Chapter 8
MALIK
Asha
Look at you trending positively all over social media. Both of you. (winky face emoji). Videos of your concerts are everywhere. People are losing their minds. Have you seen them?
I stare at the message longer than I need to, my phone heavy in my hand.
We’re in another high-end hotel chain, another city, chaotic energy and crazy fans.
Scented candles, four hundred thread count sheets, walk in showers, and countless room-serviced meals.
I don’t even bother looking up which one anymore.
At this point, I’m allowing my team to move me around like a chess piece.
Everything blurs together after a while.
It’s all the same, the carpets, the floor-to-ceiling curtains, and a view that means nothing.
The luxury becomes almost oppressive, another anonymous space designed to feel special but holding no real connection to the world outside.
Me
Yeah. I’ve seen.
Asha
I mean really seen. The comments are insane. The chemistry and tension. Julian at the piano? Malik, it’s mesmerizing. I regret never seeing him live before.
I exhale slowly through my nose, the sound more tired than amused. My reflection in the darkened window shows a man who needs more sleep than he’s getting, shadows deepening under eyes that have seen too many hotel rooms just like this one.
Me
I watch him every night, much to his dismay. I can’t help myself.
Three dots appear almost immediately, pulsing on the screen like a heartbeat.
Asha
You watch him every night? Things never change (shocked emoji)
Me
Like old times, in between the wings. No matter the venue.
There’s a longer pause this time. I can practically hear her frown through the screen, can picture her brows pulling together, mouth setting in that way it does when she’s deciding whether to coddle or confront me.
Asha
You know he hates you for that. You’re a bad memory, Malik. A trigger. What are you trying to prove?
I don’t argue, because there’s nothing to argue. The truth sits heavy in my chest, a solid weight I’ve carried for years.
Me
You don’t have to tell me. He’s like an itch I can’t scratch. The only way to ease the ache is to watch him. I know I’m pissing him off. I can see it in his eyes. But. . .but maybe. . .
Asha
Then why do it? (face palm emoji)
That’s the question, isn’t it. The one I keep circling without ever landing on a clean answer.
I run my hand over my face, feeling the stubble that’s begun to form since this morning’s careful grooming.
I’ve always been meticulous about my appearance, one thing I can control when everything else feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.
Me
Because if I don’t, it feels worse. Because if I don’t, then I miss him. Because if I don’t, I can’t show him that I’m here. I want him to see me again. . .really see me.
Another pause. I watch the dots appear and disappear. I’m sure she is writing a novel at this point. The minutes stretch, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for whatever wisdom or harsh truth she’s about to deliver.
Asha
That’s not a reason. That’s penance.
I swallow, jaw tightening. Okay, so not a novel but strong words all the same. They hit like a punch to the sternum, stealing the air from my lungs.
Me
Maybe that’s what it is. My penance. . .long overdue suffering that I deserve.
Asha
You can’t punish yourself into forgiveness, Malik. You can’t force HIM to give it. (wide eye emoji)
Me
I’m not asking for forgiveness.
That’s the lie I keep telling myself. It sounds better when I don’t examine it too closely.
I’m silently asking for something. . .what I’m not sure.
Or maybe I am, but his rejection, his anger is too much to bear when I feel it night after night.
The heat of it scorches me, leaves me raw and exposed in ways I haven’t allowed myself to be for years.
Asha
I’m going to sing the same old song here. You didn’t do this tour for him. You did it so you could say you tried. So, I ask you again. What are you trying to prove? (praying hand emoji)
The words land exactly where they’re meant to. She’s always been good at that. Always known where to press, which bruises to find beneath the carefully constructed armor I wear for everyone else. It’s why I keep her close. It’s why I sometimes wish she wasn’t quite so perceptive.
Me
I did it because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I couldn’t go on knowing what I did to him. It’s been years. . .years, Ash. I need him to understand, to know why. He wouldn’t hear me out before.
