Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
GIA
“Are you sure there’s no vibing?” Audrie asks. “You two combusted on stage in Osoyoos. And all those weeks together in the studio, you said the energy was crackling.”
We’re FaceTiming, Audrie in her new Queen Anne home, a high-flier neighborhood in the heart of Seattle.
She’s running a bath in one of those marble standalone tubs an entire family can fit in.
Rocking jewel-tipped acrylic nails and bundled in a robe at noon, she’s somehow transitioned into a kept woman without even trying hard.
“Yes and no. I dunno.” I rake a hand through my knotted hair, clocking her sleek, new, expensive cut. “The more time we spend together, the more I notice how he flirts with everyone. Even Brady thinks he has a chance.”
“How’s our favorite man-whore doing?”
“Based on his last text? Snatching up every pallet of glitter eye shadow.”
Audrie chuckles. “I’m a little jealous of y’all. Remember how we used to talk about our first European tour? That you’d fall in love with a tall, dark stranger, and your deflowering would be epic and sun-kissed.”
My heart pinches. What didn’t we talk about?
Audrie knows me better than anyone. When it comes to love and romance, I’m bringing classic vibes.
A big, fat Italian wedding? Yes, please.
With the skirt on my wedding dress so poufy, I need to squeeze sideways through the door.
I also want kids, eventually, with a loving husband who doesn’t stray.
And I want to lose my v-card in a way that matters.
Not some one-night stand soy boy grinding me into a dumpster behind the bar.
You only get one first time, and I want to do it right.
Audrie pours purple bubble bath into an arc of water gushing from the tap, and damn, what it must be like to have decent water pressure. “All the pieces are falling into place,” she adds. “At least tell him how you feel. Promise me you will?”
Little does she know I almost did. On one of those December drives back to my house, snow fell around us in big fat Hallmark-movie flakes.
We were snugged in his luxury car, bathed in the light of a full moon, both of us warm and loose from Fireball shots as we finished our conversation in the driveway.
JC looked at me, face in the shadows, and smiled.
And just as I worked up the courage to bust out something poetic like, “Hey, I like you. Wanna like me back?” he patted my shoulder (ugh!) and wished me a Merry Christmas.
One chaste kiss on the cheek and away he roared.
I don’t know if I felt relieved that I’d escaped mortal embarrassment or devastated that I’d read the moment so totally wrong.
With that kind of luck, why step up to the plate a second time?
“The problem is,” I say, “it’s more than navigating my feelings for JC.
I’m in bed with the entire Trenton family.
Friends with Rhys and Dani. Sawyer’s managing the band.
I’ve met their parents.” God, it feels like a hopeless knot that will unravel with one wrong move, and I'm scared to lose my found family.
“Sometimes I think fuck my pathetic longing. Leave well enough alone.”
Audrie turns off the tap. Tests the water temperature. “Which is so not your style.”
“But you get it, right?” I press. “This shit can get messy fast.”
One of Audrie's favorite games—classic East Van trash that defined our relationship since third grade—consisted of outlandish dares, such as the “Would you rather?” variety.
Grade school: Would you rather have Carolyn Kramer lose her hair or Cheryl Matheson gain a hundred pounds?
(Carolyn and Cheryl, the two popular mean girls.) High school: Would you rather kiss Eric Wilson or go down on him?
(Eric, the unattainable heartthrob jock who spoke to me once, demanding I get out of his way.) When we were shitfaced on Amaretto stolen from my parents' liquor cabinet: Would you rather eat fried tarantula tacos or a plateful of rotten worms?
(The low point, admittedly. No right answer.)
So, no surprise, my BFF has a fresh combo primed and ready.
“Would you rather not sleep with the man of your dreams or regret not trying for the rest of your life?”
“This is more than sleeping with him, A. I’ve never felt this way about a guy. But I also have no interest in being number three hundred and two.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Do you think he’s slept with that many women?”
At his condo, JC reacted to my almost-insinuation exactly like a man who shamelessly flirts with every breathing woman would. To his credit, there’s been less of it lately. But a ceasefire is just that—no guarantees.
“The thing is, I can only be number one in any man’s heart. Not sure he has the capacity for that.”
Audrie sighs, knowing me well enough that budging on my belief system is as likely as the sky turning brown. “We could find you a fake boyfriend. Make him jealous.”
