Chapter 9
T hat evening, Lola sat at the piano bench in her home studio. The white baby grand had been a gift to herself after her first Grammy. Lola trailed her hands over the ivory keys, experimentally pressing down on a B-flat.
The space was full of throw blankets and cushy pillows.
It held her favorite acoustic guitar, as well as the one she’d learned to play on, an electric keyboard, and a few percussion instruments, along with an electronic drum pad.
A desk had everything she needed to rough cut demos—unused now for months.
A glass-fronted cabinet stored every journal and notebook she’d written lyrics in, from middle school to the present.
Through the enormous windows overlooking Los Angeles, dusk had turned the sky deep indigo.
It had been her favorite room in the house, but the peace she’d felt here eluded her now.
Once they’d stopped rolling, Lola couldn’t wait for Jason to pack up his dresses and for Gloriana, Veronika, and the crew to clear out.
She’d been annoyed at how much energy it took to be on camera in her own home and the effort to hide her dislike of the uncomfortable, revealing looks the team wanted for the premiere—though somehow, Renee had seen it anyway.
She had promised herself that once they left, she’d get to songwriting in earnest. She’d renewed that vow every time she’d looked at Gloriana, who had worked so hard for Lola, who had stewarded her career, and imagined the disappointment on her face when she realized that Lola hadn’t been honest about the next album.
Lola had a session with her longtime producer scheduled for next week, to be documented by Renee’s cameras, and she could not show up with nothing written. She just needed one song.
Lola played a C-minor chord, then let the melancholy sound fade.
In her phone’s notes app, she scrolled through lyrical phrases and ideas.
In the past, songs would spark in her mind, a whole story kindled by the few lines she’d saved, the arc of a melody catching, until everything flared together.
Now, thumbing through her notes, she felt none of that combustive creativity.
She felt instead like she was stumbling through some horrible funhouse of warped mirrors.
She came to what she’d scribbled after Ava left her.
Most of it didn’t rise to the level of a lyric, just wild declarations she never got the chance to make aloud.
I’ll never stop loving you.
Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I always have.
How could you do this to me?
Lola squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palms to her face. When would it stop hurting? It had been a year. A year and three weeks.
S HE’D FIRST SEEN Ava onstage at a movie awards show, presenting the award for, of all things, Best Kiss.
Her blonde hair was huge and wild, and a fishhook grin exposed the famous gap in her front teeth.
Lola was transfixed. Somehow, even from so far away, Ava had known.
Her gaze lingered on Lola with the ghost of an invitation.
Moments later, Lola won for Best Movie Song, and Ava was waiting backstage.
It set off a year of secret dating: stealing weekends to spend in each other’s arms, wearing the same perfume so they’d smell like each other, walking red carpets knowing that later their gowns would be puddled on the floor.
Lola had never been infatuated with anyone like she was with Ava.
It was like being plunged underwater—unexpected and completely engulfing.
Just thinking of her made Lola feel electric—and she thought of Ava constantly, especially in the long weeks they spent apart when Lola channeled her fixation into her music.
She wrote Ava dozens of songs. Some were tales of lust and Ava’s ice-blue eyes and all the things Lola wanted to do to her, but others told the story of a whirlwind romance, of being swept away in a secret love affair.
Lola had truly believed they were falling in love.
After all, Lola had always been a romantic. When she was young and things were chaotic at home, she escaped into stories where love was powerful enough to change the world. Love was supposed to be grand and demanding and even painful. Maybe that was why she missed all the red flags.
Like how when they were apart, Ava could be so bad at keeping in touch that Lola sometimes wondered if she missed her at all. Or how, when they were in bed, Ava was always the focus of attention, and never Lola.
Or how when Lola pressed that she wanted to spend more time together, Ava would invite her to a DJ gig or to come as her date to an awards show—things she knew Lola couldn’t do.
Lola tried not to be hurt by it, to convince herself that Ava wanted to go public because she loved her, even if she’d never said so.
Already, Ava pushed her boundaries, tugged her into the bathroom at an event, gave her a “friendly” kiss on a red carpet.
Real love required sacrifices. And if Lola wanted this to be forever-love, the kind that lasted a lifetime, she would have to make some.
She’d sat down with Gloriana and told her she was ready to go public with everything: her sexuality, her relationship, and an album of songs about Ava that she was ready to take to her producer. Gloriana had slowly adjusted the thick frames of her glasses, then said, “Let’s talk it through.”
