6. Chapter 6 #2
Summoner sighed. “…You’ve got me there…I’ll admit some pain in the arses are quite likable.”
My mug stopped halfway to my mouth.
QUITE LIKABLE? ME? ME?! QUITE LIKABLE?!?!
I never wanted a dictionary more in my life.
What did he mean by quite likable?
Was there a percentage of likable I was?
What could I do to be more likable?
Internal Poppy screamed a million screams. The tea in my mug sloshed as my hands trembled. I carefully sat down my mug while still holding onto it for dear life.
I think I muttered, “Please think about it.” I honestly didn’t know because my mind had gripped hard on the life raft of quite likable.
We continued to sip our tea with the loud din of silence roaring around us.
I shifted on my barstool and cut my eyes over to Summoner, who coolly stared across the room.
“Uh…I know you said no to the interview, but…uh, can I ask you one question?”
His mouth twitched.
“It’s totally off the record,” I reassured him.
After a beat, he nodded. I steeled myself against fucking up my one shot by gripping my mug before asking, “… So, I was wondering: Why were you at the coffee shop?”
Summoner’s laughter caught me off guard.
The joyous sound filled the kitchen, pushed against the tiles, tickled my heart, and popped the balloon of tension that hovered above us.
I smiled as Summoner’s shoulders shook. The lines around his mouth bunched up to his cheeks as a lazy grin settled on his mouth.
“It’s a good thing I didn’t agree to you interviewing me! Of all the fuckin’ questions you could ask me, you decide to ask why I was in the bloody coffee shop?”
I nodded. I didn’t see the problem.
Why wouldn’t I ask that?
Still smiling, he shook his head. “Terrible interviewer, Poppy. Just terrible.”
“See? I could use the practice.”
“I can see that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Back to the question.”
He sighed. “…Exposure therapy.”
My brows bunched together. His answer didn’t make sense.
Why would an internationally renowned rock star need exposure therapy?
“Anxiety, Poppy. It was meant to help me with my anxiety,” he answered without me asking.
My eyes widened. A chasm opened under me. I was in freefall. So many questions suddenly had answers, and so many mysteries were now solved.
Who am I to know this?
“Dr. Lee, my psychiatrist, is pretty great. I’ve been going to him for the past ten years. But he seems to think I’ve reached a plateau and forced me into trying this.” His voice returned me to earth.
“…I mean, it makes sense to mix things up now and then.”
He scoffed. “You sound like him. But God knows I wouldn’t trust you to sign for medications.”
“Whatever. What’s your doctor gonna say when you tell him you haven’t been doing your therapy? I sat on that bench for days and you never went outside.”
“Don’t worry, I plan on telling him an annoying young lady named Poppy has become my exposure therapy.” He narrowed his eyes at me.
I laughed. “I don’t think I’m good therapy.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too depressed to help anyone. I have a robust Zoloft prescription to prove it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Poppy. We all need a bit of help sometimes, trust me.” He winked.
My stomach flip-flopped at the utter cheekiness as he stood up and grabbed our mugs for a refill. I watched him at the opposite end of the island reheat the electric kettle.
“Summoner?” My voice was squeaky and awkward.
“Hmm?” His voice was low, calm, and reassuring. As if telling me to chill out, everything was fine.
“…Hungry…?”
Eating a meal with Summoner was on a list of things I never thought would be possible.
But his wink had stirred up a fluttery feeling in my chest. So instead of vomiting all over his expensive kitchen, I indirectly asked him to spend more time with me.
Getting shot down would inject some reality into this surreal situation that had somehow become my life.
“Food sounds good. Did you have anything in mind?”
“…Thai?”
“Sure, why not?” He shrugged.
Moore, a man of many talents, appeared out of nowhere with a handful of takeout menus.
How does he do that?
We ended up ordering from some expensive place I had never heard of.
My hands glistened with sweat as my mind raced through the multitude of choices before me.
Without too much overthinking, I went with drunken noodles with tofu and shrimp because it was easy.
Summoner picked something called massaman curry noodles.
Without asking for any money, Moore went to pick up our food.
Summoner turned on some music while we waited.
Soothing jazz played from hidden built-in speakers.
We didn’t speak much, just enjoyed each other’s presence while we waited.
I stood by the floor to ceiling window on the far side of the kitchen when Moore walked in.
