Chapter 19
The one thing in life that never lied was numbers. My name had been trending for eight weeks straight. First, it was for the baby rumors. Then, for the DNA results. After that, it was for the statement Kam drafted, which I rewrote three times before I let my PR release it.
The streams went crazy. Even my old songs resurfaced.
The track I wrote for Kennedy years ago, the one she surprised me with at her wedding, had gone viral. Somebody posted us walking down the aisle with the caption: “Real talent don’t age.”
It would’ve been a lie to say that that didn’t make me feel good when I read those comments.
“Westside Zay been a legend.”
“Remember when he was in that Detroit group back in the day?”
“Real hip-hop ain’t dead.”
Fans began to dig up footage from when I was seventeen, rapping in oversized tees with my group “The Ether Division” in my boy’s basement studio. The videos were grainy, with bad lighting, but even in them, you could see the hunger in our eyes.
It was nostalgic. It felt powerful.
And that meant it was also profitable.
Kam sat across from me inside the office at the label with his laptop open. There were charts pulled up on the projector in front of us.
“You see this?” He pointed at the screen.
I did. There were engagement numbers on separate charts that climbed. One titled “Merch Sales” was up, and another that read “Streaming Revenue” appeared to show that it doubled in a month.
“This is organic,” he continued. “You don’t even need to drop nothing new. The streets doing all this for you.”
I slowly leaned back in my chair.
“You know what that means?” he continued.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“A anniversary tour would pop right now. You can hop on features and bring back the old sound. We can start with just five cities. Detroit first. Detroit would go crazy for this right now.”
I didn’t respond right away, but he kept going.
“With these kind of predictions,”—he pointed at the projector screen—“tickets would sell out in minutes. You can capitalize on the moment. You can remind people who you are. It’s smart.
” It was smart. He was right. That was what I struggled with the most. “I can make this happen,” he pressed.
“This won’t be like grinding in your twenties.
This is controlled. It’s strategic and short. ”
I folded my hands in front of me and stared at the window behind him. L.A. traffic moved steadily outside. There were people walking dogs down the street and joggers with headphones in—just a regular day in Beverly Hills.
“You listenin’ to me?” Kam asked.
“I’m thinking,” I said. I imagined the stage lights. I could envision the Detroit crowd screaming lyrics from songs I wrote in my bedroom as a teenager. The reunion energy would be crazy. The headlines would hit hard. It would be easy. It would be good. It would be even more money in my pocket too.
“You got this momentum right now,” Kam added. “Let’s ride it.”
I rubbed my jaw. To ride it meant to feed the attention. I didn’t want to repeat the cycle. I was tired of it.
“You still quiet,” Kam said.
“I know it’s a good idea,” I admitted.
“So, what’s the hesitation?”
I thought about what Yana said in our last conversation.
I didn’t want to feel like I had to compete with your world.
I thought about Princess’s voice when she told me she was proud of how I handled the drama.
I thought about the version of me that used to need a stage to feel solid or need a studio to feel safe.
“I don’t think I really want that no more,” I said finally.
Kam blinked. “Nigga, what?”
“I think I did what I was supposed to do as an artist,” I clarified. “I think I had a good career. I’m ready to focus more on my life now. I don’t wanna have my name out here like that ever again, either.”
“People trend whether they want to or not,” he replied.
“I know that,” I said calmly. “But I don’t have to turn it into a spectacle.”
He leaned forward. “This ain’t a spectacle, though. This is your legacy.”
Legacy. I let that word sit at the top of my mind for a moment.
“Legacy ain’t just noise, though,” I said slowly. “Legacy is structure.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied my face.
“I can build artists,” I continued. “I can build a label full of real artists who love the music and not just hop on something that is trendy. I’d rather my legacy be to build something in Detroit that don’t disappear when the streams slow down.”
“So, you just gon’ walk away from this?” Kam asked.
“I’m not walking away, bruh,” I replied. “I’m elevating.”
He stared at me in silence again. I couldn’t tell whether the look on his face was disbelief or if he was proud of me. “You serious?”
“I am.”
He shook his head then, and I could tell he was impressed. “You’re turning down easy money.”
“I’m choosing peace,” I said.