Gloriana had sketched out a full media plan, tell-all interviews, a couples photoshoot in a major magazine, a color story for her Instagram in the colors of the bisexual flag, a special line of merch.
And more serious issues—the business impact of losing part of her fan base: conservatives, outraged parents of eight-year-old Lo-Lites, and fans who lived in countries where same-sex relationships were illegal.
Then Gloriana had put her hand on Lola’s knee and told her, “Just do one thing for me before we move forward. We can spin you coming out because you’re in love, but if things fall apart, the narrative gets more challenging.
We don’t want to handle a breakup on top of all this. Just make sure Ava’s committed.”
“Don’t worry,” Lola had said.
It felt so stupid now to remember how excited she’d been to tell Ava her new plan.
“I know you want more from me, from our relationship,” Lola had begun.
“Oh, Lolly, I—” Ava interrupted.
Afterward, Lola would always wish she’d just let Ava say her piece. Instead, Lola grabbed her hands and squeezed. “No, I want that too! What we have is just—it’s so special, it feels almost like magic, you know? I don’t want to hide it anymore.”
“Lolly—”
“Gloriana is already on board. My team will know the best way to debut the relationship—and there’s going to be so much to deal with me coming out. But we can get through it. I’m going to record those songs so my whole next album can be about you! Wouldn’t that be perfect?
“There’s just this one thing—Gloriana wants me to make sure we’re really committed to each other, just because there’s going to be so much attention on our relationship. We are, right? I know I am. Honestly, I’m in love with you, Ava.”
It was the first time she’d said that.
“ Lola .”
Lola could never describe how it felt when Ava said her name like that. The sensation of pins and needles, half numbness, half pain. The sudden lightheadedness, like the world slipping out from under her. Ava was wearing this horrible, pitying look, and Lola was the object of that pity.
“God, this is really awkward.” Ava extricated her hands from Lola’s grasp. “I totally support you coming out and releasing those songs and all that, but when it comes to our relationship, I’m not in the same place.”
L OLA CLOSED THE piano’s key lid and cast her eyes to the cabinet of her old journals, full of words that came straight from her heart.
Writing was so easy when love was an adventure that lay ahead, heartbreak seemed glamorous, and just thinking about the girl next door could pull a song out of her. Would she ever find that ease again?
Lola drafted a text to Cassidy:
Let’s reschedule the producer session for after the festival next month. I want to focus on that performance.
She hesitated. Normally she’d run that by Gloriana, and there was filming to consider. But the thought of showing up to her producer’s studio with nothing made Lola genuinely feel like she might puke.
She hit send and headed to the kitchen. She needed tea. Tea would help.
Someone had hung Renee’s laundered shirt in the hall, enormous coffee stain gone.
Lola worried her lip, remembering that morning. She’d just wanted to make sure Renee felt her best for her first day, but she’d ended up gawking like a thirteen-year-old who’d never seen a pair of tits before.
Not that Renee seemed to mind.
They were really nice tits. Her nipples had hardened right before Lola’s eyes. And the straps of her black sports bra had framed her strong, tattooed shoulders, her stomach taut as she pulled the polo over her head.
Lola had to get a hold of herself. Thinking about Renee’s boobs was a victimless crime, but it opened the door to doing more than thinking . Maybe Gloriana’s warning wasn’t so unnecessary after all.
Lola put the kettle on.
She wasn’t going to let things get messy. She was the consummate professional. Which was why, while she waited for the water to boil, she texted Renee in a very professional capacity.
Congrats on the first day of shooting!
There. She set her phone down on the counter. It lit up immediately.
I wish that was real booze
To celebrate?
First day kinks, that’s all
I hope it wasn’t anything I did.
No, no you were so good.
I shouldn’t have said anything about the dresses. You’re supposed to be able to ignore me behind the camera.
You’ve always been hard to ignore
Lola’s face immediately warmed. The blue bubble of words was undeniably flirty, without even an lol or haha to dilute it.
But you were right. The green one was my favorite.
Lola normally held her tongue while Jason and her team gave their opinions.
Like Gloriana had said, their job was to craft her image.
They weren’t just excellent at it; they had the best interest of her career at heart.
That was far more important than which dress Lola liked most. Still, the emerald silk had made her feel, somehow, more like herself. Renee had seen it too.
I know. It was the only one you didn’t do that smile for.
Lola stilled.
Renee was typing, then not typing, then typing again.
For what it’s worth, it was my favorite too.