Chapter Thirty-Two. Luna
Chapter Thirty-Two
Luna
Many of the other artists I’ve met have warned me that there will be a point where the tide turns.
Where it seems like nothing you do matters, that you could be saving orphaned kittens and people would still find something to dislike about it.
I just never thought that would happen to me.
It feels like I keep going from feeling the most happy and understood and at peace with myself that I ever have to crushed by the weight of the internet hating on me when I feel my best.
This is the first time I’ve felt this level of hatred from the press, and I feel fragile.
I basically begged Riley to come with me to New York, and I had Ashley arrange for her to shadow chefs around the city while I’m in the studio each day so she’d be occupied.
I just want her here so that each night I can come home to her and taste what she’s made that day and cuddle up with her on the couch and pretend that everything is normal.
But I know that I need to do something to turn this around, and fast.
When I don’t think too hard, I can forget that magazines are dissecting my sexuality, looking closely at every woman I’ve ever been friends with, theorizing which of my past relationships were just covers.
I know I said I wanted this, the whole thing, but it turns out that’s not true.
I had no idea what being all in with Riley would mean for me, and for my career.
But despite that, when I’m with her, and when I’m in the studio singing about her, I can forget the ugly parts for a minute.
I get home from the studio after we’ve been in New York for almost a week and Riley is cooking in the kitchen in my brownstone.
This place was my first-ever real estate investment, and I’ve always liked it, but now that Riley’s here, it actually feels lived in and the kitchen is being used for the first time.
She looks up when I walk in, and I walk over and kiss her, leaning over her dough-covered hands and the flour-dusted countertop.
“What are you making?”
Riley goes back to rolling out the dough. “Croissants. It’s the third batch I’ve tried today. They’re harder than they look. How was the studio?”
“It was good,” I say as I sit on one of the barstools opposite her.
“I’m working on a new song, something a little different.
I don’t know if it’ll have a place on the album.
We’ll see.” I was writing about my frustrations with the media’s response to my joy.
I think that some of the negativity being directed at us is because I look so much happier than I ever did with any of my boyfriends.
Riley looks up from the dough. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
I watch her rolling and forming the croissants, the way she’s totally focused and her muscles strain.
She puts them in the fridge all rolled up, then pulls out a tray of puffier rolls of dough from the fridge and puts them in the oven.
Riley puts the rest of the unused dough back in the fridge, then washes her hands and walks around the counter, standing in front of me as I sit on the stool, so that we’re at the same height.
“Will you come home with me this weekend?” Riley asks, and I hate that this isn’t home for her. I want her home to be with me, wherever we are.
“I can’t,” I say immediately. She frowns, and I rush to explain. “I think we should keep a low profile for a while. Or I should, anyway. The press is going to twist any pictures of us into something else, and I’d rather just avoid it altogether.”
“Luna, I don’t want to hide. It’s already out there. There’s no point in hiding now.”
I reach out and take her hands in mine. “It’s not hiding. This is just what dating someone high profile is like. Anything we do is scrutinized, so we need to try to maintain our privacy and be intentional with what we let people see. But I promise, I’m not hiding. Everyone knows we’re together.”
Riley doesn’t say anything, and pulls away from me to start cleaning up the kitchen.
“Why don’t you invite your dads here?” I offer.
“They can stay downstairs on the guest floor, and we can take them to the restaurants you’ve been studying at, see a play, take them to the studio, whatever you want.
” I can hear a slight twinge of desperation in my voice, and I take care to extinguish it.
“I just need to keep a low profile right now, until the media moves on. The restaurants and theaters here are used to sneaking in people who don’t want to be photographed. ”
“They can’t just abandon the shack,” Riley says quietly. “It’s still the busy season for them until the week after Labor Day. And it’s not just that—I want to be home. I want to show you the places I love.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but even I can hear that the words sound empty.
Riley looks at me. “I understand you want to keep a low profile right now. I know things have been hard. But Provincetown isn’t like New York.
I really don’t think people will be waiting outside restaurants to photograph you.
It’s … I think feeling how accepting some places and people actually are will make this all easier for you. ”
“There’s nothing I can do about my life,” I snap back, more sharply than I intend to. “If you want to date someone you can casually take to the farmers’ market, I’m sorry, it just won’t ever be me.”
“I want to date you,” Riley says gently. “To date you. Not hide with you. I thought you had decided not to hide.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and manage to stop a tear from trickling out. I can’t take any chances right now. I need to play by the rules that I thought I was beyond for a nearly fatal moment. “Well, that’s what dating me is right now. You should go home, though. I’ll come another time.”
“Luna, just come for a weekend, and we’ll avoid anywhere you could be photographed as much as possible. I really think feeling loved and accepted and embraced for who you are will help.”
I exhale, frustrated that Riley is still pushing. “Riley, my career is my life. You wouldn’t know what that’s like.” I regret it as soon as I say it. But I don’t take it back, because it’s true.
Riley stands there, just staring at me. She doesn’t say anything, and then the timer on her croissants goes off, but still, she doesn’t move.
“They’re burning,” I say as the timer keeps chiming.
“I’ll make more,” she says easily. “I’d rather have a full life than a lonely career. I chose the people in my life and I’m okay with that.”
“Come fucking on. You’re just afraid,” I spit out.
“You still haven’t talked to your dads.” Why can’t I just say something nice?
Her words hit me in my soft underbelly, and I haven’t had a conversation like this, a fight, really, but also just a real, raw conversation that’s hard, since my mom died.
No one I’ve been around since then has called me out like this.
And instead of listening, I can’t help but lash out.
Riley turns the oven off and takes out the browned croissants and dumps them directly into the garbage.
She methodically cleans up the kitchen as we sit in strained silence, and despite myself the tears start to leak out.
I was the one who was just a total asshole.
I shouldn’t be crying right now. But Riley just walks over to me and pulls me against her, rubbing my back.
“I’m sorry. This is just hard,” I choke out. “The thought of losing all this is unimaginable. I never thought I would have to choose, and it’s so scary, and, like, what, am I destined to be alone forever if I want to be a success? That can’t be it.” I’m sobbing now, finally letting it all out.
“You can choose your career, Luna,” Riley says, and I hear the catch in her voice. “It’s okay. I just want you to be happy.”
I pull back and see that Riley’s crying too. “No, I want you too,” I say, wiping my tears away. “I was just venting, but what we have is real. I want this. I just—I want to find a way to have it all.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t always work out like that. I tried to have it all and my sister literally died,” Riley says darkly, squeezing her eyes shut in a bid to keep her tears at bay.
“What do you mean?” I whisper. I stand and pull her close to me and hold her as she lets her tears fall.
Riley’s face has fully crumpled now, and she tries to choke down the sob that’s building. “Riley. Riley, I’m sorry. I was harsh before and I didn’t mean it. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
I’ve never seen Riley upset like this. I let her cry in heaving breaths against me, and for the first time since this all began, I don’t feel worried or regretful or like I should be careful.
I’m angry. Angry at the media for putting up these headlines, at the people online who make mean videos about us, but mostly at myself.
Because despite how shitty all that has been, it was my cutting words that made Riley cry.
“Just talk to me,” I whisper. I don’t really have experience comforting someone, or even at having an argument. Everyone around me is on payroll. But I want to try. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this together.”
Eventually Riley’s crying slows down and I gently lead her to the couch. “Just talk to me. You can tell me anything.”