Chapter 5
5
Some of us need to be rescued, but everyone wants to be seen.
Mariah Carey
Miles Westbrook’s presence looms large backstage. Even with a frenzied sea of people separating us, I am keenly aware of him standing in a dark corner chatting closely with a member of his team. I can’t remember ever feeling this affected by a complete stranger before—wary yet intrigued at the same time. Prior to tonight I had seen the man before…in photographs and on TV.
Briefly, I revisit Sheryl’s ridiculous contributions to the group chat, along with Jamie and Rodney’s relentless teasing. It’s one thing to make jokes with your friends about getting back in the swing of things. But nothing could quite prepare me for the chemical reactions Miles would draw out of me with just a glance. That’s all this is. The body’s natural response when presented with a desirable person, after its most basic wants have been neglected for far too long.
In this case, the person stands a few inches taller than everyone else who is zipping between us and frantically occupied with the business of putting on the show. And considering the fact that almost half of us are tiptoeing around while propped up on what might as well be called stilts, that’s saying a lot. The person has a bright white smile that stretches broadly over a strong chin, is framed by achingly full lips, and bracketed by dimples that curve deep within the rich brown complexion of his otherwise angular face.
“Ms. Simone, if you come with me now, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Westbrook,” a show producer says with a polite smile that knocks me out of my trance. I smile back and follow after her on stiff legs. Something elemental happens in the room as the distance closes between me and Miles. Like somehow, just by walking thirty feet, I’ve traversed a continent and entered a new climate. At about the halfway mark, Miles seems to take note of my approach. And when our eyes lock, for the second time tonight, I can only hold the contact for a moment before I glance away to break the tension.
In the final seconds before reaching him, I give myself the pep talk of the century. It consists of several get it together s, a few girl, he is just a man s, and a final resounding Elladee Ashley Robinson, your grandmama taught you better than this. So, by the time I am squarely in front of him, I’ve mustered the poise and control to act like the well-adjusted adult I am, but only in the most uncertain terms.
“Hi, Miles, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand with a perfectly professional smile.
“Ella,” he says my name and tapers off, like he meant to follow it up with something and never quite decided on what. But his eyes remain steady on mine. And there’s an indecision there, like he’s willing them to stay put rather than travel the length of me, like they really want to.
I can’t shake the dangerous feeling that I want to be looked at by him. Like I want his eyes to drink me in, have their fill, and wordlessly affirm their delight. It’s even more maddening that he won’t give me the satisfaction of that coveted, languid perusal. Despite what the tabloids have said, Miles Westbrook has self-control, and everything in me wants to test it.
At some point in the past few seconds, we wound up alone. I have a faint memory of the producer telling us she’d be back with our sides. But I’m currently more preoccupied with the two loose buttons at the top of Miles’s silk shirt, which reveal the divot at the base of his neck and just a hint of his strong chest.
My distraction is so utter and complete that I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring as we’ve stood in total silence, until Miles clears his throat. “So, I’m a…fan,” he says, piercing the awkwardness. And surprisingly, his words are stilted, like now that we’ve been left alone for probably only a minute—at least I hope it’s only been that long—he’s nervous in my presence. “Of y-your music that is.”
“Ah,” I say, dubious of the claim. Most athletes I’ve come in contact with have Drake or Kendrick on their AirPods, not my subgenre of pop and R&B.
“You’re about to quiz me, aren’t you?” he asks, a sly grin creeping across his perfect face.
I fight the urge to fan myself as I feel sweat beading down my back. “I wouldn’t dare,” I lie.
“Oh, it’s cool. My pop always said if you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready,” he counters, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for a workout. He sports a panty-dropping grin that’s as boyish as it’s devilish.
“I’m waiting, then,” I say, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side. I’m aware of what the motion does to my chest in this dress, and I don’t miss the moment his eyes swoop low and then return to my face—or the slight strain of his furrowed brow, like he’s disappointed in himself for succumbing. I’m not.
He rolls his shoulders. “Okay, top-three Ella Simone tracks for me are…‘Cry Alone,’ ‘Thief of Hearts,’ and the new one y-you just released. The Sade interpolation.”
