Chapter 26
26
“Excuse me. Miss Simone?” Our flight attendant’s words break me out of my retrospective haze. Looking up from the window, I see his smile is polite but a bit strained. “This is embarrassing,” he says, “but your friend here is disturbing the cabin. Would you mind…waking her up?”
He’s not wrong. Jamie’s been snoring so loud for the last twenty minutes, her honks and purrs have rendered my noise-canceling headphones useless. I could blame our five a.m. pickup time for a ride to the airport, but that wouldn’t cover it. Because after witnessing the speed with which she downed her third mimosa, I could tell she wasn’t long for this world.
Despite my many protests, Miles insisted on covering my flight out to see him in LA. But we still compromised on splitting the difference by having me purchase Jamie’s ticket so she could tag along. It’s true the point of this trip is to get in quality time with Miles—and after Elliot’s emotional ambush disguised as a settlement discussion, it couldn’t come at a better time. But I also know Miles is a professional athlete with a grueling game schedule, and I refuse to sit around twiddling my thumbs in his empty mansion—been there, done that. So, Jamie and I booked a Malibu rental and I’ve scheduled enough meetings this week to occupy the gaps and ensure the trip isn’t a total loss in case things fizzle out with Miles.
Rodney’s off visiting Angelo’s family in Miami, and given this special occasion, I promised I’d only contact them in the case of a “life- and/or career-ending emergency.” Sheryl’s updates have become few and far between, which I’ve taken to mean she’s really in the thick of it with her husband’s treatment. Still, the Glam Squad has kept up with sending our weekly care packages to her house in Westchester. And she always sends us three emoji hearts to confirm when they arrive.
After returning my lie-flat seat to an upright position, I gently nudge Jamie. But that just draws out a snort and a gargle, followed by what sounds like a possible aspiration event. Afraid for her safety, I start vigorously jostling her shoulder.
“Gah! What? What’d I miss?” Like a bull in a china shop, it’s possible she’s more of a disturbance when awake than asleep. With lines from the armrest etched into her skin, she wipes a little drool from her chin and looks at me with bleary eyes. “Did we land?”
“Two hours to go,” I tell her, part amused and mostly relieved her airway seems to be intact. “Getting some beauty rest there?”
“Well…I was ,” she says, cutting me some major side-eye. “Before you basically assaulted me awake.”
I shrug, and with a straight face say, “The flight crew said your snores were interfering with air traffic control signals.”
Jamie’s eyes narrow. “You know, lying looks good on you,” she says. “You should do ‘bad girl’ stuff more often.”
At this, a small tingling sensation starts to creep in. I’ve been itching all morning to let her in on my close-kept secret, internally debating when to tell her, knowing it would need to be before we touched down in LA. Apart from Rodney, I have told absolutely no one about my night with Miles after the charity benefit, or the countless voice notes we’ve exchanged baring our souls to each other in its aftermath.
For all Jamie knows, this LA trip is about getting a break from New York—taking a meeting with Janet, doing a talk show here, podcast there. And maybe fitting in a couple of recording sessions with an up-and-coming artist I’ve been dying to collaborate with. And sure, all of that is true. But she has no idea the real reason this trip is happening is a certain someone I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. Everything else, I could have handled just as well from the East Coast.
“I have a confession to make,” I tell her.
“Let me guess. You been bangin’ the pitcher?”
My jaw drops, and my body falls slack against my seat. “How do you know?” I whisper shout. “Also, it was only one time!”
“Hello!” she says. “Because I actually observe my surroundings.”
“Replace ‘observe’ with ‘disturb’ and you might be onto something,” I shoot back.
Totally unbothered, she presses on. “Anyway, it was obvious to me the night you stormed out of the gala that you had caught feelings. And, girl, please…we all picked up what you were putting down with that song choice. ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’? Subtle, my ass!”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I am gagged.
