22. Its An Honor To Be Nominated #2
"And I've never won it," I shot back. "So maybe I want it more."
"Maybe." She tilted her head, studying me. "Or maybe you just don't know what you're walking into yet."
"Enlighten me, then."
She offered me a wry smile. "They're gonna make it a whole thing. You and me, head to head. Cameras on us when they announce it, split screen, all that drama. Doesn't matter who wins as long as we give them a show."
"Is that what you want? A show?"
She stepped closer, close enough that I saw the detailing on her dress, which I wasn't going to touch at all. "I want you at your best," she said quietly. "If you're not, what's the point?"
My pulse hammered. "You think I'm not?"
"I think you care too much about what people are gonna say." Her face softened. "Still wearing that big heart right out on your sleeve."
That word—still—landed funny. Last time she'd thrown my heart on my sleeve at me, it was a knife. Now it landed easy, almost fond. I didn't know what to do with the difference.
"And you don't?"
"Not anymore." People said that when they were free. She didn't sound free.
I swallowed hard. "What if I win?"
"Then you win." Her voice was steady. "And I'll deal with it."
"What if you win?"
She didn't answer right away. Looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I could handle the truth. Finally, she said, "Then I guess we'll see if you meant what you said last week."
It took me a second to catch up. "What I said?"
She blinked a lot. Looked left. Uncertain, almost vulnerable. "That you want me."
My stomach dropped, that pull low in my gut that made my breath catch. I wanted to close the distance between us, wanted to kiss her right here in this empty hall where anyone could walk by. "That's not—that's not fair."
"Relax." She moved past me, barely an inch of space between us. Her hand brushed mine as she went. Bare skin, touching mine. "I'm keeping you sharp, remember?"
The jolt shot up my arm. My fingers flexed with the mental image I had of grabbing her for real but she was past me.
She paused at the end of the hall, glanced back. "Good luck tonight."
It wasn't about the award. I knew it wasn't just about the award.
Before I could answer, a woman with a headset appeared, sprinted toward Romi and whispered something urgent. Romi's whole body tensed, then relaxed. She took off toward the auditorium.
The woman in the headset waved me over, too. "They're about to announce," she said. "It's time."
I tried to smile, but my heart was beating so hard it made my hands buzz.
Romi walked around the corner, heels echoing like a countdown.
I watched her go, then stared at my hand. Still tingling. Still wanting.
The category was Best Female Rap Artist. The stakes were higher than ever. And all I could think was, I want to win, but I want her more.
I flexed my hand again, shook it out, tried to focus.
The walk to my row was a blur. My vision locked in, every edge outlined in blue from the lights tucked under each step. The world had shrunk to two things: the seat waiting for me, and the thunder in my ribcage.
Stacks was back in her place, leg bouncing. I almost laughed, but my stomach was a tight, dangerous knot.
I dropped into the chair, smoothed my dress.
The stage was bathed in a gold haze. The air itself felt charged, as if someone had rubbed the whole auditorium with a balloon and dared the universe to touch the doorknob.
I tried to find Romi, but the spotlights killed all visibility past the first row.
The lights dimmed.
A producer over a loudspeaker counted down to cameras, and the hush that fell was so sharp it cut through the chemical cloud of the venue. You could hear every click of a phone shutter, every exhale, every secondhand anxiety in the room.
A celebrity presenter—one of those ex-boy band guys trying to rebrand as a pop philosopher—walked out, envelope in hand. He waited for the applause to die, then leaned into the mic, voice syrupy with anticipation.
"Our next award is for Best Female Rap Artist. The category is stacked, and the tension in here is real. Let's see who will take home the crown tonight."
The screens flickered to a highlight reel. Clips of the nominees—me, Romi, Stacks, two other women whose music I could only pretend to like—flashed in sequence.
The crowd ooohed and clapped at the right times. I stared at my face on the big screen, wondered if I looked as terrified as I felt.
The presenter cleared his throat. "And the nominees are…"
He read each name. Each time, the room erupted in applause, then slumped back to silence. My name came second. The pop when he said it was huge, but I didn't hear it too much over my pulse.
The moment before the announcement was a void. The presenter made a big deal of the envelope, fingers fumbling, face telegraphing suspense. The stage lights shifted to pure white, making everyone look like ghosts.
I realized I was gripping the seat so hard my fingers hurt. I forced myself to breathe, slow and even.
In the half-second before the winner was called, my brain ran every possible ending.
If I lost, I'd have to smile, clap, stand and pretend to be thrilled for Romi.
If I won, I had a speech memorized but knew I'd forget half of it on the walk up. If I tied, if I fainted, if I sobbed or laughed or did anything but the script—they'd run that clip forever. I'd never live it down.
Then the screens cut to the nominees, each of us boxed in our own square, every face arranged for the camera we all knew was zooming in.
The presenter broke the seal.
The world stopped.