“?‘No Ordinary Love,’?” I say, referring to the redux Elliot and I recorded a year ago and let linger to collect dust on a shelf until the label released it last week. Mostly, I’m stunned that Miles Westbrook just used the word interpolation . Not because I’d be so silly as to make the basic assumption that an athlete wouldn’t have a vast vocabulary. It’s just not a word you hear thrown around by people who aren’t intimately involved in the process of producing music.
But before I can even respond, we’re joined again by the producer, who’s carrying a printout of our lines. She steps up to us gingerly, as if she’s afraid to interrupt. “You don’t have to memorize it,” she says timidly. “There’ll be a prompter. But just in case, sometimes people like to…well, you’ve both done this before. Anyhoo, holler if you need me. You’re on in five!”
She hands us one printout to look at and scurries off to other duties. Now that we’ve got our assignment, we put the music talk on ice. Miles casually positions himself next to me and lowers the page so I can look on with him. Then we stand in silence. And I don’t know about him, but I’m looking at the words on the page without really seeing what’s there. Instead, I’m cataloging the subtle notes of his cologne, wondering exactly how tall he is, and fixating on how strongly defined his fingers are—curious all of a sudden to know if the hand holding the page is the one he pitches with.
Miles clears his throat. “Uh, so…it looks like they kept it pretty straightforward for us,” he says, settling the mystery of whether or not he’s as distracted by my presence as I am his.
I look up at him and notice his eyes are shifty and his jaw is tight. The swagger and ease from a moment ago has all but dissipated. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re…are you nervous about presenting?” I ask, careful not to sound like I’m teasing him.
He shrugs. Not dismissively, but more like an admission of defeat. “Public speaking. It’s uh…” He pauses, eyes darting around as if checking for lurkers. “I stutter.” He shrugs again, but this time with a small smile. And such an innocent gesture on this grown, gorgeous man is disarming.
“Oh. I see,” I say, briefly at a loss for what to do or say to put him at ease. “Is there anything that helps when you get blocked? Anything I can do?” My best friend in middle school had a stutter, and eventually she discovered that clapping her hands or snapping her fingers whenever she got held up on a syllable or letter seemed to help get her over the hump. I can’t assume the same trick works for everyone with the same speech impediment, but I figure it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Nah. It’s okay,” Miles says. “But most people don’t even think to ask that, so I appreciate you.”
I nod, probably a bit too aggressively, and my brain produces no additional thoughts. We stand in awkward silence for a few more seconds.
“I tap my thigh when I get stuck,” Miles offers. “It doesn’t always w-work, but it helps me often enough.”
I’m about to say something totally inadequate for this vulnerable disclosure, like thank you for sharing that with me or oh, that’s nice to know , when I’m saved by the bell.
“There you are!” shouts Rodney. Feeling uneasy and desperate for an escape, I turn and begin walking up to him and Angelo without realizing that one of the long tassels of my skirt is wedged underneath Miles’s shoe.
I hear the pop of fabric before I feel the straps snap one by one.
“Oh dear,” Angelo says without so much as an ounce of alarm.
Suddenly, the tight squeeze around my torso begins to give way. As if in slow motion, I feel the tug and slide of my dress as it begins to fall from my body. At the last moment, I grab hold of the cups at my chest to keep from fully exposing myself to four people, three of whom have already seen me in various states of undress, and one who seems to be doing everything in his power to avoid such a fate. Miles stands with his back turned to us, his nose practically pressed against the wall.
I turn and am instantly struck by the sheer panic on Lydia’s, Angelo’s, and Rodney’s faces. We go on in two minutes, and with one wrong move, my dress might as well be a pile of tattered fabric. A single strand broke loose, and then another, then the whole garment unraveled.
“Okay, peeps, what’s the plan,” I say calmly, if only because I’m staving off true panic. “Clearly I can’t go out there, you know, holding my dress up.”
“I could hold it for you?” Miles offers very innocently while peeking over his shoulder. “This t-technically is my fault and I’m very sorry, and I—”
“Hush, man!” Rodney says, palming his cheek, seemingly drawing a complete blank.
“No, for real,” Miles offers again, “I can just pinch the fabric at the back—”
“Hush!” they all shout at him in unison. At this, Miles seems to shrink a few inches and turns back to his corner.