“We should get another drink, huh?” she asks, eyes scanning the aisle for a flight attendant, totally unmoved by what we’ve just openly acknowledged.
I simply nod in agreement and press the call button.
“I could get used to this,” Jamie says, before kicking off her slides and sinking her feet into the sun-warmed sand.
“Well, for a week it is yours,” I say, in my best James Earl Jones impersonation. “Everything the light touches!”
We’re on the back deck of our two-story Malibu rental, which opens up directly onto a private stretch of beach. After landing at LAX, our driver took us to In-N-Out for some much-needed fortification for the one-and-a-half-hour trek up the 405 and Pacific Coast Highway.
Now that the late afternoon sun’s golden rays are falling across our faces, and our bellies are full of milkshakes, double-doubles, and animal fries, I can scarcely recall the last time I’ve felt this content, apart from when I was wrapped in Miles’s arms.
My back pocket vibrates with a call from the man himself, as if conjured by the thought of him. Swiping across the screen, I feel my face stretch into a wide smile. “You actually called me this time,” I practically purr at the phone. “How did I get so lucky?”
“Well, for starters you flew across the country to see me,” he says. “It’s really the least I could do.”
I close my eyes and luxuriate in the deep velvety sound of his voice. We’ve spoken on the phone a handful of times since our night after the gala, but our crazy hectic schedules and the three-hour time difference have made syncing up an arduous task.
“Ella, you still there?” Miles asks, when I’ve apparently forgotten that holding a conversation means you take turns replying to each other, usually without long, weighted gaps of silence.
Clearing my throat I say, “Mm-hmm, yeah, I’m here. It’s just, throwing me for a little bit of a loop how good it feels to actually be talking to you on the phone right now instead of recording a voice note to send to you.”
“Dream Girl, you have no idea,” he says, and hearing that nickname again makes my chest flutter and my face heat. “So, I know you and Jamie probably want to take tonight to hang out and get settled in. But our manager gave us a ‘show ’n go’ schedule for tomorrow’s game, and I don’t have to be at the stadium until about three. So, I was thinking maybe I could come by and make you both breakfast?”
“Oh, so he’s a world-class pitcher who’s easy on the eyes, loves his family, gives good voice note, and he cooks too?”
“I can give more than ‘good voice note,’ and if you don’t recall, I’d be happy to jog your memory,” Miles says, and right about now I’m glad Jamie’s already strolled off toward the shoreline. “Also, and feel free to object if you think it’s a bad idea, but I was planning to maybe bring Gabe?”
This makes me laugh and sigh. Somewhere along the way, Miles got the brilliant notion that Gabriel Pearson and Jamie needed to meet. And while his sports agent made quite the first impression on me, albeit under very tense circumstances, it’s Jamie I’m more concerned about in this scenario. She can be a real ballbuster. The woman tends to run off anyone who so much as hints the tiniest bit at being a “nice guy.”
“I won’t object, so long as you warn your best guy that Jamie’s packing sharp teeth and maybe even talons too,” I tell him. “Also, can we make it brunch for tomorrow? I have an early meeting with Janet that should only be an hour.”
Miles clears his throat. And I have to remind myself that it must be awkward for him when I make mention of anything having to do with my divorce attorney. After all, I may be legally separated. And even though my relationship with Elliot ended what feels like ages ago, our divorce won’t be final for another three and a half months in the best-case scenario.
“Oh, no worries,” he finally says after a few moments of stilted silence. “I never want to get in the way of that. Brunch it is.” His voice trails off just slightly at the end, and I worry I may have irrevocably killed the vibe.
The woman in the oversized sunhat and linen maxi dress couldn’t possibly be my divorce attorney. But then again, when I left my sleeping housemate behind at eight in the morning to come meet Janet for “breakfast,” I was expecting coffee, not pressed juices at the Brentwood Country Mart. Not to be fooled a second time, I even stopped for a couple of egg bites on the way. Now, after valeting my rental and meandering through the mart’s labyrinth of matching shops, cafés, and boutiques, I’m dubious of the lone woman outside our designated meeting spot.
