Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANTHONY
Nick’s inspiring me to write songs.
My muse—that fickle, unreliable creature who abandoned me somewhere around my third album—is suddenly back. Demanding attention at all hours. She won’t shut up.
I’m usually too exhausted while I’m on tour to even bother to attempt to write, but this time I’ve been cranking out lyrics and melodies in hotel rooms, backstage, even during sound checks, when I should be focusing on the actual show.
The words won’t wait for a convenient time.
It’s like a tap has been turned on inside me.
My band thinks I’ve lost it. During rehearsal in Sydney, I stopped mid-song to scribble a line about “different cages, same locks” on the back of the setlist. My guitarist, Jake, just shook his head and muttered something about me finally going full tortured artist.
And then I spend most of the sixteen-hour flight home from New Zealand sketching out three complete songs and the bones of what might be my next album.
The flight attendant kept offering me food, and I kept waving her off.
I couldn’t risk losing this feeling—this weird mix of longing and hope and fear that sits in my chest like something alive.
When Nick is offline and not responding to my messages, I find myself rewatching the spoof video he made, and even that, seeing his cheeky grin and the way his brown eyes sparkle with mischief, is enough to inspire me.
I’ve watched him introduce Figgy Smalls at least fifty times. I could probably recite the whole video from memory. Gloria caught me watching it during a meeting last week, and I had to pretend I was doing “market research” on viral content.
She didn’t buy it.
The private terminal at JFK is blissfully quiet compared to the chaos of the main airport. One of the perks of fame, or maybe just the necessary armor against it. No lines, no crowds, no one asking for selfies while I’m jet-lagged and looking like I haven’t slept in twenty hours. Which I haven’t.
I took a random snapshot of the JFK sign through the window of my private jet and sent it to Nick because I’m excited about being home, and somehow, Nick is the person I want to share that excitement with.
But I’m not prepared for the response that comes back.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
If you’re back in NYC, do you want to meet up sometime?
My breath leaves me.
I stumble, nearly dropping my carry-on. My bodyguard shoots me a concerned look, but I wave him off.
Nick wants to meet me.
My hands shake as I stare at the message. This is it. This is the moment where everything either becomes real or falls apart completely.
Do I want to meet him in person?
More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
But I’m terrified. There’s no other word for it.
Somehow, over the course of our messaging, Nick has become important to me.
He’s been there to joke around with and also there to turn to when I wanted a deeper conversation.
He’s become a support system outside of my career, outside the fame machine.
He’s also the only person in my life who actively disagrees with me. He mocks my opinions and tells me when he thinks I’m wrong. He treats our conversations like I’m just some guy he met online, not someone whose feelings need to be managed.
I didn’t realize how much I missed that. Being surrounded by people who agree with everything you say sounds like a dream until you’re living it. Until you realize you have no idea what anyone actually thinks anymore. Nick tells me what he really thinks.
Over the past month, Nick has become this continuous presence in my head—like a conversation that never quite ends or a song I can’t stop humming.
I’ll see something funny and think Nick would love this. I’ll have a random thought and immediately want to share it with him. I’ll be in the middle of a band meeting and catch myself smiling because I remembered something he said two days ago.
I’ve dated people before, but I’ve never had someone take up this much space in my brain. He’s not performing for me. He’s not trying to impress Anthony Devine. He’s just Nick—funny and weird and surprisingly insightful and completely unaware of how rare that combination is.
Will meeting up in person spoil that? I mean, he doesn’t even believe I’m actually Anthony Devine.
He thinks that’s a joke between us. What is he going to say when he realizes I’ve been telling the truth this whole time?
Will he think I’ve been mocking him? Playing some cruel celebrity game at his expense?
I sink into one of the leather chairs in the private lounge and bring up the spoof video of Nick yet again, pressing Play. Video Nick grins at me as he shows me his fig tree.
“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.”
I stare at the video, at Nick’s cute grin.
I want to touch those dimples. Trace the lines they cut into his cheeks when he laughs. I want to kiss that smile.
What if he’s disappointed when he realizes I’m just…me? Not the fantasy version of Anthony Devine that exists in magazines and music videos, but the real me who wears the same hoodie for three days straight and forgets to reply to texts from actual friends and writes songs in the shower?
But then I think about our conversations. About how our sense of humor aligns so well. About how he understood what I meant about different cages before I’d even fully formed the thought myself.
That connection? That’s real. That exists whether I’m Anthony Devine the pop star or just AntD.
I watch him tour his tiny apartment one more time—every familiar frame, every joke I’ve memorized—and I know what I have to do.
AntD
Yeah, okay. I’m down to meet up.
As soon as I press send, my nerves start to spiral into what can only be described as a full-body panic response. My palms are sweating, my heart is racing, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to have an anxiety attack.
My phone buzzes again.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Are you going to Anthony Devine’s concert at Madison Square Garden next Friday? I got free tickets from a radio station after my spoof video went viral, so for once, I don’t have to sell a kidney to attend.
I laugh out loud. My bodyguard definitely thinks I’ve lost it now. Of course Nick’s going to the concert. Of course that’s where he wants to meet.
AntD
Yes, I’m definitely going to the concert. I’m performing at it.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Do you want to meet up afterward?
My heart starts thumping so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is really happening. In a week, Nick is going to find out I’ve been telling the truth this whole time. He’s going to see me on stage, and then he’s going to meet me. And everything—everything—is going to change.
AntD
Yeah, I do.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Okay. So do I.
I stare at those four words and feel like my entire world just shifted on its axis.
My bodyguard clears his throat. “Car’s ready whenever you are, Mr. Devine.”
But I can’t move yet. I’m sitting in this sterile private lounge, surrounded by the trappings of a life that’s supposed to be everything anyone could want, and all I can think about is that in seven days, I’m going to meet Nick.
The guy who makes me want to write songs about hope instead of heartbreak.
I really hope I don’t fuck this up.