“Okay, let’s think,” I say, cheerfully turning to Rodney. “Do you have time to run back to the dressing room for my red-carpet look?”
He turns to Lydia, who motions toward the countdown clock. We’ve got one and a half minutes before the ad break is over. So the answer is a resounding hell no . Wordlessly, we all deflate.
Without an explanation, Miles starts unbuttoning his own shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “Put your clothes back on! We have to go out there in…” I glance over at the clock. “A minute and fifteen seconds. We can’t both be naked!”
He turns and winks at me. My stomach flips, and I have to fight to keep the muscles in my face from either scowling or smirking right back at him.
“And we won’t be. You can wear this, and I’ll just wear the jacket,” he says, suddenly self-assured. That confidence melts when he’s met by our silence. “It’s Atelier Versace?” he offers, like a selling point. And I briefly wonder if he’s a fashion guy or if his style team rehearsed that with him specifically for tonight. I have a feeling it’s the latter, and I like it. Seconds later, he confirms it.
“That’s what they told me at least?” Miles brandishes his shirt and then looks over at Rodney, who is suddenly casually smirking as if this wasn’t a desperate wardrobe crisis of epic proportions a second ago.
“It’s not a bad look,” Rodney murmurs. “We can probably make it work.” He turns it over in his hands, appraising it like we’ve got all the time in the world while I continue to marvel at his apparent lack of urgency. He points to Miles. “Okay. You, turn back around.” Then to me: “You, step out of that and get over here.”
With Miles safely facing the wall again, I do as Rodney says. He helps me into the shirt, and the moment I’m enveloped in the butteriness of the fabric, I’m hit with a wave of Miles’s lush scent. The shirt isn’t bad either. Admittedly, it’s a great fashion piece. It hits me right at mid-thigh, and Rodney opts to keep it unbuttoned down to just above my navel. From somewhere in his magic fanny pack, he grabs a clamp that cinches it at the waist, which keeps it from looking like a full knapsack on me. I glance at the clock, and with forty seconds to spare, this is surely as good as it’s going to get.
Angelo and Lydia have been securing the perimeter with wardrobe partitions to make sure no one else backstage witnessed this little snafu. But now they turn and admire Rodney’s work.
“Okay, Miles. You can turn back around now,” Rodney says.
As he slowly faces us, I can’t help but feel like we’re at a “first look” photo shoot on our wedding day or, worse, like I’ve just walked down a never-ending staircase as I’m presented to my homecoming date while he stands awkwardly in the foyer holding my wrist corsage between his sweaty palms.
“Well,” I say impatiently. “How did we do?”
“You look…y-you, um.” He coughs, to clear his throat. “You’re beautiful.”
My skin pricks with heat all over, and I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed that his eyes never once left my face. I also didn’t miss that, as he spoke, he was tapping his thigh.
If you don’t know where to train your eyes onstage, it’s easy to get blinded by the heavy orbs of light that are rigged up above the proscenium. And everything beyond the radiant halo is a sea of endless black. From stage left I can see DJ D-Nice spinning my biggest hit, “Make You Mine,” for our “walk out” anthem. At the same time, I hear Miles and me announced as “Major League Baseball’s former Man of the Year and two-time Grammy-winning pop and R&B princess.” Convinced I look like the Tweedledum to Miles’s Tweedledee in my Hail Mary ensemble, I take a deep breath and exhale the jitters. In ten minutes I fully intend to reunite with my glass—this time with something stronger than wine in it.
When we finally reach our mark near the mic, the clamor of applause and music in the arena begins to dissipate and our script appears on the prompter. I’m first up. I take another clarifying breath and launch into my opening line. “Tonight, Miles and I have the distinct honor of presenting the nominees for R&B Song of the Year.”
Miles inhales shakily beside me before he goes for his part. “But before we do that, Ella and I have a few items to address.” Despite the nerves I felt reverberating from him a moment ago, he manages to deliver the words with a cheeky flare.
“Mm-hmm. That’s right,” I declare, crossing my arms and turning toward my co-presenter. “I have it on good authority that the Dodgers locker room has a strict no R&B policy.” I arch an eyebrow, cheating toward the audience and on cue, a series of ooh s and aah s ring out from the crowd. “Apparently, it’s not the ‘right vibe.’?” I make exaggerated quotes with my hands, and this time we can hear boos.
