Chapter Sixteen. Luna
Chapter Sixteen
Luna
I’m in my dressing room when I get the voice memo from Riley, and my heart immediately starts racing.
No one’s ever sent me a voice memo before.
I hit play and listen, eager to hear what she said.
My stomach was in knots during rehearsals, wondering what it meant that Riley had just liked my message.
Maybe Ashley was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have texted; maybe it’s inappropriate and she’s only sending this because she feels obligated to.
As I listen, I feel like I can hear that she wants to talk to me too behind every hitch and pause and half-exhaled laugh. But I need to be sure.
I hit record on my own voice memo. “Hey, Riley. That’s so nice of you.
I really appreciate you saying that. Maybe I will finish that song.
But also I just wanted to say … you don’t have to talk to me.
I don’t want you to feel like you have to because technically you work for me or the tour or whatever.
I just … I don’t want you to talk to me because you have to.
I mean, I love talking to you! I want to.
But you don’t need to. Just like … don’t answer this if you don’t want to and I swear, no hard feelings.
Anyways, I should get ready for tonight.
Talk to you later. Oh! Sorry, sorry, I mean, maybe not? It’s up to you. Bye.”
I try to hit delete, so I can try again, but I accidentally hit send instead.
Fuck. I can’t blame her for not answering me after that.
I sounded like an incoherent mess. It was the right thing to do to say something, but now I feel riddled with anxiety, checking my phone every two seconds to see if she’s going to answer me.
I want her to, so badly. I want to know that I’m not imagining this between us.
I lock my phone in a drawer so that I can meditate and do my makeup and try to get in my preshow headspace. It’s one thing to let rehearsals get derailed, but it’s another to let the actual show suffer. I care too much about my fans to let that happen.
But as soon as I get offstage at the end of the night, I rush to my dressing room to check my phone for a voice memo from Riley. The relief that floods me when I see I have one is overwhelming. I hit play on the voice memo and lean in to listen.
“Luna, of course I want to talk to you,” Riley says in a rush.
“I—I’ve enjoyed getting to know you the past couple of weeks.
I’m glad you have too. I miss when we were in Spain and got to actually hang out.
The tour days are so busy, I don’t know how you do it.
Performing seems exhausting. But good luck tonight. I’ll be out there.”
Between the postshow high and the rush of hearing Riley say she wants to keep talking too, I feel invincible.
I hit record. “I’m really happy to hear you say that.
And I want to spend time together too! We just …
we need to keep it secret. Ashley’s worried about optics with the rest of the crew, that it could look—” I hesitate.
The only reason it’s really inappropriate is because of how I feel about Riley.
But I don’t know that she feels the same for me.
“We just need to be inconspicuous. I hope that’s okay?
I’m just so glad you want to keep talking too.
And did you like the show tonight? I always get worried it won’t be a full house.
Every time I step onto the stage and see the audience, it’s like suddenly I can breathe again. But I like knowing you’re out there.”
I start to take my makeup off, but I’ve only peeled off my fake lashes when Riley’s response comes back.
“Of course that’s okay, whatever you need.
I understand that it could look … weird or whatever.
” I hear the splash of water and the clink of a pan, and I wonder if Riley is washing dishes.
“But also I can’t believe you worry about people showing up.
I just … I wouldn’t imagine you would. Did I ever tell you my sister and I saw you open for Smith Squad?
It was basically the best night ever, and we were one hundred percent there for you, not Smith Squad.
Well, actually, Liv maybe wanted to marry Ezra, but I was in it to see you.
So even if you went out there tonight and I was the only one in the audience, at least you’d have one really dedicated fan. ”
There’s a pause, and I hear the rustle of the phone getting picked up.
I close my eyes for a moment and think of Riley’s face.
I wonder how close to her lips she’s holding the phone.
Even though I don’t think she ever wears lipstick, her lips are always shiny with a coating of Aquaphor or lip gloss or something, and I want to touch them, to know if they’re sticky or smooth or perfectly soft or— My daydreaming is interrupted by Riley continuing to talk on the voice memo, and I listen intently, knowing I’m not going to be able to hear it again because these disappear after you listen.
“Do you remember what we were talking about the other night? Culinary school, and my, like, foiled chef dreams and all that? I guess, rhetorical question since this is a voice message. But I just keep thinking about when I told my dads I was going on this tour with you. I was so scared of what they’d say, and they were super clear this is to be the end of chef things or else I have to pay them back for what they spent on the MBA.
But I also was just thinking … I don’t know.
The whole reason I agreed to what they wanted is because Liv was an addict and our family was a wreck and I just wanted to save things.
But maybe I did. Maybe I, like, was the sutures on the cut and now it’s been long enough and things will heal okay.
With scars. But okay.” Riley inhales and starts to say something, then stops herself.
“I don’t know. I probably won’t do anything about it anyway.
But it inspires me, how you go for what you want.
Anyways, congrats on a great show tonight.
And remember, all the girls who show up every night are excited to see you. So I hope you have fun with it.”
I flop down onto the couch and start my own voice memo reply.
“Riley, you should absolutely follow your chef dreams, whether it’s school or a restaurant or continuing to private chef—which, by the way, you’re literally so good at.
Like, fuck the plan, they’re your parents!