“I’m not into fake anything,” I remind her. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
Some idiot “manager” in LA suggested I invest in a pair of boobs. Career elevation—his exact seedy words. Those tobacco-stained horse teeth of his are probably still rattling from how hard I slammed the door shut behind me.
“Keep me posted on all the tour happenings, good or bad. My phone is on twenty-four-seven,” Audrie assures me. “Pep talks, a shoulder to cry on, painkillers FedExed. Whatever you need, I’m one text away.”
My heart swells. My A-girl has my back, now and forever. “Thanks. I love you to the moon. Even though you’re to blame for this situation.”
Audrie pauses, mouth open like she wants to speak but isn’t sure what to say. Finally, she asks, “But you forgive me, right?”
My reply comes out shaky. “Sort of.”
It hurt like hell at first: Audrie whisked off into a new life seemingly overnight.
My dad tried to console me, saying it's always hard when your best friend grows up and discovers life without you.
The thing is, Audrie scored all the guys from day one.
The quintessential ash-blonde stunner: curvy, friendly, and a totally cute drunk, giggling at every lame joke or cheesy pick-up line from the mostly starstruck dudes who flailed their way into her orbit.
Me?
I probably gave off too much power-bitch energy. The guys who dared come near me were the wannabe musicians fishing for tips on how to get signed.
Cuddly as barbed wire?
My frustration is real.
Because underneath the spikes, I’m still a woman who craves connection with someone special.
Audrie hums a syrupy “Aww, Gigi.” And I don’t like hearing my old, comfortable pet name laced with sympathy. “Our lives will always be connected.”
I stop myself before I say it: Yes, and no.
A baby changes everything. And with JC only a stopgap to fill our guitarist hole, the uphill battle starts soon: sourcing a new guitarist and a bestie while Audrie’s days fill with baby talk and stretch marks and how little she sleeps.
Our small, intimate world is about to split wide open, a whole chasm opening between who we were and who we’re becoming.
Why does wanting it all require sacrifice?
It sucks.
“Oh, before I forget, let me read you this article I found on Pitchfork.”
I rub my temple and groan. “Really? Last time they called me an outlaw rock and roll shapeshifter.”
“No, this one’s actually not pretentious as fuck. For once.”
There’s a muffled sound as she pulls up the article. A tiny square of dense text pops up beside her face on the screen. I brace myself for the apex of self-important journalism.
Audrie drops into a deep, macho narrator voice: “There’s something baldly brilliant about the way Gia bludgeons her way through the potent repertoire of her addictive songs, and something genius in the way JC Trenton harnesses nuclear melodies from his guitar.
Credit Trenton Talent Management’s CEO, Sawyer Trenton, for a vision not even an absurdist could have imagined.
Pairing Gia and JC is akin to two great artists madly dragging oil pastels across a blank canvas to create a masterpiece. ”
“Bludgeons?” I roll my eyes. “Wow. Thanks, guys.”
Audrie snickers. “They mean your raw power. No one will ever accuse you of being Britney Spears. In a good way,” she’s quick to add.
“I’m one shaved head and barefoot-in-a-gas-station-bathroom scandal away from her mantle.”
“Nuh-uh,” she counters. “You’re reinventing the industry. Without being another blonde pop tart shaking her tits at the camera.”
I shake my head and let out a laugh. First of all, I have no tits to shake.
Second, trailblazing has its perks but also landmines.
Everyone cheers on the underdog, but Pop My Cherry’s rapid ascent means we now have a target on our backs.
As Sawyer reminded us, we’ll be under a microscope on this tour.
The spotlight is hungry to catch every slip and stumble, and nothing is more unmissable than a brazen front woman eating humble pie, one humiliating bite at a time.
“You will slay, Gigi,” Audrie says, lazily running her hand through the mound of frothy bubbles. “There’s no other way. Ride the wave all the way to the top.”
She cracks her trademark instigator smile.
For one brief, white-toothed moment, she’s not Audrie, engaged to the unfortunately named Paul Schlitzman and living her best life without me.
We’re still bandmates fighting the same battle, living the same dream.
“And ride JC all the way to blissful nirvana,” she adds as final slutty advice. “He is scary smoke-show.”