The sun had already started its quick winter descent behind the skyline.
I usually hated how quickly it got dark in the winter.
But Summoner’s windows gave me a hell of a view, and with this viewpoint, I could quickly fall in love with it.
Relatively quickly for New York time, Moore returned with still-steaming food.
At my studio across town, delivery never made it to my door lukewarm.
Like shitty foreplay, my food always had to get well acquainted with my microwave first. It was jealousy-inducing, the little perks things like where you lived got you.
“I think that’s everything, Boss.” Moore sat the bags from the Thai restaurant on the counter.
I climbed onto a barstool and giggled at the face Summoner made when Moore handed me a large, neon colored boba tea. I had my fill of tea with Summoner but boba made this different, or so I told myself.
“Will you two be needing anything else?” Moore asked.
Summoner shook his head. “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”
“Of course. Y’all have a good night.” Moore patted Summoner on the shoulder and gave me a quick nod of the head as he left the room.
I snapped apart my chopsticks and opened the lid on my food. The seductive scent of basil and garlic filled my nose.
“Can I ask another question?” I asked.
“I don’t think I could stop you if I wanted to.” He sprinkled a few drops of soy sauce on his food.
“So, like…who is Moore?”
“Moore is…That’s kind of a hard question.
” He twirled noodles around his chopsticks.
“I guess you could say he keeps the Summoner train running on time. When I hired him, he was just my bodyguard, but his role has changed over the years. Now, he does it all: bodyguard, driver, assistant, chef, ironing, everything. Anything I need, he’s there. ”
“How many years?”
“Thirty…I think.”
“Does he live here?”
He shook his head. “No. Moore has his own place next door.”
“That’s good, because I was going to ask how that worked with visitors or company. Like would it be a sock on the door type of situation? Or—” My eyes bugged out. “Wait! How can he keep you safe from me if he’s next door?!”
Summoner rolled his eyes. “You were quickly assessed to not be a threat. I think I’ll be okay.”
Not a threat?!
“I don’t know if I should be hurt by such a remark. I could be some deadly black widow.” I narrowed my eyes and jabbed a chopstick onto the counter like a knife.
Summoner brushed me off by popping noodles into his mouth.
Theatrics unnoticed, I drank my boba and ate my food.
I was treated to a private show and a meal by one of the world’s best musicians.
A spot I had clawed my way into only to find myself here undeservingly.
The entire afternoon felt like an exercise in my mediocrity.
“…I think my favorite bit of Poppy’s writing has to be, ‘Salt or sugar, in the right context, everything has its right place,’” Summoner said quietly.
I grimaced.
That fucking line…
“Whyyyy?” I groaned and slumped face-first on the table.
Summoner’s quote came out of left field.
That fact that he had read anything with my name on it made me want to jump out of the closest window and splat on the pavement below.
The article was about millennial fashion!
Why was he reading about that anyway?! I tried to picture Summoner walking around with a binder of Pokémon cards while wearing a pair of JNCO jeans.
His eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with the line? I like the line.”
When I first wrote the line, I liked it.
I thought it was clever. Somehow, my article became a meme, and that sentence was slapped on photoshopped galaxies and bumper stickers that I had no claim to.
My words, no matter how stupid and embarrassing, were intellectual property that belonged to Popbyte.
I peeked up from the countertop and looked at Summoner, who continued to chew his food as if he was totally used to me by this point.
I sighed. “I like writing and I like my job, but there are times, more so over the years, where I know people are laughing at me. Not at the words I write, or the jokes I try to make. They’re laughing at me.
And of course, I know they’re faceless, nameless nobodies hidden behind a screen.
But it cuts deep. I just want people to take me seriously.
That’s why I want to interview you. You’re my entry to serious journalism, serious writing. ”
Summoner sat his chopsticks down and rested his chin against his steepled hands.
“I’m going to tell you something, Poppy. Seriousness is overrated. It’s just a label people throw around to place weight on their own importance.”
I sat up.
“What is considered important, serious work to one isn’t to another. Take my album The Conscience Enclosure, for example. I put my whole heart into that record, but people hated it.”
I sprung up from my despondent place and exclaimed, “Moonlight’s Mile is the best song, though! It’s so romantic! And the sweeping music that just builds up and up until crashing down at the chorus?! Fucking epic!”