Chapter 12
I always avoid after-parties if I can help it; they’re the worst sensory assault.
The flickering neon lights send jolts through my nerves, and each throb of the music from the speakers hammers against my skull.
I don’t understand how people can actually have fun at these things.
It took me ten minutes of hiding in the bathroom by myself to muster up the courage to come back out.
The air is warm with the heat of bodies and the smell of spilled drinks. Someone is pouring liquor into one of the vases they won at the auction while someone else is doing coke off one of my guitars.
Kill me now.
All around me, guests fall over themselves with laughter, dancing with drinks in their hands or lounging on the couches of the private area.
I tighten my jaw, pushing past the instincts that are begging me to turn around and leave.
But I can’t until I talk to Asher in private.
I need to know why he spent half a million pounds on a private concert. My private concert.
I can buy anything I want.
I dodge through the crowd, trying to find him and escape this chaotic frenzy, but my vision swims and my heart races as I’m drowned in a sea of noise and light.
I cover my ears in a futile attempt to keep calm.
This shouldn’t be so different from performing, but to me it’s like night and day.
When I’m onstage, I’m wearing an earpiece.
The music is controlled, not an overpowering force.
I can’t see the glare of the lights, and I’m not smothered by a throng of people.
“Asher!” I make a beeline toward him when I spot him across the room. “Come with me.”
“You okay?” His voice is muffled by the music. Confusion flashes across his face as I drag him toward a large balcony at the other end of the repurposed ballroom. He follows me without complaint, a hint of concern passing through his eyes.
A rush of cool air hits my face as we step outside.
It’s cold enough that I should be shivering in just my gown, but I welcome the night breeze, the noise inside washing away.
I gulp in a lungful of air and lean against the railing.
There seems to be a garden below us. I can’t see it in the dark, but the sweet scent of flowers and dewy grass lingers in the air.
“What’s going on?” Asher asks, closing the balcony doors behind us.
“Why did you do that?” I say. “Why did you pay half a million pounds for my concert?”
He winces like he tastes something bitter. “Rosa told me what happened. I wasn’t going to let that asshole harass either of you. I’ve heard about his family. You don’t want to get mixed up with people like him. I had to outbid him.”
“I—” Thanks, I want to say. But frustration still surges within me. Asher spent half a million pounds to keep me safe. The idea makes my head spin, but this is probably pocket change for him.
I can buy anything I want.
“My team and I could have handled it.”
He shakes his head, taking off his mask. “I don’t doubt it. I was just trying to help.”
“Like you did at the bouldering place?” I blurt out. His expression falters, and regret washes over me. He did help me tonight, and I know he didn’t mean to hurt Kai, even if it was reckless.
I don’t know why I’m so mad. I just don’t get him. What he wants from me.
“I will apologize as many times as I need to for that.” He cracks his knuckles, staring down at his hands. “Look, the money will go toward a good cause anyway. I don’t care about the private concert. Let’s consider it settled, for yesterday?”
There’s something genuine in his tone, an honesty amid the layers of who he pretends to be. I slump against the wall, fixing my gaze on the night sky, crowned by a full moon.
Maybe Asher’s like the moon. Sometimes he’s a crescent, sometimes he appears open and full, but there’s a side of him that he keeps hidden, a side no one is allowed to see.
“I will, if you answer a question for me,” I say. “Why did you auction your first plushie?”
“Because I knew people would pay more money for it if it looked personal.”
“Yeah, but is it worth it? You can’t buy memories.”
“It’s not real. None of it is.” He clutches the railing with both hands. “Cuddles, or whatever name they gave it, isn’t mine. The story behind it was made up. My manager wrote the card. I’ve never owned Cuddles. We just made it look like I did.”
“Oh.”
The nonchalance of his words makes me freeze, and the rest of my sentence gets caught in my throat. He didn’t even write the note, but I almost cried reading it. It wasn’t real.
“It’s all an illusion. Everywhere. Everything. All the time.” A tinge of disillusionment colors his voice.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” I ask.
“Why?”
“For lying.” For selling a version of yourself that’s not real.
