Chapter 30
thirty
Soph and I are in her bedroom. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and we’re sitting side by side in bed scrolling through our phones. She’s been responding to emails, and I’m looking at rental houses online. Jess and I need to find a place soon, and we agree that Colorado feels good.
I’ve thought about buying a house for years and putting an end to my van life chapter, but something always holds me back.
Buying means putting down roots. My entire life has been transitory.
Home was never a place, because that changed almost every year.
The rental will be short-term but will help me decide if I’m ready to commit to some permanence.
And maybe, just maybe, believe I deserve it.
“How far away is Estes Park?” I ask.
She stops typing and looks at me. “Not far, like an hour and a half. You found something?”
I scroll back up to the top of the listing photos and hand her my phone. “Yeah, it’s kinda perfect.” It’s a two-bedroom cabin on five acres near Estes Park. The great room has a huge fireplace and would be perfect to set up a studio in. And the views are unreal.
She takes her time looking through the photos and then taps the screen to get back to the listing and read the details. “This is exactly what you said you wanted.”
“I know.” It really is. “Would you come with me?”
She hands me the phone. “To look at it? Yeah, of course.”
“No. To live. You, me, and Jess for six months. Could you do that?” A lot of things about the future make me nervous, but not her. She’s the one thing I’m certain of.
Her eyes search my face before they lock with mine, and a small smile emerges. “You know my first instinct is to say no, because of Lola and Benji. But I’m trying to get better at listening to the Mabel voice inside me that’s screaming yes. So yeah, I’d love that.”
Without hesitation I email the listing agent and tell her I’ll take it, sight unseen, if it’s still available.
Yesterday, Soph, Jess, and I read through all the emails and texts I’ve been ignoring from my old label.
We listened to voicemails too. Soph also read through my old contract to make sure there weren’t any loopholes I missed.
It states I can’t release any original music for twelve months after my final album, which I haven’t done, but they’re trying to say the original songs Jess and I have been performing are now theirs, even though they haven’t been recorded or sold.
They’re also threatening to sue for loss of profit on related merch sales.
It’s all ridiculous. Soph is documenting it all and constructing a timeline with supporting evidence, so it will be ready to provide to an attorney.
Soph also drafted an official statement, and we released it on our social media accounts and websites for both bands yesterday afternoon.
We all agree that controlling the narrative regarding the leak of my identity is paramount, especially since it comes on the heels of the Treachery’s Riot breakup announcement the day before.
Maybe because we’re hiding out in this little house in the suburbs with people we care about and who care about us, it doesn’t feel scary. It feels safe, and I feel validated. I didn’t see that coming.
Soph’s back on her phone, switching to social media.
We all agreed to stick our heads in the sand yesterday after the posts went live and give the world a few hours to digest and do what they will with it.
We had a BBQ in the backyard, played badminton, and made s’mores.
A few of Benji’s friends joined us. It was the perfect distraction.
We can’t ignore reality for long, though.
Jess and I talked to Mom and Big Dave to update them on everything going on with us yesterday too. I don’t think Mom fully grasps the enormity of it, and, honestly, that’s how I prefer it. Big Dave was relieved not to have to keep the secret anymore; I’m happy about that too.
“Hey, Ev? I’ve been thinking a lot about your life with Treachery’s Riot, and I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like. The places you’ve seen. You’ve visited almost every continent, right?”
When she trails off, I answer. “Life on the road is weird. I mean, you got a glimpse of it. Just blow that up. Yeah, I’ve traveled the world, but the schedule was so fast-paced that we rarely got a day off.
Most of the time I wasn’t performing was spent on planes, or trains, or buses, or in hotel rooms trying to steal a few hours of sleep.
So, I was a weary traveler, but never a tourist. Like, I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower, and Shibuya Crossing, and Christ the Redeemer from the window of a hotel room or a car driving by, but they didn’t feel real.
Even when I look back at photos I took, it feels like the memories belong to someone else. Does that make sense?”
She nods. “Yeah, you’re a curious person. A glimpse was a tease that made you want more.”
I stop and think. “I’m the guy who goes to a museum and spends the entire day there, reading every placard.
