Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ANTHONY
The roar of fifty thousand people screaming my name never gets old. I hit the final note of “Secret Crush,” holding it until my lungs burn, until I can feel the vibration in my chest cavity, while the crowd goes absolutely mental.
“Thank you, Adelaide! You’ve been incredible!” I shout into the mic, and they scream even louder, like I’ve just promised them the secret to eternal life instead of saying goodbye.
The stage lights dim and I’m already backing toward the wings, waving and blowing kisses on autopilot. My security team surrounds me the second I’m offstage, guiding me through the maze of equipment and crew members.
I smile. Pose. Angle my chin to show my best side. But the whole time, my mind is already somewhere else.
On my phone. On Nick.
I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I had Nick to message every night.
It’s fucked up, really. I just performed for fifty thousand people who claim to love me, yet the connection that feels most real in my life right now is with a guy who thinks I’m catfishing him. A guy who sends me Baby Yoda memes and genuinely wants my opinion on whether cereal qualifies as soup.
I’d thought that the loneliness was just part of the package.
Fame, fortune, and a side of existential isolation—the cost of admission that nobody warns you about.
I have people around me constantly: Gloria managing my life, the band, the crew, the endless parade of faces who want something from me.
But none of them ask about my weird three a.m. thoughts. None of them notice when I’m having a shit day unless it shows up in my performance.
And then this random college student made a video mocking my pretentious apartment tour, and suddenly, I’m checking my phone like a teenager with his first crush.
It’s very apparent that Nick still doesn’t believe I’m Anthony Devine.
Despite that, he spends hours messaging me and seems genuinely interested in what I think about every random topic. With everyone I meet now, it’s difficult to know if people genuinely like me for me or if they’re blinded by the whole celebrity thing.
Given Nick doesn’t believe I’m actually a celebrity, we can definitely rule that one out.
When I finally make it to my dressing room, I grab my phone before I’ve even toweled off the sweat. I’m still in my stage clothes, eyeliner probably smudged, hands shaking slightly. Post-show adrenaline. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
There’s a notification that I’ve received two messages from Nick, and fuck, why does seeing his name make me feel more alive than performing for fifty thousand people?
The first message from him is a photo of Figgy Smalls wearing what looks like a miniature crown made from a toilet paper roll, complete with glitter that’s definitely going to be all over Nick’s apartment forever.
Bow before King Figward the First, Ruler of the Windowsill, Destroyer of My Deposit.
The second message was sent a minute later
He’s demanding tribute. Specifically water. He’s been quite demanding about it, making threats if I don’t give it to him.
I sink onto the couch, and I’m just…happy. Genuinely, stupidly happy. About a photo of a fig tree in a paper crown sent by a guy I’ve never met.
AntD
Long may he reign. Though maybe consider exile if he keeps threatening you. I hear the bathroom windowsill is nice this time of year.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
The bathroom windowsill is where plants go to die. Trust me, I’ve conducted extensive research on this fact.
I can’t help smiling.
I find myself hoarding these little pieces of Nick. Small things, like the way he types lol when something’s actually funny but uses ha when he’s being sarcastic. The specific rhythm of his jokes. The way he circles back to topics hours later, like they’ve been living in his head the whole time.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Update: gave King Figward water. He remains unmoved by my offering.
AntD
Ungrateful. After all you’ve done for him.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Right? I made him a crown! With GLITTER.
AntD
The ultimate sacrifice. You’ll be finding glitter until you graduate.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Optimistic of you to assume I’m graduating, but I’ll take it.
AntD
How are your classes going? Did you get your grade for your marketing analytics project? The one you were stress-eating peanut butter cups about last week?
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Yeah, I got an A.
AntD
That’s awesome.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
I actually had a weird moment in my social media marketing class today. You know Anthony’s song, “Duplicate?”
AntD
Of course I know it. I wrote it.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Sorry, for some reason, I keep forgetting that I’m actually messaging Anthony Devine.
AntD
Yes, it appears your memory is atrocious at holding on to that fact.
But what made you think about “Duplicate?”
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Well, I was sitting in class today, listening to the girls behind me talk about this guy one of them is crushing on, and it honestly felt like the word-for-word script of a conversation I had with Teddie last month.
And I couldn’t help thinking about those lyrics in “Duplicate.” You know the ones: “Everything I say, someone else has already said.” And I realized nothing I’ve ever said or felt is actually original.
Every heartbreak, every crush, every thought—someone else has been there, done that, probably expressed it better than I ever could.
I grip my phone tighter. I’ve gotten thousands of messages over the years—fans telling me how much my songs mean to them, what they were going through when they heard a particular lyric.
But this is different. Nick isn’t just telling me the song moved him.
He’s describing exactly what I was trying to say, as if he’d been inside my head when I wrote it.
I exhale loudly before I reply.
AntD
I think that’s exactly what that song means to say.
But it is also supposed to make you feel less alone.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Less alone?
AntD
Because we try to complicate things by labeling people and focusing on our differences.
But when it boils down to it, people around the world want pretty much the same thing.
They want the basics of enough to eat and somewhere safe to live.
They want a job that is fulfilling. They want to love and be loved in return.
Those lyrics in “Duplicate”—“It’s all been said before”—just remind us of that fact.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
I like that take on it.
