8. Avery #2
“Sorry, I just wanted a closer look.” I flash a smile.
“You had your look now you need to leave.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know who this is when you have her lyrics tatted all over your body. I was there when you got the last one,” chimes a cheerful familiar voice. “I’ll keep an eye on her. We know each other from work.”
“Kendal?” My head jerks back in shock.
“Shit,” Fawn breathes out before steel returns to their voice. “I’m holding you to it.” Fawn gives us a warning look before rushing away to assist with another problem.
“I’ve got a spot back here if you want to join,” Kendal says, then guides me back into the shadows where she sits on a stack of sturdy wooden crates, patting the space next to her.
“Should I expect to run into Jamie back here too?” I ask, half-joking. With my luck he’ll pop out of a darkened corner with Harper.
“I sure hope not. Having my ex-boss show up would be pretty awkward.”
“Ex-boss?” My jaw falls open.
“I’d rather be broke than work for a guy like that.
” Warmth settles in my chest. I know she didn’t do it for me, but it’s nice not to be treated like collateral damage that everyone can accept and move on from or attempt to capitalize.
She shrugs and holds up a small notebook and pencil.
“Which is why I’m here to write a piece.
If I can’t be making art, the next best thing is writing about it.
Why are you at a random concert in Greenwich? ”
“I guess, I couldn’t remember the last time I saw live music that wasn’t for work and sort of just walked in.
” I cock my head and listen, nodding along to the song.
“They’re good, kind of remind me of The Cranberries or Mazzy Star.
Dream pop with a hint of rock. And that steel guitar.
Magic. Tell them that if they don’t already know. ”
“Tell them yourself. If you think you’re up for a party with cheap wine and beer.”
“Sounds perfect.”
After the show I’m introduced to the band members and take pictures with them. I give Kendal permission to include a photo of me with them for her piece, hopefully it will help the band.
It’s two in the morning by the time we get to the band’s shared apartment.
It’s a shrine to being young and broke in the city.
Event posters, tickets, playbills, and even the odd magazine article are taped on the walls.
Any actual art distinctly appears to be crafted by the residents of the three-bedroom fourth floor walkup.
I sit and talk, sipping on a tart local blueberry beer that makes my mouth feel like I’ve eaten an entire bag of sour candy, but mostly listen, soaking in the feeling.
If being on stage is my favorite feeling, what comes after a good concert is a close second.
The adrenaline still fresh in your veins makes you feel invincible.
If you’re lucky enough, you get to feel it with people who experience it with you.
People who have trudged with you through the trenches, and even when you’re stuck in the middle of a dark tunnel insist they see a glimmer of light at the other end.
But these people aren’t my people. I’m not sure my people were even mine to begin with.
The realization clogs my throat, but when I lift my beer to my lips, I’m met with a single drop on my tongue.
In the cramped kitchen, I duck down to grab a new beer from the fridge.
A low whistle comes from my right. “Fifty missed calls. Someone’s popular,” Kendal says as my phone flashes on the scored butcher block counter next to her. “Not trying to snoop, it’s a small kitchen.”
“Want something?”
“I’m good. But if you need to step out for a second, the fire escape is through that window.”
“Yeah, I have no intention of returning these calls from my team. Or the people who used to be on my team before they suggested I get back with Jamie.”
She lets loose a surprised sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “They fucking didn’t.”
“That’s not even the best part. They suggested writing in a mistress clause or some shit to make sure he could keep seeing Harper on the side.” It’s affirming to talk to someone who validates the ridiculousness of the situation.
“God. I wish we didn’t sign those NDAs. I would love to sell the story of your bullshit relationship. And I didn’t know about her. I would have told you if I did.”
“I appreciate that. Seriously, even though what you did wasn’t for me, you chose to be a decent person over your career.”
“Having morals sucks. The upside is that I’ll probably outlive the asshats who are blacklisting me. But at least now I might have time to pursue my passion project of making a boyband documentary.”
I can tell she means it as a joke, yet I still have the urge to ask, “Why don’t you?”
“Money, for one. I’m barely making rent payments, and the equipment I’d need is thousands of dollars not to mention the software and time commitment.”
“I have the money.” The idea rapidly forms in my head.
I’ve spent a decade being told who to be, minimizing myself, when I owe my career to the reckless fearless girl I used to be. I don’t know who I am now, but maybe the best way to figure that out is remembering who I was, claiming that version of myself without feeling ashamed.
And there’s the fact I just imploded everything else in my life, so I have plenty of free time.
“If it seemed like I was asking you to help, I wasn’t. Please don’t feel obligated to do this just because—”
I cut her off. “Let me be perfectly clear. You’re one of the few people who has been genuinely kind to me over the last month.
I’ve seen your work. You’re good,” I explain.
I duck my head to catch her eyes. “I’m fucking tired of everyone else telling my story for me or trying to decide what’s in my best interest. I want someone like you in my corner.
I want to be a part of this. You said that the version of this you want to make includes my story, right? Let me produce this.”
The magnitude of what I’m offering hits Kendal as her eyes turn misty with tears. “Oh my God. Yes.” She glances at her friends and then back to me.
“Go celebrate.” I cock my head in their direction. “I should probably get going. Expect paperwork in your inbox within the week.”
Kendal joins her friends. Her people. Their squeals of excitement warm my chest.
I can’t go back and rewrite the past, but maybe my past can create a future for her.
The next morning when I walk by the newsstand on the corner outside of my apartment, for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t see my face, even if my name is plastered over the front page.
Wesley Hart shows love for co-headliner with recent fashion choice.
There he is walking out of a bar, shades on, wearing a heathered gray hoodie layered under a thick puffer that proudly displays Avery Sloane’s #1 Fan.
“How many do you want this time?” the stand operator asks, the smoke from his cigarette curling to catch overhead in the scalloped awning.
“Just one this time.”
And with the single magazine tucked under my arm, I let myself text him, promising myself it won’t happen again.
Me
Thank you.