I fucking love to linger.” I look at her and she’s smiling softly, like it only confirms what she already knows about me.
I shake my head. “Jess used to get so pissed when Mom would take us to a museum when we were kids because he wanted to cruise through and I didn’t.
” I laugh a little thinking about it. “So, yeah, no visit to the Louvre, no tour of the Anne Frank house, no whale watching in Vancouver. A lot of once-in-a-lifetime opportunities were missed because I had to cruise through.” I look at her again.
“I’m sorry, I sound like an entitled asshole. ”
“Not at all. Did any of it feel real? The band? Your music? I hope so.” She’s so sincere, and it’s strange to have someone ask me questions and listen to what’s on my mind. The people who surrounded me for years were very good at talking at me, not to me, and dismal when it came to listening.
I set my phone down on the bedside table and rearrange myself so I’m lying on my back with my head in her lap. “You ask a lot of questions.”
She runs her hand through my hair and twirls some strands around a finger. “So do you. Does it bother you?”
I shake my head. “No. People ask questions when they care. When they stop, you know they’ve checked out on you.”
She wobbles her head, and her eyes roam the room. She’s thinking. “I think that’s mostly true. So, did any of it feel real?”
Interlacing my fingers and resting them on my bare stomach, I think.
“At first it did. It was purely a passion project. I was creating for the love of it. I wanted to learn, and grow, and get better as a songwriter and musician. But when the success hit, it was so unexpected. I mean, in my mind, that wasn’t the end game at all.
No one believes me when I say that, but it’s true.
I just kept thinking, why me? Imposter syndrome is fucking real. ”
“Why? Because you think someone else deserves it more? Or is it the money you don’t feel worthy of? Or is it just that fame must be really fucking hard to navigate? It must be surreal.” There’s no judgment from her, and I’m so thankful for it.
My eyes go to hers. “All of it.”
“When I was having a crisis of confidence, a wise friend once told me, ‘Sometimes you don’t have to believe it to be it. It’s just who you are.’ You were successful, and you will continue to be successful because it’s just who you are. Your talent is undeniable, Ev.”
“There are thousands of musicians out there who are more talented than I am, and they’ll never get a record deal.” I shrug. “So, why me, when I wasn’t even looking for one?”
“Because you worked your ass off.” She ticks off the next on her fingers.
“You wrote, performed, and produced music that was honest and vulnerable in its angst, in its passion, in its rage. You held up the mirror, and we saw ourselves reflected back in your words. It ripped our fucking hearts out. And if that wasn’t all enough, you took it a step further and presented it with this dark, masked persona that was shrouded in mystery—”
I interrupt her. “That’s because I was hesitant to show my face originally. I wanted the focus to be on the music.”
She shakes her head. “The reason doesn’t matter.
There’s some luck involved in everything; that’s life.
Call the mask luck if you want to. The fact is, you worked hard and organically built a massive following online.
By the time the label approached, you were already gift-wrapped and ready to go to mass market as the complete package.
They didn’t do that.” She taps my chest. “You did that.”
I reach up and take her hand in mine, fiddling with her fingers as I talk.
“They used to tell me all the time, ‘We made you.’ They called me ungrateful if I questioned anything or voiced concern over the way things were handled. They made me feel like an outsider on the periphery of my own career, an inconvenience to be dealt with. You’ve seen the emails and heard the voicemails.
They don’t see me as a person; they see me as a puppet. ”
“They gaslit you. That’s bullshit.” She sounds angry.
“You made you. And you made them a shitload of money. That’s why they don’t want to let you go.
And as far as ungrateful goes, I’ve read stories about Treachery’s Riot making donations to food banks in every city you played on tour.
I even read about a young family who said the band paid for their rent and groceries for six months to get them back on their feet when they lost everything in a house fire.
I’m sure there are similar stories that no one will ever know about. It’s all true, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “When you have extra resources, you share them. That’s how I was brought up. It’s the right thing to do. My management didn’t agree. There was always pushback when I tried to partner with different causes.”
“Were you food-insecure growing up?” she asks.