3. Evelyn
3
Evelyn
“ T he new Morgan Tuesday album is what Lyla West’s last album was trying to be. The storytelling, instrumentals, and lyricism were exactly what we expected from Lyla in a break up album, but where she floundered, Morgan delivered,” says Clement Meryl, one of the two hosts of Get Out of My Head podcast.
His co-host, Walt Parish, picks up on the train of thought, adding his own comment. “I think three solid albums was too much to ask from Lyla. But I think I’m going to say what’s on everyone’s mind. People don’t care about Lyla West anymore. We liked the whole faceless celebrity with a hidden identity for the first few years, but after five years? It’s tired and drawn out.”
“Seriously, for all we know she’s a serial killer.”
“Honestly, that would be more interesting than what we know about her now,” Walt says, fighting a chuckle at his own reply.
A chirping ringtone blares through my speakers, interrupting the podcast and my startled heart clatters in my chest. I reach frantically to answer the call while wrestling the wheel of my car.
“Ev, you’re listening to that damn brain rot excuse for music journalism, weren’t you?” Avery accuses the moment I accept her call, completely forgoing any greeting despite the fact it’s been two weeks since I saw her at her going away party.
“I’m not,” I say as convincingly as possible. Headlines and podcasts are a vice I can’t shake. Being both Lyla West and Evelyn Mariano, I maintain most of my privacy. Still, I can’t help but be drawn to the opinions of others, drinking them in and then being driven to deliver what the public wants.
This need to deliver is part of why I’m fleeing Manhattan. I’m not necessarily running from my problems. I’m relocating them somewhere more scenic. Mountains rise against the horizon and the Hudson River glimmers through copses of wind-swept trees. It’s hard to imagine I’m only two hours out of the city.
“You absolutely were. I know you can’t help yourself. The fact that you listen to men who should never have been given the right to access recording equipment is the one thing I hate about you,” she huffs. There’s a rolling cheer in the background. From the sporadic updates she's sent me, I think she’s at a music festival in Washington, lounging in her trailer to avoid mingling as much as possible before she heads back to LA.
“I’m not listening to them. I’m talking to you. I do not have the auditory processing prowess to be able to do both,” I relent on the technicality. It’s not like she believed me in the first place.
“So, you were.”
“Yes, I was.”
“I need to figure out how to put a damn child’s lock on your phone. You’re a masochist for listening to that shit. It doesn’t matter what they're saying about Lyla, you're only going to get in your head about the next album.”
“Too late. I’ve been in my head since an article called unlucky album three ‘dry, uninspired, and lacking direction,’” I remind her.
Really, I think it was the perfect description of how I was feeling during and after the album. I was coming off the worst break up of my life, drained from balancing music and my day job as one of the heads of the design department at a boutique PR firm. Most of all, I was trying not to show it, keep it all in, and not let it disrupt the careful balance I was struggling to maintain.
“So, your solution is a trip to a newly discovered circle of hell to find inspiration? It’s not too late to come to join me in LA. Beaches, great food, parties, could be fun,” she says, and I’m tempted, but I need to focus.
“This place is cute…didn’t you get the pictures I sent?” I ask to distract her.
“Ev, the town literally counts the number of couples who get engaged there. I think it called me single in no less than forty languages,” she says, referring to Hartsfall’s welcome sign.
The sign not only displays the population, 3761, but also a running count of the engagements that have taken place over the last fifty-four years in the quaint town tucked in New York’s Hudson Valley. From what I’ve read, and the various social media rabbit holes I’ve fallen down at midnight for the last few weeks to combat my anxiety induced insomnia, whenever there’s a new engagement the bell rings in the clock tower so the entire town can cheer.
“What better place to write love songs than a town that has an entire economy based on it?” I ask.
I failed with my last album. I know it. The podcast bros know it. The millions of people who streamed it and supported me anyway know it. For weeks after, the public disappointment was crushing. I’ve always taken what people think of me to heart. It’s just one point on the laundry list of reasons I’ve kept my identity from the public and all of the people closest to me, excluding Avery. I thought separating me as a person from my music would allow for me to take things less personally, art is subjective and all that, but it still cuts deep, the wounds still aching every time I look at them too closely.
“You know what I think? I think you need a muse,” she purrs.
“I’m not having a torrid affair with an art student with a tragic backstory who thinks their life is an indie film.”
“Okay, then just a one-night-stand.”
“I tried. You remember how that ended!” I half yelp, half bite out the last word as I swerve to avoid hitting a rabbit that is close enough to the faded color of the asphalt that I didn’t see it until almost too late. As someone who shouldn’t have been given a driver’s license in the first place, months in the city without any practice have me on edge. I readjust my grip on the steering wheel, my knuckles going white.
“Noah was good at trivia, his efforts to carry us through the sports category will be missed,” she says forlornly.
Noah was my one and only failed attempt at a one-night-stand after I moved to New York. I was feeling the full brunt of my deadline, and Avery suggested I make use of her tried and true methodology. One night turned into breakfast and then weekly trivia with our small circle of friends that stretched for two months.
I would have let it go longer if it weren’t for the, capital C, Conversation.
“I don’t know, you just feel closed off. It’s like I don’t really know you,” he had said.
We’d been watching TV and he asked how my job was going. I gave him the vague “it’s fine, I’m just stuck on a project” response. He told me I could bounce ideas off of him, which, no, I couldn’t. It spiraled into him asking to be let in more and me saying that I’m an open book, an outright lie but one I tell convincingly due to practice and living in a state of denial.
“You know me. We have great conversations,” I’d said half-heartedly.
“Whenever I ask about certain things you just shut off. Like, it’s simple stuff too. You know everything about me. It’s so one sided.” He’d looked at me like he’d opened a gift at Christmas expecting one thing then getting something different.