His shoulders hunch. “Look, I was born into this industry. The way I see it, the only way for fame not to change you is to give people a persona they can dissect and tear apart. If you show them you”—he gestures vaguely toward himself, then me—“the real you, you’ll disappear.”
His words hit me like a slap. My fans love Sassy, the straight girl who turns her love life into music. I’m terrified of what would happen if they met Sasha.
I don’t want to disappear.
The idea makes me shiver. Asher catches it and takes off his jacket, but I stop him.
I don’t need his pity or his protection.
He rolls his eyes and drapes his blazer around my shoulders anyway.
I huddle into its warmth against my will, catching a whiff of the scent that lingers in the fabric—earthy cologne and alcohol.
“Don’t you find it weird?” I ask. “That someone would want to purchase something so personal just because they think you owned it?”
“Oh, extremely,” he says, this time without hiding the resignation in his voice. “Why do you think I made it up? Give them nothing, Sasha. Protect yourself.”
A knock on the window behind us startles me. Inside, a guy our age with curly hair and a sparkly red mask waves at Asher, who props open the balcony door with a grin.
“Hey, long time no see.” The guy gives Asher a once-over that’s not exactly subtle. “Saw you earlier. I just wanted to say hi. You looked good in your mask.”
Asher pulls his mask out of his pocket and puts it back on. His friend plays with the feather, adjusting it around his eyes.
“So do you, Matt,” Asher says, and his gaze softens. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I wasn’t … until I saw your name on the guest list.”
“You could have just texted.”
“Where’s the serendipity in that?” Matt gives his shoulders a little shrug. “Fancy a dance?”
Asher chuckles. “Are you still a terrible dancer?”
“I don’t know. Are you still a great teacher?” Matt extends a hand toward him.
Asher turns to me with a polite smile. “Right, so, Sassy, if you’ll excuse me … Enjoy the party.”
“It was nice meeting you. I love your music, by the way!” Matt waves at me before leading Asher away. They dive onto the dance floor, their laughter mingling with the music as they make their way toward the bar, dancing really close.
I blink, surprise traveling through me. Who is this? What just happened?
“Hey.” Rosa steps out onto the balcony, an unlit cigarette in her hand. “Where’s Asher? I saw you two come out here.” Her eyes drift to the jacket draped over my shoulders. “Is that his?”
“It is. I think he just abandoned me to…” Dance with his … friend?
She looks behind us until she spots him inside, dancing with Matt.
She laughs. “To get lucky? Yeah, that sounds like Asher.”
My head spins. I had no idea Asher was queer, which is my fault for assuming. But I mean, he’s only ever dated women—
Oh.
It’s an illusion. Everything. Everywhere. All the time.
“Do you mind if I have a quick smoke?” Rosa asks. She pulls out a lighter. I shake my head, leaning both hands on the railing. “?Hablas espanol, no?”
“Oh? Sí, mi madre es de Espana,” I say.
My mom is from Spain.
“Me encantan Andalucía y Asturias. Got any recommendations? I want to travel to Spain again sometime soon.”
“Oh, um … I’ve only been there a handful of times. So, I’m not sure…” I offer a polite smile. I feel sort of out of place saying I’m Spanish. Mamá is my only tether to the culture. “It’s complicated.”
“How so?” she asks. “If you want to tell me. No worries if not.”
“I … well, when my mom came out to her family, they didn’t take it well,” I say. “So she went no contact, even after having me and my sister. It was hard for her.”
It happened before I was born, and Mamá never talks much about it.
She says that she’s fine because Mom’s family is her family, too, but her eyes go a little dim when she shares stories of her childhood.
There’s a part of her that she left behind and will never get back, a part of her I’ll never get to meet.
“She has an amazing group of friends in Spain, though, so when we visit, we often see them,” I continue.
“I just haven’t had the chance to spend much time there myself.
I’d like to go back at some point. Maybe live there for a few months?
I don’t know. I’m not sure what to look for if I do.
It’s Mamá’s home, but I’m not sure how to make it mine. ”
I’ve lived in the States all my life. There’s this disconnect I can’t mend.