of me, the one in a multi-million-dollar apartment with designer furniture and a carefully managed life.
I’ve been trying to write the same song for two months now. It’s supposed to be about connection. But every time I reach for the feeling, I come up empty.
I used to write songs that made people cry. Now I’m worried I write songs that make people nod along while they’re stuck in traffic.
I shuffle into the kitchen, where Gloria, my personal assistant—also known as the person who calls me out on my shit—is already perched at the counter, typing away on her laptop.
She looks up as I enter, raising an eyebrow at my bedhead and wrinkled T-shirt.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the interior design sensation himself. ”
“Interior design sensation?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but never that.
“Yeah, Keely just messaged me. That Architectural Living feature you did has gone viral. You’re trending on Twitter. Or XYZ, or whatever the hell they’re calling it right now.”
I blink. “Wait, seriously? The architecture thing?”
“It has over six million views on YouTube.”
I blink some more, as if that might rearrange this information into something that makes sense in my pre-coffee haze.
Normally, pictures of me shirtless are what send my social media engagement through the roof.
When I first started my accounts, I’d spent ages trying to come up with well-worded inspirational insights into humanity, accompanied by some arty photos.
Then I accidentally posted a photo of myself in board shorts by a pool while on vacation and got thirty thousand likes within half an hour.
Hence, my social media feed is now curated by people who understand algorithms and features an endless parade of shirtless selfies and gym pics. It’s amazing what a little strategic flexing can do for your follower count.
You have to give the crowd what they want.
But I really didn’t think the Architectural Living shoot was what the crowd would want.
I’d actually hated filming it. I’d felt like a stranger in my own apartment, reciting lines about “authentic New York” while a crew member adjusted the angle of my couch for the fourth time.
And they’d edited it into something so pretentious I couldn’t watch more than thirty seconds without cringing.
“I thought people only cared about my abs and my high notes,” I say to Gloria.
“Well, apparently, they also care about your taste in throw pillows. Who knew?”
I pull out my phone and open my social media apps. My eyes widen as I see the flood of notifications. “Holy crap. I’ve gained ten thousand followers overnight.”
“I know. It’s so weird.”
Gloria continues to tap away on her computer while I stumble toward the coffee maker.
“Uh-oh,” she says just as I’m pouring myself a cup.
I glance up. “What’s wrong?”
“Um…I don’t think you’re going to like this.”
“What is it?”
“The reason the architectural thing is getting so many likes is that someone posted a spoof video of your video. It went viral, which then made your original video go viral.”
“What kind of spoof video?”
“I’m just watching it now.”
Gloria presses Play, and I can hear the tinny noise of someone talking.
Her eyebrows fold in on themselves, a smirk playing on her lips.
“It’s kind of funny. But it is slightly mocking of you,” she says.
“Let me see.”
Clutching my cup of coffee, I walk over and slide onto the stool next to her so I can view her laptop.
A cute guy’s face fills the screen. He’s got dark curly hair, large chocolate-brown eyes, and the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen cutting lines into his cheeks as he grins.
“Hi, this is Nick Marchesi, Anthony Devine’s biggest fan, and welcome to my home.”
The camera pans to reveal a cramped, cluttered apartment that looks like it hasn’t seen a vacuum cleaner since MySpace was popular.
“As you can see, my roommate and I have really embraced the ‘starving artist’ aesthetic here. Who needs things like matching furniture or a color scheme when you’ve got a cursed sofa and a few milk crates, am I right? ”
The video moves down a hallway.
“And here we have the primary bedroom, which is decorated in the ever-popular broke-college-student chic style, complete with mismatched furniture and piles of laundry I haven’t gotten around to folding yet.
You can see that my whole room doubles as a walk-in closet, or as I like to call it, the “floordrobe,” since most of my clothes end up there rather than on hangers.
That’s a patent-pending concept, by the way. ”
I huff out a laugh. Gloria side eyes me, but I’m too busy watching the guy’s smile as he turns the camera back on himself as he walks toward his front door.
Poking his head out the front door, he gestures down the hallway.
“You can see the communal staircase has been redone in the retro threadbare style, which is all the rage among us peasants. I mean, who needs fancy things like carpet or a handrail when you can have the authentic ‘I’m pretty sure these stairs are a safety hazard’ experience? ”
The video continues, with the cute guy pointing out various features of his apartment in a way that playfully mocks my own Architectural Living feature.
“And here we have the kitchen, where my roommate and I have cleverly repurposed an old door as a dining table. It really adds to the whole ‘dumpster diving as interior design’ vibe we’re going for. Plus, it doubles as a great spot for impromptu beer pong tournaments.”
He gestures to a sad-looking houseplant in the corner of the living room. “This is my fiddle-leaf fig tree. I named him Figgy Smalls. He’s the closest thing I have to a pet because, let’s face it, I can barely keep myself alive, let alone another living creature.”
The video ends with the guy flopping down on his couch, that mischievous grin back on his face.
“Well, that concludes our tour. I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the glamorous life of Anthony Devine’s biggest fan.
Tune in next week when I’ll show you how to make gourmet meals using nothing but ramen noodles and a microwave. Thanks for watching.”
I stare at the screen as the promo for the next video comes up. Gloria is watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.
“Well,” I say finally, “I guess I should be flattered that someone took the time to make a parody of my video. Even if it does make me look like a pretentious jerk.”
Gloria laughs. “Hey, at least he called himself your biggest fan. That’s got to count for something, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although I didn’t realize that fandom required so much mockery.”
The video has left me unsettled in a way I can’t name. I stand, pushing my stool back with a screech, and sink into the couch.
Fame is strange. There are these moments when it feels less like my life and more like a role I’ve been playing for so long that I’ve forgotten there was ever a script.
A few months ago, I saw a guy at a coffee shop reading a book I loved, and I almost went over to talk to him about it. I got three steps before I remembered: I can’t do that anymore. If I talk to a random guy, it becomes a story: Anthony Devine Spotted Harassing Innocent Reader.
So I just stood there, mid-step, like an idiot. Then I bought my coffee and left.
Five years ago, I would’ve talked to that guy. We might’ve become friends. Now I’ve got millions of people dissecting my throw pillows, and I can’t remember the last time I made a friend who didn’t already know my name.
Lately, I’ve started to wonder if the distance that protects me is the same distance that’s killing my music. You can’t write songs that connect with people when you’re not allowed to connect with anyone yourself.
But the main source of my discontent right now isn’t actually about my fame or wealth or even the weird feeling of being simultaneously idolized and parodied. Those things I’ve mostly gotten used to, even if they still throw me for a loop sometimes.
Maybe it’s because the guy in the video reminds me of the guys I grew up with back in Jersey, the ones who’d mock you mercilessly and somehow make you feel more seen because of it.
Nick saw through the pretentious bullshit in the Architectural Living piece and laughed at it.
And he looked like he was having fun. Making a video in his crappy apartment, mocking a celebrity who would never see it, cracking himself up over the difference between my apartment and his.
Or maybe the reason I’m feeling unsettled is even more simple than nostalgia. Nick is adorable, and not just in the obvious way, although those dimples could probably end wars.
And it reminds me how hard it is for me to find anyone like him, just a normal, cute guy, and get to know him without my name getting in the way.
I don’t say this to Gloria, but she obviously reads something in my expression and raises an eyebrow. “Anthony Devine, are you crushing on your own spoof video creator?”
My cheeks heat. “What? Of course not.”
Gloria smirks. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
I toss a throw pillow at her, which she deftly catches. “Oh, shut up. Don’t you have some important assistant stuff to do?”