“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” Miles says, playing his part perfectly. “Let’s not get confused. R&B music is timeless, don’t get me wrong. Take tonight’s nominees for example. I love me some Coco Jones. Some Giveon. Lucky Daye. But when the ’ship is on the line, it’s all about setting the right mood for the task at hand. Now, I can think of a few other tasks that might call for some Marsha Ambrosius”—he nudges me playfully with an elbow—“ maybe even some…E-ella Simone—”
“All right, all right,” I cut in with a chuckle. “I think we get where you’re going with this, buddy.” I pat him gently on his muscled shoulder and almost lose my train of thought. I clear my throat. “So now that we’ve gotten that cleared up. Without further ado, the nominees for R&B Song of the Year are…”
The announcer takes over at this point, calling out the nominees while a live shot of each one in the audience flashes across the jumbo screens. When Elliot is announced as the final nominee for a record he wrote and produced featuring Muni Long, his glossy headshot fills the screens, as expected since he was a surprise no-show.
“I’ll let you do the honors, my lady,” Miles says in a low rumbling tone that makes something flip over in my stomach.
I shake off the feeling and look down at the card in my hand. “And the winner is—” The letters I see printed there on the stiff card stock take longer than they should to compute in my brain. Ever the professional, I press on to speak. But the syllables catch in my throat.
Then Miles gently places a hand at the small of my back as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ve got this , before clearing his throat. “Elliot…M-majors!” Rescuing me, he says the name I know all too well.
Snapping out of my momentary trance, I look to the prompter, prepared to announce that we’ll be accepting the award on my husband’s behalf when the screen goes blank, refreshing in real time. When the words Hold for Winner flash on the prompter, my heartbeats kick into high gear. Next, I see Elliot’s beaming, live smile flash on all the screens in the house.
He emerges from the dark arena, and all the blood drains from my face, slipping down my body and pooling at my feet—holding me in place. If I wanted to run, I’d be shit out of luck. Without a thought, my body begins to lean to the left until it meets flush with Miles’s warm, rigid strength. The time lapse between Miles uttering Elliot’s name and Elliot reaching the stage couldn’t last more than ten seconds, but it feels like we’ve endured an endless summer when my estranged husband arrives.
He’s in a head-to-toe black silk ensemble. Probably Gucci. Definitely not the look his stylist pulled to match my intended dress for the night. Guess that means we’re both going rogue. He practically oozes up the stairs in deliberate, fluid motions—the man can’t even walk like a regular human. The closer he gets, the wider the pit of dread inside me grows. Then, suddenly, he’s receiving his Grammy trophy from Miles. Next, he’s angled himself toward me with his arms outstretched to wrap me in an embrace.
Each movement rapidly blends into the next so fast I can hardly keep up, like a movie montage I’m watching on fast-forward. Elliot places one hand on my waist, and I inch closer to him, more out of practice than instinct. His broad, bright smile is for the cameras. But the intense look in his eyes, that’s for me. He tilts his head down, as if angling in for a kiss. At the last second, I turn my head just enough for two things to occur: Elliot’s kiss lands on the space between my ear and neck and then my eyes latch on to Miles’s fiery gaze. The simultaneous jolt is sensory overload. I blink several times to snap out of what feels like a daze, stepping away from Elliot so he can give his speech.
Miles and I are still onstage, but with the spotlight on Elliot, we’re now off-mic and bathed in shadow. “You okay?” he whispers. And the question alerts me to how heavy I’ve been breathing. When I don’t answer immediately, the smooth warmth of his knuckles brushes against the back of my hand. I swallow thickly. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine. I just…need some air.”
He hasn’t moved his hand, and now little electric firings are sparking at the point where we’re just barely skin to skin. “Almost there,” he says. And it’s so tender it feels like an embrace, like our hands are entwined, fingers interlaced.
At some point, Elliot finishes his acceptance speech, and we’re led backstage by a Grammy escort. The moment we’re back in the wings, I lock eyes with Angelo and Rodney. In a split second I weigh my options for the night…stay and schmooze at the after-parties in Elliot’s shadow, or get the hell out of Dodge. It’s a no-brainer. I bolt.