They’ll forgive you. I know I don’t know them, but I don’t think they’d want you living your life for, like, their comfort instead of your dreams.” I want to ask more about the situation with her sister.
I understand what it’s like to lose someone, even if I don’t know exactly what happened.
But I don’t want to force her to open up if she doesn’t want to.
“And I’m honored to know you were at the Smith Squad show.
Honestly, that makes it less weird that I, like, fall asleep to your cooking videos.
They’re just so soothing. I’ve never even used my kitchen, but I feel like I could cook something after I watch you do it.
And the show was good tonight. I do have fun performing, and I absolutely love what we’ve done for my big songs.
I can just feel the energy drop for the new stuff, though.
The room doesn’t exactly flatline, but it’s not the same.
And I don’t have any new ideas that fit what I’m thinking.
… I don’t know. I’m a mess. Last time I was on tour, I felt so inspired.
My mom and I went out and did all these cool things everywhere I went.
And now I’m, like, cooped up and alone, even though we’re in objectively better places.
” I pause. “Sorry, I really shouldn’t complain.
I know these are champagne problems. I just want to write a song again and have it feel fucking good. ”
I send the voice memo. I’m about to start another one when there’s a knock at my door.
Ashley pokes her head in. “Luna? Bad news. If you don’t want to be photographed, we’re going to have to do the cleaning cart again tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“Security at this hotel isn’t tight. There’re fans all over it, and the hotel called and said they’re waiting for you. You’ll be mobbed. As it is, we’re going to have security at your door all night.”
I glance down at my outfit, which consists of hugely oversized sweatpants and a T-shirt. While it wouldn’t be the end of the world to be photographed looking like this, it would be nice not to have to sign autographs and talk to fans. I’d love to just take a hot shower and crash. “Okay, I’m game.”
Ashley ushers me into the waiting SUV, which pulls into the loading dock at the hotel.
There’s a maid’s cart waiting there for us, and a security guard lifts up the fabric covering where the towel bag would be, and I climb onto it.
I curl up into a ball and rest my head on my arms, and they let the fabric drop back down.
“You okay in there?” Ashley asks.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Push it very carefully,” Ashley instructs the maid firmly. “As though your own child were in it.”
There’s an awkward pause. Then I hear the tinny voice of Google Translate. “Empújalo con cuidado, como si tu propio hijo estuviera en ella.”
“Por favor,” Ashley adds.
I snort back a laugh.
“I heard that!” Ashley admonishes cheerfully.
The maid must take the cart, because suddenly we’re on our way. It’s bumpy as we go into the building, and for a minute I think I’m going to fall out the side of the cart. But I grab on to the frame underneath the cloth covering and hold on tight.
I can’t believe we’re actually doing something this ridiculous. If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d be hiding to avoid fans eager to meet me, I would have laughed in their face. I snap a quick selfie and send it to Riley. We’re rolling.… I write under it.
The first time I ever did this, back in the States in a janitor’s cart at the venue, I sent a similar screenshot to Hudson. He just left me on read.
dead I thought that was a myth!!!
We go over another bump, and my phone flies out of my hands. I quickly shoot my hand out of the cart and grab it, but as soon as I do, I hear a camera flash. Fuck. This is going to be in the news tomorrow. Girls start talking excitedly.
“I knew it!”
“I heard she hides in the carts! Oh my god, she’s here!”
“Luna, I love you!”
“Is Hudson here?!”
The voices sound closer and closer, and I can feel the maid start to speed up.
Suddenly a hand is tugging on the curtain I’m holding closed.
My heart jumps into my throat. As much as I love my fans, it’s scary to have the ones who are staking out my hotel this close to me.
They all want a piece of me, and I’m afraid they wouldn’t even notice if they ripped me apart trying to get it.
The maid must have seen what happened, because suddenly she starts to run, pushing the cart like she’s a linebacker. We go flying over bumps in the floor and I cling to the cart for dear life.
“Mantenga el ascensor,” she commands. I don’t know what it means, but I hear the beeping of the elevator and realize we’re close to safety. Once we get to my floor, it’ll be secure.
She shoves the cart over the rough dips in the floor at the opening to the elevator, and we’re inside. I start to peek out, but she pulls the cloth back over me. “Salgan,” she says firmly to someone else. “Ahora!”
Two girls start giggling. And then I hear the doors close and I breathe a sigh of relief. I untangle myself and climb out of the cart, stretching. I’m almost too tall to fit in there, and my legs are cramping from sitting like that.
“Okay?” the maid asks.
I nod. “Thank you. Um, muchas gracias.” I know Ashley already paid her to do this, but I reach into my purse and pull out two tickets for the VIP section.
I always like to keep a few passes for each show, in case a particularly helpful local PA or someone mentions they have kids who are fans.
I know I could just have Ashley find them, but I love giving them the tickets myself.
“These are for you.” She shakes her head, not wanting to take them.
“I insist. For you. Your family. Your daughter?” She hesitates, and I place the tickets on the cart.
The elevator door opens, and my security is there waiting for me. I point at the tickets. “See you tomorrow. They’ll bring you and your daughter backstage.”
I don’t know if she understands me, but Ashley can sort out the details. I look back as the door closes and the maid is calling someone and holding the tickets, smiling.