Chapter 2 Aria
Aria
Aria’s home is spread out in a wooded area she lovingly calls “the country” despite its proximity to the city.
You can take the girl out of a small town, but her heart will always be country.
It’s a strange thing to imagine her hometown, the folks there who never would’ve fathomed the stardom and fame she’s achieved. She set them right, it would seem.
At the bottom of her basement stairs, Aria flips on the lights to her studio. Having her own recording studio at home has been one of the best things her success has afforded her. When she bought this house several years ago, she had the music industry’s top sound tech design and outfit it for her.
Despite it being her—and every other musician’s—dream to have this state-of-the-art equipment at her fingertips, today it falls flat.
Aria crosses the room to the comfortable sofa—the spot where she brainstorms lyrics and plucks out melodies and harmonies on her beat-up acoustic guitar.
It was her very first one. She sets her coffee mug and phone on the small table in front of the sofa and pops open the guitar case.
It’s not fancy, but it’s consistently the source of her inspiration.
As she slumps onto the sofa, the awards that line the walls loom over her—Billboard charts, Grammys, music awards for best album year after year.
They’re all reminders of the bind she’s in.
Aria picks up her guitar and strums, tuning the strings that went unused while she traveled for events last month. She owes her record label another album, and for the first time since she started on this journey, back when she blew up as a teen, she feels hollow inside.
At first it was exciting when her songs hit the top of the charts.
In fact it was better than exciting; it was exhilarating, thrilling, otherworldly.
But year after year, tour after tour, eventually it started to feel like copy and paste.
It was supposed to be different this time.
She was supposed to get to negotiate a new contract.
She was supposed to make it clear that she wanted to take a new approach—to be real and honest, raw in her songwriting.
Instead, her label hid a clause in the existing contract requiring one more “commercial album,” and despite her agent, Monroe’s, fastidiousness, Aria owes them another copy-and-paste pop album or she will see them in court.
For a while she considered that option—that’s how strongly she feels—but ultimately Monroe talked her out of it with her reasonable points: It would result in a massive gap in her album releases; she would be burning bridges with the most connected record label; and was it really worth it over an album she could create in her sleep?
Aria strums harder on the guitar, mentally noting how pinned down she feels, and at her roughness, a string breaks. It snaps back with a boing.
“Maybe they just don’t think I have what it takes to be anything else. Maybe I believe them,” she whispers to herself. “Maybe this is the only thing the fans want from me.”
The fans—her true heartbeat. If there’s one thing more important to Aria than following her own desires, it’s making the fans happy. They’re the only reason she’s come this far. She has to do things right by them.
Aria sets the guitar lovingly back in its case, making a note to replace the string once she’s gotten some work done.
She closes the lid and pats it, as if tucking it in to sleep.
Back when she was a kid, when she was new to the instrument, she slept beside the thing.
Despite her mother’s protests, fretting that she’d roll over and break it, Aria curled up beside her guitar, and first thing every morning, she would wake, find it, and strum whatever her favorite song was that week.
Remembering her younger self, her pure passion for music, her heartfelt dedication, feels like remembering a different person entirely.
Aria can’t pin down when exactly things changed.
It probably happened gradually over time.
That, as her fame and prominence grew, the pressure to be Aria Wilder, Pop Superstar and America’s Darling, mounted until who she was before—a small-town girl with a heart for song—was eclipsed.
Aria whirls around, unable to look at the guitar case and swim in her thoughts any longer. She owes Worldwide Records another album, and if she’s putting something out with her name on it, she’s going to make it exceptional—perfect, ideally.
Aria sits down at the piano and starts playing with a major chord, working out a new melody. Something new but also familiar. She remembers what the rep told her.
“We want ‘girl meets boy, boy meets girl.’ The listeners love that stuff. It needs to be easy-listening, turn-the-radio-up songs. There’s no need to mess with something that’s working.”
Despite her tinkering with the piano keys, Aria’s mind wanders back to her own desires for something new.
A fresh take on her own music. Not an overhaul, just a makeover.
What if the folks at Worldwide are right?
What if the fans don’t want anything different from her?
What if she’s trapped forever in the bubble she created as a young twentysomething almost a decade ago?
After a few minutes of messing around on the piano, a familiar rumble of footsteps comes from the stairs before Bailey, beaming wide, appears at the bottom step, eyes trained directly on Aria.
“Sis.” Bailey marches across the room in long, measured strides, phone in hand. “You have to see this.”
“I’m guessing from the look on your face it’s something good?”
It comes with the territory of being a well-known pop star that all sorts of things are shared in the press and on social media about Aria.
Some of those things are incredible—generous compliments from fans, their own creative work she’s inspired, teary statements about how a song brought them through a hard time.
But just as often, if perhaps more frequently, less palatable stories are posted.
Rumors about her being rude to waitstaff (false), rumors of her taking off with a married actor (false), articles picking apart her physical appearance (just plain mean), or “gotcha” photos of her sneaking to the grocery store in sweats looking worse for wear (true).
Bailey squeezes in beside Aria on the piano bench, and at the touch of her little sister’s shoulder to hers, Aria feels the tightness in her unwind.
