Chapter 17
I spend the next couple of weeks holed up in the studio and rehearsing for the Grammys, tuning out the world. It fits the narrative Marissa and my PR team have shaped: that I have disappeared to process my breakup.
Not even two days after I told her that I wanted to end the contract, there were already five hashtags with our names trending, multiple outlets describing how we’ve called it quits, and that it’s amicable, so please respect our privacy.
The devil works fast, but Marissa works faster.
Everyone wants to know how I’m doing, what I’m feeling, and me being off the radar is supposed to build anticipation for the Grammys. My lead single is now a heartbreak song I’ll be debuting there.
“Do they end up together?” Shirley asks. They munch on an Oreo, leaning against the cluttered studio table. “I don’t mind spoilers. Just tell me.”
“Nobody knows yet! The show’s still ongoing. But I have a feeling they’re going to have a tragic ending.” I slide my chair over to the computer to show them the fictional story our new song is inspired by. I feel relieved that I told them. That I don’t have to pretend around them.
“No!” They groan and bury their face in their arms, careful not to disturb the massive mixing table. “Wait, I need to watch this show immediately.”
Their phone buzzes, distracting them for a moment.
I stiffen on instinct, thinking back to when Asher called me out of the blue. I wonder how he’s doing. How Kai’s doing. Asher’s tried texting me, but Kai has gone full MIA, like he did two years ago. I can’t blame him, though. I haven’t texted him, either.
“Sorry, do you mind if I take this?” Shirley asks. “We’re trying to buy a house.”
We. I didn’t know Shirley was in a relationship.
I nod, giving them a thumbs-up.
I mean, it makes sense. Shirley is the coolest person ever.
Yet it’s strange, to feel like you know a person, their soul, while simultaneously not knowing the little details about their life.
I know Shirley likes to grow their own plants but has a thing against getting people flowers as a gift.
When I got nominated for the Grammys, instead of a bouquet, they sent me an aloe vera plant.
My eyes flick to the miniature Eiffel Tower next to the computer. It’s their lucky charm—they got it in Paris when they were a student, and a few months later one of their songs went viral. Their favorite tattoo is the one on their back, the one that shows the Avengers each holding a Pokémon.
But they never mentioned they had a partner, so I never asked.
I seriously need to get better at small talk.
“Okay, ask Margot what she wants to do about it, but I like it. I’m in a session, but I’ll call you later?
Okay, love you. See you at home.” Their voice colors with affection.
I guess Margot is their real estate agent, and whoever they’re talking to is their partner.
After the call ends, Shirley tosses their phone on the couch and rubs their temples with a sigh. “Buying a house is such a headache.”
I knead their shoulders with my fingers, undoing the knots there. “Does this help?”
“Hm. A little.” They relax against the chair before pulling up a picture of a home in Pasadena. “What do you think? It needs work, but my partners and I loved it the moment we set foot in it.”
Partners? My heart skips a tiny beat. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue.
Shirley swivels their chair to face me. “But anyway, are you excited for the Grammys?”
I will the expression on my face to resemble a smile. “Something like it.”
My new single is an intimate ballad, so it’ll just be me and my piano onstage. No dancers, no chorus to back me up. Everyone will be watching my every move. Or, well, Sassy’s.
“Are you sure? Because that sounds like a bunch of BS,” Shirley says.
They raise an eyebrow. “Little S, we’ve spent the past few weeks in this studio together, and we’ve written like what, half a song?
Normally I have a sample from you in my inbox every other week.
I can tell your mind is somewhere else.”
I flinch, caught off guard. They’re right.
I’m creatively dry—I just didn’t think it was that obvious.
Some people use sadness to fuel their creativity.
I rely on happiness, but even when I write from sadness, there’s a threshold for how much it can inspire me.
A little is an outlet, too much cripples my creativity.
Shirley’s expression softens, as if sensing my discomfort. “Is this about Kai?”
“We didn’t really break up. I’m fine.” I wave a hand.
But they just stare at me, offering me half of an Oreo in exchange for words.
“Remember what I was about to tell you in the car, the day we had to rescue Kai?” I ask with a sigh.
It feels like a lifetime ago. “You already know this, but Kai and I weren’t really dating. It was PR.”