Asha
That’s still about you. I understand the why and your fucked-up reasoning at the time. I honestly don’t know how you can change that.
I don’t reply right away. The truth is, I don’t know how to refute that without unraveling something I’m not ready to touch. My fingers hover over the screen, starting and stopping several responses. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels true enough to send.
Asha
Look. Professionally, this is working. Julian’s albums are climbing the charts. Jazz piano is trending. People are fangirling and fanboying all over the place. You did what you set out to do. (clapping emoji)
Me
And personally? (bomb emoji) (explosion emoji)
Asha
You buried that years ago. Digging it up like this might just make it rot faster.
I let my head fall back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, the sound of the television muffled in the background.
Some late-night talk show host is laughing at his own jokes, the audience dutifully responding.
I feel a million miles away from that normal, easy interaction.
My world has contracted to just this, these messages, these feelings, the weight of what I’ve done and what I still can’t seem to fix.
Asha
You need a friendly face. Your bestie is coming and I’m bring Deidra. We’ll see you in Chicago.
I don’t respond to that either. Chicago is our next major city and I’m actually looking forward to all the press and interviews on the schedule for that stop.
At least with cameras in my face and microphones under my chin, I have a script to follow.
I know exactly what to say and how to say it.
It’s the unscripted moments that are killing me slowly.
We are six weeks in. Almost halfway through the tour. We’ll be off to Europe before I can blink, crossing oceans with this weight still between us.
City after city after city, stitched together by backstage corridors, private elevators and the quiet, relentless rhythm of a tour that does not care how broken you are as long as you show up on time.
Night after night of brown eyes full of anger glaring back at me.
Watching Julian’s back as he flees the stage and disappears for another night.
The repetition has become almost ritualistic, the way he refuses to stay in the same space as me for even a moment longer than absolutely necessary.
Seattle. Denver. Austin. Phoenix. Each night a stab to the gut, forcing myself to sing and play knowing Julian is probably with his little twink, who’s shown up more than once since this tour began.
At least I know his name now. Portia. The name tastes bitter on my tongue, though I’ve never spoken it aloud.
In Seattle we did a radio spot where he barely looked at me, his smile perfect, his answers clipped and elegant.
No one noticed. They never do. We wear the mask too well.
The interviewer gushed about our ‘incredible partnership’ and ‘obvious budding friendship’, and we both nodded along, playing parts in a theater production neither of us auditioned for.
In Denver, there was a charity dinner. A room full of decorated tables, soft lighting, Julian’s music playing in the background, and donors in expensive suits.
We stood beside each other for two hours, close enough that I could feel the cold space between us like a physical thing.
To think I used to seek out his warmth, shoulders brushing, knees touching.
Now, this space between us is more of a vacuum, or an open wound with edges too jagged to stitch together.
I caught the scent of his cologne, still the same after all these years, and it was like being transported back in time, only to crash back into the present where he was further away than ever.
There was an afterparty in Austin, I didn’t attend because I knew he would leave early.
Portia’s hand secretly brushing his, eyes shining bright, a secret smile, a knowing gaze.
I can have any man I want, I told myself.
Why am I pining for Julian Reed? I used to push the memory of him down deep, lock away those old emotions, now the door is wide open.
I hate it, I long for it, and I watch him run away after every performance.
As if our close proximity is a threat he can outrun.
As if whatever still lingers between us might consume him if he stays too long in my orbit.
It wasn’t until we reached Phoenix that I almost gave in.
I wanted to call Renee, tell her I’m done.
Make up some excuse about my mental health and how I couldn’t go on.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be reaching. I caught my reflection in a mirrored hallway and barely recognized the man staring back at me.
Hollow-eyed. Tired. The picture of perfection on the outside, wilting away slowly on the inside.
I smiled anyway. I played my heart out to a sold-out crowd.
I sang lyrics about love and loss and redemption that felt too close to the bone, too raw to be performed rather than simply felt.