Bailey always has a calming influence on her.
Even if she’s the younger sister, having Bailey at her side during tours or here at the house just living life grounds and calms Aria.
“This is from last night.” Bailey holds out the phone, and Aria takes it.
She taps the icon to turn on the sound, and immediately she knows it’s “Glass Heart” playing. She sang it for the crowd last night, but perhaps even more so she sang it for herself, for her own hurt feelings over being pigeonholed for a whole new album.
Aria dismisses the thoughts about her own heartache as the video zooms in on a big, burly guy singing along to the music. Her mouth lifts into a smile as the shot captures his face, shouting the lyrics passionately toward the stage, his fists gripped emotionally as he sways to the beat.
“You know who that is?” Bailey asks, eyes wide, her long lashes batting.
“Looks athletic. It’s already got a million views.” A wrinkle forms between Aria’s brows as she thinks it over.
“Only Griffin Hayes, tight end for the Chicago Wardens.”
Aria is still smiling as she holds the phone out for Bailey to take back. “I knew I had all sorts of fans, but a professional football player might be a first.”
Bailey nudges the phone back toward Aria. “No, you didn’t even see the best part. He reposted. See what he said.”
Aria navigates back through the app until she finds his account. She taps on his share of the viral video and reads the caption out loud.
“‘Guess the secret’s out! I’m Aria Wilder’s number one fan. Don’t we all know a little something about a glass heart?!’” By the time Aria finishes reading, her cheeks are warm. She hands the phone back to Bailey.
“The internet has now also taken to calling him your ‘number one fan,’ by the way. That’s why he mentioned it. Isn’t that so sweet?”
Since the news of the hidden clause hit, Aria’s been feeling like she’s been walking around cast in slight shadow, but seeing this athletic powerhouse of a man go all emotional and adorable over her song feels finally like stepping under the rays of the sun.
“It is. It’s super sweet.”
Across the room, Aria’s phone rattles on the coffee table. She hands Bailey’s phone back, gets up, and retrieves hers. She swipes to accept the call.
“Kelsey. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Kelsey has been Aria’s publicist since before she made it big, believing in her from the start. Back then, Kelsey had multiple singer-actor types, but once Aria’s career took off, she signed her on full-time.
“Well, good afternoon to you too, Pop Superstar and America’s Darling.”
Aria tsks-tsks playfully. “Are you buttering me up?”
Kelsey laughs. “Have you seen the internet?”
“The video of the football player?”
“‘The football player’? Aria, this is Griffin Hayes, only the top tight end in the league. He’s absolutely killing it. Not to mention the fans adore him.”
“It was a cute video, but why does it have you calling?”
She clears her throat. “Well, I spoke to Monroe, and we both agree that we should really take advantage of the moment. Seize the organic positive press.”
Aria pauses. She’s not always the biggest fan of the PR activities that are pitched in her direction.
Aria has always wanted to be genuine and personal, and sometimes the publicity efforts leave her spinning so much she feels icky.
This time—the organic moment with Griffin, accidentally caught on camera—she has fewer qualms.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, we were thinking you could invite him as a special guest to the next concert tomorrow?”
Special guests are not a new thing to Aria. The record label often brings in folks, people they’re attempting to woo. Or fans who win competitions. Occasionally kids with serious illnesses fulfilling their wishes granted by Make-A-Wish.
“I guess it could be interesting to meet him.”
“Great! And I’m glad I caught you, because we were thinking it would be fun if you invited him publicly. Maybe share his post, and in your caption invite him? The fans would love it, and I know they’re your top priority.”
Aria can’t stop the laugh that pops out. Never before has a PR activity felt fun like this. And, Aria must admit, this Griffin guy has her interest.
“You got it,” Aria says. “I’ll do it now.”
“You’re fabulous. I’ll be waiting for your post and continue to monitor.”
Aria says goodbye, hangs up, and navigates over to socials.
She opens her account, the one with several million followers, and looks up this Griffin Hayes. She taps on his post, the one she just read out loud with Bailey.
“What’s going on?” Bailey asks from over at the piano.
“Oh, just the silly game that is being a public figure. PR stunts left and right.” She sighs, but she’s smiling at the same time.
Aria hits Share and types her caption.
“Hey @GriffinHayes, love the enthusiasm! We can always use that kind of energy on show nights. Care to be my guest of honor tomorrow? Have your people call my people.”
Aria taps to post. Immediately the likes start pouring in, and she walks the phone over to her sister. Bailey waits, mouth slightly agape, and takes the phone. She reads and squeals.
“Oh em gee, we get to meet him!” Bailey wiggles like the excitement is bursting from her of its own accord.
Aria pulls her sister under her arm. “What can I say? Your wish is my command.”
“Like with so many things.”
“Not that I had ‘Wardens tight end concert drop-in’ on my bingo card. Nothing seems to be out-of-bounds—pun intended—for your world anymore. What’s next, a circus collab?”
Bailey laughs as she squeezes Aria around the middle, and Aria can’t help but consider the truth in her statement. A professional football player in her orbit? There really don’t seem to be any limits to the scope of the Aria Wilder universe these days.