Shirley nods, but their eyes betray a silent question: Why? Back then, I told them enough in person for them to know Kai and I weren’t dating, but I never told them the reason.
“What about the guy who called you on my phone a couple of weeks ago?” they ask. “Does this have anything to do with him?”
“No, it doesn’t.” I twist my sleeve between my fingers, feeling the fabric bunch and release beneath my touch. “I’m the problem, really.”
“How?” Shirley leans forward with genuine concern, but their phone buzzes again. “Sorry, just one second.” They let out a loud exhale before picking up. “Love, I just talked to Sam. They want to go ahead. Think about what you want to do. I can’t talk now, but I’ll see you at home. Love you.”
Love you. See you at home. Wait, they said that both times, but they talked to two different people.
The confusion must show on my face, because Shirley’s eyes widen in sudden realization. “Ah, shoot, I guess we’ve never talked about this.” A grin tugs at their lips when I don’t speak, as if they find my struggle amusing. “Got questions? Ask away.”
“When you said partners earlier, you meant…”
All I know about Shirley’s love life is that they’re pan based on the flag the Pikachu sticker on their phone is holding.
“Sam and Margot, my partners,” they clarify. “You couldn’t have known. I’ve never mentioned it before. You know how this industry is…” A pang goes through my heart. I do. “But I trust you.”
“I trust you, too,” I say. “Thank you for trusting me.”
Their smile wraps around me like a warm blanket. “I’m in a poly relationship. Sam, Margot, and I have been together for three years, and we’re trying to buy a house. Emphasis on trying. I’m worried it’s going to go to another buyer.”
“Damn.” I blink, processing. “I hope you get it. I’d love to visit you and meet them.”
“Of course you can,” they say. A spark of relief flits through their eyes. “You should come over for puzzle night. You’d get along with both of them, for sure. I’m pretty sure Margot has seen half the shows you’ve told me about, and Sam has a nearly infinite board game collection.”
“That sounds like heaven,” I say. “Just let me know when.”
“You’re so sweet.” Shirley smiles.
“Do people ask you a lot of intrusive questions? When they learn you’re dating two people?” I slump back on the couch. It’s not the same, but people seem to feel entitled to know about my private life just because I’m aroace.
“Sometimes. Some people, mostly cishet men, equate us being together to having an endless threesome. There are also people who assume we’re in an open relationship, even though we’re exclusive.
Nothing wrong with open relationships, it’s just not our vibe.
Poly relationships aren’t always open.” Their shrug is nonchalant, but their eyes dim a little, like this hurts more than they’re letting on.
“It just gets a little exhausting, how we’re automatically seen as less committed than a couple in a traditional relationship.
The way we met is pretty romantic! And I wouldn’t trade it for the world. ”
“Hm.” The ghost of a smile appears on my face. They’re not in love with one person, but two! That’s lucky. “I kind of envy you. You have a lot of love in your heart. I can’t fall in love at all.”
Shirley studies me with a frown, and I regret my words immediately. I brace myself for the usual You just haven’t met the right person yet, then realize Shirley wouldn’t hit me with that.
“Um, maybe you already knew this, but I’m aroace,” I say. “I like being me. I’m just struggling lately … with what’s expected of me. It’s like I don’t know how to love.”
“Nonsense. Who says you can’t love?” they say. “You just said I have a lot of love in my heart. So do you. I know you. Love comes in all shapes. Romantic love is just one of those shapes.”
“It’s the shape of our society,” I reply with a bitter edge. I don’t know who I’m mad at. It’s not anyone’s fault if they fall in love. Stop trying to fix everyone else. Maybe you’re the broken one.
Shirley pulls something out of their drawer, a block of Play-Doh they start molding into a ball. They like to play with it sometimes, says it helps with the creative flow.
“Society makes us think love is a monolith you fit into. When, in reality, love is a shapeless thing. You don’t fit into it.
It fits you.” Shirley hurls the ball of Play-Doh at me.
I barely catch it, and it flops from my hands onto the couch.
“You can mold it, you know? Love. You can mold it so that it fits you.”
Mold it. I roll the ball of Play-Doh between my palms. What am I supposed to mold it into?