And packing, I don’t say. One of the benefits of the tight jeans JC prefers is a front-row view of Package City. Audrie swears sex hurts the first time, even with a string bean dick. Guess I should pack a muzzle just in case. Whatever hangs between JC’s legs will definitely leave me howling.
If only the music snobs at Pitchfork could hear that noise.
At midnight, I’m trying to cram a month’s worth of H&M’s finest into Mama’s ancient suitcase.
Tai said to pack light. I interpreted that as one huge-ass bag.
Dad hauled the only decent piece of luggage we own to his Chicago conference, so I can’t lose the battle to close the zipper on this damn thing.
I flatten myself across the bag and yank with everything I’ve got. C’mon!
Then zzzp, and finally, it closes.
I sit at the end of my bed, breathing hard, sleep nowhere in sight.
But I’m packed. Ready as I’ll ever be for a life-changing event.
And I did prepare, splurging on a lacy push-up bra and matching panties in case fate turns in my favor.
(No way JC sees me in Costco cotton hip huggers.) Also scored a bikini perfect for poolside lounging once we hit Barcelona.
But our tour officially kicks off in London with two nights at the Royal Albert Hall. Holy shit. Talk about making an entrance.
We’re arriving a day early to attend a swanky party for the Rose Dylan Agency, Rhys and Dani’s new venture.
They timed the event to kick off right as our tour starts, because of course they did.
Those two have slayed the day ever since they fell in love.
In the blink of an eye, they’ve gone from “creatives with a dream” to serious players in the media game.
They designed all our tour swag and promo and asked us to attend the gala as special guests.
Dani texted for my sizes last week because Rhys has designers falling all over themselves to dress us.
I wore ripped jeans and Doc Martens to grad.
Me in flowy Dolce and Gabbana?
Staggering around in diamante stilettos?
I gaze at myself in the mirror on the far wall, seeing past my reflection, mind whirling.
It feels beautiful and strange, this path opening up before me.
Last night, like the manifester I am, I visualized our own framed wedding picture.
JC and I decked out in matching Chucks and designer finery.
Miss Gia Barlow, the Eastside spitfire, fueled by Fruit Loops and pro-grade espresso, upgraded to champagne and caviar, the sky sun-filled, our families smiling.
I don’t know where that thought came from.
But it felt possible.
For the first time in my life, I’m starting to understand why Audrie devours romance novels. Every queen needs a king, right?
My phone chimes on the floor, and I scoop it up. It’s JC. I smile stupidly like a woman in a trance. He always makes my world better.
JC: Hey, rock star. You asleep yet?
I quickly text back:
GB: U kidding? I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
JC: Not a good omen the night before a flight.
GB: TY 4 the upgrade. If we go down, at least we go down in style.
JC: Happy to splurge. It’s your first trip across the pond.
No one flies business on the Trenton Talent Management dime. Premium economy, maybe, if you boost their bottom line hard enough. JC used points to score us sleeper seats in business, but honestly, I’d travel cargo for this opportunity.
JC: Get ready for your close-up. And don’t forget about us little people.
My heart does a little flip. Is he serious? As if I could forget the biggest leap of my career while trapped on a tour bus trying very hard not to imagine him falling onto me by accident. Repeatedly.
GB: U still swinging by at seven to grab me?
JC: Your chariot awaits. Uber Premier.
A glow spreads across my skin. I’m floating, already imagining the European crowds losing their minds, me deep in the musical cloud where no one can touch me.
And JC…
The dizzying dream of him touching me all over, pinning me in place with those gentle hands. That look of his, melting the mental barrier I’ve built—the one that whispers he can’t want a virgin.
My fingers fly across the screen.
GB: I’m excited. And nervous.
I stare at the typing bubbles, holding my breath, holding on so tight, it hurts. Admitting even a sliver of fear feels like cracking open the window to my soul.
The dots disappear.
Reappear.
Then—
JC: Me too. On both counts.
I stare at my screen, confused.
Me too?
What could he possibly be nervous about? The man has owned stadiums. He can command a crowd with a single toss of that sinful sex hair. What possibility am I not seeing?
Unless…
I feel my pulse jump. At the same time, all the air squeezes out of my lungs. I shut my eyes and center.
Slow down, Gia. Breathe.
For a second, I feel lost inside my own body. Is this the stroke of luck I need? Both of us out of our element to make it happen?
There’s only one way to find out.