AntD
Thanks.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
It’s so easy to get stuck in your own head, you know?
To think that you’re the only one in the world going through a particular experience.
I like thinking about humanity’s shared experiences.
Like we’re all just walking around thinking we’re the main character in some unique story, but really, we’re all just extras in the same eternal romantic comedy/tragedy/whatever genre googling “am I normal?” at midnight counts as.
AntD
That’s why I write music. To remind people they’re not alone in whatever they’re feeling. Even if what they’re feeling is “Why did I eat pizza for breakfast three days in a row?”
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Lol. I’ve definitely felt the “why did I eat pizza” feeling.
Hang on a sec. You write music? Like, for real?
Fuck. The “for real” bit gets me. It’s such a simple question, but it lands somewhere soft. Because Nick doesn’t think he’s talking to Anthony Devine. He thinks I’m just some guy who writes songs in his bedroom, not someone with seventeen platinum records on my wall.
For a second, I don’t want to be Anthony Devine. I want to be the guy Nick thinks I am, just a random guy who writes songs because he can’t not write them. Who gets excited about a perfect lyric without immediately wondering how it’ll perform on Spotify.
AntD
For real. I’m constantly writing scraps of words down on paper.
That used to be true, anyway. Before the words stopped coming.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
What’s your process for writing a song? Like, do the words come first, or the music?
I stare at the screen. How long has it been since I’ve had someone genuinely curious about the process of writing a song rather than the fame that comes after?
As if on cue, the universe sends a reminder of said fame. There’s a quick knock on my dressing room door, the kind that’s more warning than request, and suddenly, the room is full of people.
My tour manager, Brad, comes in armed with his tablet, brows flying up at finding me still in my stage clothes. My publicist, Keely, reminds me about a radio interview in the morning. Someone from the label wants to talk about the single release.
“Anthony, you killed it tonight!” Brad says, barely looking up from his screen. “The crowd was insane during the acoustic set. Keely’s already got three outlets asking for quotes.”
“Great,” I say.
I ignore the excited chatter around me because I’m already typing a reply to Nick.
AntD
Writing a song usually starts with a feeling I can’t shake. Like an itch in my brain.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
So, do the words come first or the melody?
AntD
Depends. Sometimes I hear a phrase and build around it.
“We need you to sign these,” someone shoves merchandise in my face.
I quickly grab the pen and sign T-shirts, hats, vinyl records that’ll probably end up on eBay by morning, and someone’s shoe for reasons I don’t ask about, before checking to read Nick’s reply.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
That’s so cool. So, how long does it take to write a song?
AntD
The initial idea? Minutes. Making it not suck? That’s when time becomes meaningless, and I forget to eat.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
“Making it not suck” should be the official motto for all creative endeavors.
I’m so busy reading Nick’s message that I hardly notice when Gloria comes in and heads straight to Brad. But I’m forced to put down my phone when she comes over to me, her expression serious.
“We need to talk.”
“What is it?”
“I found the source of that article about your anonymous donation to the LGBTQ+ youth shelter.”
My stomach clenches. “Who was it?”
“Joey.”
“Joey? As in Joey, my backup dancer who’s been with me since my first tour?”
“Yeah, we think he was also the person who gave Entertainment Weekly those photos from your birthday party last year.”
My chest goes tight. Joey. Fucking Joey, whom I’d trusted. Who I’d let into my actual life, not just the Anthony Devine show. The guy who’d made me laugh during the exhausting stretches of tour when everything felt like too much.
“Joey sold me out?” The words feel wrong in my mouth. Bitter. “He was at that birthday party as my friend, not as—” I can’t even finish the sentence.
Gloria squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” I say woodenly.
But my stomach feels hollow. Like something’s been scooped out.
Joey came to my mom’s house for Thanksgiving last year.
I brought him because he didn’t have anywhere to go, and my mom made him her famous pumpkin pie, and my brother taught him our family’s stupid card game that we’ve played since we were kids. He met my grandmother.
How do you know who to trust when everyone around you has something to gain from your secrets? When your vulnerability is just another commodity? I’m so fucking tired of wondering which smiles are genuine and which ones are calculating how much TMZ would pay for our conversation.
My thumb hovers over Nick’s messages. He’s the only person in my life who doesn’t want anything from me except bad jokes and opinions on stupid stuff. Ironically, he’s the only person I can be honest with because he doesn’t believe I’m telling the truth about who I am.
Fuck it. I need to talk to someone real.
AntD
Sorry for leaving you on read. Just got some shit news.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
What happened?
AntD
Just discovered someone I thought was a friend is, in fact, a backstabbing dickhead.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
I’m sorry. People suck sometimes. And not in the fun way.
AntD
You know what the worst part is? I genuinely liked this person. My judgment is officially broken. I should probably return it for a refund.
I stare at the screen as I wait for Nick’s reply. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. Comfort? Advice? I don’t even know what I need right now.
Nick sends me a Baby Yoda meme—the one where he’s sipping soup with an expression of pure unbothered chaos, captioned: Me watching your enemies suffer eventually because karma is real.
I smile.
Yep. It appears a Baby Yoda meme is exactly what I need.
Somehow, this guy can make me smile when no one else can.