“Janet? Is that you?” I ask as I approach. The hat bobs and swivels, before revealing her stark but elegant features and piercing blue eyes. Today, my typically stoic yet chic attorney looks California casual, like the product of an expensive wellness retreat.
When she spots me, she smiles broadly—another new thing for her. “There you are!” she says, leaning in for a double-cheeked kiss. “You look well.”
“So…do you,” I say, a little bewildered by this new zen vibe wafting off her.
“Here you are.” She hands over a bottle filled with beet-colored liquid. “It’s the best one they’ve got. Great for the skin.”
Given her flawless complexion, I accept mine without argument, then fall in step with her as she beckons me along. We end up sitting at a sunny table in the Country Mart’s upper courtyard, surrounded by a blend of families with young kids and older couples out and about for early breakfasts.
“How are you? How’s New York been?” Her knitted brow suggests she’s not just probing me superficially, but that perhaps she’s been worried about me since the meeting with Elliot crashed and burned.
Maybe it’s the potent drink, the bright sun, or the intense blue of her eyes. But suddenly, my knack for pretense melts away. “I’m good. Great most days, actually. I’m busy…and happy getting ready for the tour. It’s doing what I love,” I tell her, and all of that’s true. “But…at the same time,” I add. “I can’t shake this feeling that the other shoe is about to drop any day now. The meeting with Larry and Elliot couldn’t have been less productive, and with their team stonewalling us at every turn now, I can’t even anticipate what his next move’s going to be.”
Pressing her lips together, she nods. “Well, anticipating moves is my job, not yours. But this is normal for someone in your shoes,” she says. “When it comes to the divorce proceedings, we’re just going to have to maximize our leverage. As for Onyx Records, well…we’ve talked about how difficult creative contracts are to dissolve or amend. And yours is no exception. It’s actually why I wanted to meet you in person today.” She pauses, and her eyes dart around us as if checking for eavesdroppers. “There have been some rumblings I was just made privy to. But all of it’s still very confidential.”
I set down my juice and lean in. “Rumblings…about Elliot?” I ask.
Her head bobs from side to side. “More broad, but they are concerning top brass at Onyx Records,” she explains, and her voice drops lower. “The company is on the brink of a reckoning of sorts.” At this, my ears perk up. Janet continues. “Misconduct, misappropriation, misdemeanors…you name it—and all from the very top. I’m being told the Onyx board and its creditors are in the middle of enacting a leadership change.”
Janet might as well have dropped a bomb on the table with the way my ears are ringing at this news. “So…what would all this mean for the artists?”
Her mouth curves into a subtle grin. “It means very soon there’s going to be a lot of upheaval and uncertainty,” she says. “And anyone who’s got an attorney worth their fees is doing exactly what we are up to right this second. Because with a strategy in place, you’ll have an incredible opportunity here, Ella.”
“An opportunity to get out of my contract and start fresh? No more Ella Simone? I can finally rebrand as just…Elladee?” I ask. After all, it’s what I’ve wanted from the beginning.
“Or…” Janet says, slowing my roll, “depending on who the incoming leadership is, it could be an opportunity for us to draw up a new contract and chart a new path as Elladee with Onyx,” she explains. And when I don’t respond immediately, she continues, “Either way, you don’t have to decide that right now.”
I let this new information marinate for a moment. The prospect of Onyx Records operating under an entirely new guard is a curveball to say the least. In recent weeks, I’d started to imagine what my life and career could look like if I did manage to get out of this contract. Would I go indie? Invest in my team and myself with my own significant, albeit still limited, capital? Could I cut back on touring altogether, and try my hand at something I’ve been itching to do for years—writing and producing for other artists?
Essentially what this all means is…my options are open. And for the first time in a long time, I get to decide what the next steps look like.