There was a long pause.
“This got something to do with Princess?” he asked through a big smile.
“Partly.” I smirked admittedly. “But mostly me.”
He closed the laptop slowly. “You ain’t the same,” he replied.
“No,” I answered. “I’m not.”
“I’m proud of you, baby boy. I had your back this long. I’m in this with you. Just let me know what you want to do.”
I smiled. “I wrote a love letter to Detroit the other day in the studio before Malik came. Push that for me. Send a call out to all artists looking to work.” I stood and walked to the door.
He turned his chair to follow me with his eyes.
Before I stepped out of the door, I paused and turned to him.
“Let that work. I have some grown man business to handle in the meantime.”
I flew to Atlanta two days later.
My driver was waiting for me as soon as I hopped out of the jet. He loaded my bag into the trunk, and we pulled off almost immediately. The air was more humid than it had been in L.A. It was warmer even in the evening.
We pulled onto the highway and merged into traffic, headed toward Stone Mountain. The streetlights flickered on as the sun began to set. The sky was streaked with orange and pink lines. I leaned back in the seat, pulled my phone out, and scrolled back through Princess’s texts from earlier that day.
Princess: Yana is out with Diego for a lil while.
Princess: We’ll have some time to talk.
Princess: Let me know when you land.
I didn’t tell her that I’d landed. I wanted to surprise her. The car turned off the main road and into the quieter suburban streets. Houses lined the blocks evenly, and porch lights shone softly.
I watched families outside through the windows as we drove past. I noticed a man who grilled in his driveway as kids rode bikes up and down the sidewalk. An older couple sat on a porch swing and laughed about something together. For a moment, I felt something in my stomach flutter.
Damn, I loved that girl.
I loved Princess in a way that made me wish for quiet nights like that. I wanted to build structured mornings and shared calendars.
The car came to a stop in front of her house. The porch light was on, and the curtains were slightly drawn. I stepped out and grabbed my bag from the trunk before my driver could. I needed something to steady the nerves that made my hands shake.
I walked the short pathway to her door and paused for a second before I knocked. I had been to this house a few times over the past year, but this time, I was nervous. It was as if, this time, I understood what I walked toward.
Before I could gather up the nerve, the door swung open.
Princess stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a pink top, her hair tied back in a low bun. The light from inside framed her shape. “Why you ain’t tell me when you landed?”
I smirked. “I wanted to surprise you.”
She squinted at me. “Zay!”
“What?” I stepped past her inside.
“I was watching my phone, waiting for you.”
“You was watching your phone, waiting for me, boo?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes and closed the door behind us. “Don’t start.”
I smiled, walked into the living room, and set my luggage down near the couch.
Everything looked the same as the last time I’d been there. The same throw blanket was folded neatly over the armrest. The coffee table had her open laptop sitting on top with a stack of her books next to it. A half-burned candle sat in the center.
“You hungry?” she asked from behind me.
I sniffed the air. “You made chicken?”
She didn’t answer, but I heard a smile in her voice. “Maybe.”
I followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the wall. “I can’t eat that,” I said as I tried to sound serious. “I’m vegan now.”
She turned around and stared at me with her eyes low. “Nigga, you never giving chicken up,” she said flatly. “Stop playing.”
I laughed. She turned and continued toward the stove. When she reached it, she lifted the lid off a pot. Steam rose into the air, and the smell carried throughout the room. My stomach growled immediately.
“You look tired,” she said without turning around.
I stepped further into the kitchen and sat on a stool at the island. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot,” I answered.
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Uh-oh. That sounds scary.”
I leaned my elbows on the counter and stared at the back of her head.
“Nah,” I said quietly. “Not this time.”
She turned the stove down and wiped her hands on a towel that hung on the handle of the stove before she walked back toward me. “You sure?” she asked as she stood on the side of me. “Because every time you say that, it means some drama goin’ on.”
I reached for her hand gently and pulled her down on the stool next to me. “I turned something big down.”
“Turned what down?”
“A tour.”
She drew her head back with her eyebrows raised. “A tour? Why?”
“Because I don’t want to keep building a life that pulls me away from the one I actually want,” I replied.
Her brows lowered, and her gaze softened.