The worst part was he was right. I hate when men do that. Getting to know people has always come easily but letting them know me has never come as naturally. I’ve always been terrified of sharing the wrong thing, too much, being too much. Becoming Lyla has only made it worse.
But when it comes to meeting new people, I don’t think there’s such a thing as a boring person if you ask them the right questions. Usually, this gets me by for a while, especially with men. I’ll redirect to their fantasy football league that they describe with the zealous vigor of someone detailing the politics in their favorite fantasy novel or shift to something philosophical and abstract. Aliens are always a good topic—everyone has an opinion on aliens even if they don’t think they do. There’s the added benefit that nothing about my personal life comes up when talking about aliens.
Noah and my relationship had a fairly standard life cycle. You’d think with a graveyard of exes I’d have something to write about. But no matter how much I like people, I don’t love them.
The last person I loved, I left. My best friend. Quinn—the most important person in my life and I’m too much of a coward to tell her the truth.
There’s a screech of microphone feedback that comes from Avery’s side of the call that zips through my spine in a visceral, nails on a chalkboard way that flips my stomach.
“Fuck,” she grits out then a door opens and slams closed. “But seriously, I think you should consider it. A small town could be a good place for some inspiration. Have a whirlwind romance and then go back to the city. There’s a hard limit for when it has to end that will play off that anxious attachment style of yours.”
“Not the worst idea, but I’ll probably be one of five single people since this is a couples’ trip destination,” I say and take a moment to picture it.
If nothing else, it would be good album fodder. Track one would be loud and evocative of 2000s pop, the embodiment of a life in the city. Then two and three would slow down and be more stripped down, the travel and a meet-cute. It would sound bittersweet, falling in love and letting go.
The bones are there, but the execution…not so much. The ideas have never been an issue. Each of them gives me this rush of adrenaline, this push that makes me believe it’s finally working. And then when I sit at my piano or write the lyrics, it’s always flat, like a three-dimensional illusion you’re convinced you can grab but you’re only met with empty air and disappointment.
The best of my three albums was my second. I was riding the high of a relationship that was so easy to write down to the point that the deluxe edition had five extra songs. I couldn’t contain all the feelings I had for Oliver, the one and only man I ever saw a potential future with. Replicating that now would be a fool's errand. Though, now in hindsight, I was more in love with the idea of being in love with him than anything.
We were friends in college and fell into a relationship after we graduated. It was steady. We had everything in common before the break up and managed to stay close friends after. Three years later, I’m still not sure if I regret it. There are so many what ifs clinging to the back of my mind, cobwebs I can see but never quite reach. I think we needed to try and fail or we’d always wonder what if we just tried ?
“Ahh, yes, because the rest of the general population agrees with me about the location.” There’s a muffled voice then Avery talks, her voice is quieter as if she’s holding the phone away from her face. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a second.” She pauses and it gives me a moment to process my surroundings.
The air feels lighter here already. It’s likely some placebo-like expectation that comes from the lack of bodies bustling through the streets and the expanse of green leaves on the cusp of turning shades of gold and copper.
I’ve always preferred living in a city. Even when I lived in the suburbs as a kid I always came up with excuses to drive into Nashville. Then I moved to the city during college while attending Vanderbilt. The sounds of people make me feel less lonely, the constant swell of traffic and ambient conversation is better than any white noise machine. But this gentle landscape is one I could relax into for a while.
“Sorry, I have to go to meet with the choreographers about some last minute changes before my set because some of the dancers got food poisoning. You better not put that podcast back on the moment I hang up,” she warns. “And even if you don’t want me getting my hands all over your songs, maybe it’s time to consider talking to Drew.”
“I’ll think about it. Have fun shaking ass in front of thousands of people on questionable drugs. Love you.”
“Love you,” she says then hangs up.
It’s not the worst idea to ask my brother for help, but that’s easier said than done. I know he’s seeing a therapist and addressing his complicated relationship with music, but I don’t want to waltz in and disrupt any progress he’s made by dragging him into my secret life. It’s not like I could take it back. Secrets like mine are all or nothing.
It only takes a few more minutes to cross the county line. Instead of taking the turn off toward my rental, I continue down the main road. I know the moment I’m unpacked I’m supposed to get to work. Vincent is anxiously waiting for updates. I promised to call once I got settled. So naturally, I’m putting off getting settled as long as I can.
The speed limit slows to a crawl as I enter town. Squat redbrick shops are squished shoulder to shoulder lining a circular road that loops around a central grassy park with a gazebo at its heart. Sandwich board signs pepper the sidewalk, declaring specials and testing out bad but endearing puns to passersby. Pedestrians cross the streets without looking. Some are dressed in hiking gear setting off for the network of trails nearby, others look like they are ready to pose for a picnic stock photo.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car with a sigh of relief. Flipping down the sun visor, I examine my appearance in the mirror. I’m a fidgeter, without being able to get up and move for the last few hours my hands have been running through my hair causing my braid to puff up around the crown of my head. I free my thick, dark strands then run my fingers through the resulting waves.
A crisp breeze welcomes me as I crack open the door. The mild mid-September weather carries the promise of the turning season. Change is in the air and I hope it claims me along with the end of summer.
It’s a quick walk to the center of town toward the park. The gazebo is bigger than anything you’d find in a backyard, large enough that it could be used as a stage in a pinch. Along the edge closest to me, there’s a red painted wooden sign with carved, curling storybook letters, Welcome to Hartsfall: Embrace the feeling of falling .
I pull out my phone to take a picture to send to Avery, and just as I tap the camera icon on my phone, a man gets on one knee in the gazebo.