Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Olive
At some point in the last six haze-filled days, I agreed to this interview. Although I’m not at all convinced it was me who agreed to it, and more my manager’s doing.
Josie has a way of suggesting I do things, but making it feel like it is my idea.
Like the auction a week ago. While that night was well and truly out of my hands, I will never actually admit out loud that I had a nice time. Avery wasn’t as insufferable as I expected him to be.
But Josie claims this interview was all me, and I’m too tired to tell her she’s wrong.
Not like it matters. I’m already here, mic’d up and ready to go.
They had a woman offer to do my hair and makeup as soon as I walked through the doors to the studio.
I agreed to the hair because she promised to keep it simple—soft waves hanging just above my shoulders, but I politely declined the makeup.
I already have to wear it for every show so I don’t look washed out on stage I don’t want to wear it when it isn’t necessary.
I don’t think an interview for YouTube where a guy talks to me while we paint and drink a glass of non alcoholic champagne, falls in the category of high importance.
Not like anyone will watch it, anyway.
There’s an empty canvas on an easel on the table before me.
A paint palette with blobs of red, yellow, blue, black and white, and a champagne flute with bubbles rising to the top on a constant loop.
I feel my skin crawl at the unknown of all that is about to go down, and how out of my control it all is.
But I promised Josie, who promised the label, that I would do whatever it takes to make it.
A promise I'm regretting with each passing day.
"This is just a regular interview," Josie reminds me, placing her phone in her lap, her dark eyes making contact with mine. "You’ve had media training to prepare for situations like this. It should just be all muscle memory for you."
She’s right. While on the last tour with Akira, when I wasn’t on stage, I was preparing for this tour in more ways than one. It should be a cake walk.
"I’ve got it covered," I assure her with a tight, weak smile, right as Trevor Lockwood, the host of Paint and Spill, enters the room.
"Good to meet you," he says, taking the seat on the other side of the table. The difference between his smile and the one I just gave Josie is that his appears genuine.
"Likewise," I respond, shaking the hand he’s holding out for me.
There’s no fluff. No banter in between, not even an attempt at conversation to get to know me.
He’s here for business, and nothing more.
Good.
As soon as he lets go of my hand, one of the many producers around us gives him a nod, and I know it’s go time.
I’m about to put my horrible painting skills to the test, while giving this man as little as I can get away with.
"Welcome to today’s episode of Paint and Spill. I’m your host, Trevor Lockwood. Joining us is none other than new music sensation, Olive Herring." He turns his attention to me, and I give him an awkward wave. "Olive, I assume you know how this works?"
No. I’ve never watched a single episode. I found out this segment existed in the car ride over here. "Yes."
The lie comes out easier than I expected it to, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he looks away from me, filling in the audience while I pay close attention to the rules so I don’t mess this up.
From what I gather, it all seems pretty straightforward.
He fires question after question at me, and I answer them to the best of my ability, while we sip our champagne and paint a picture on the blank canvas in front of us.
Once he’s finished his explanation, I determine that while I haven’t got a single creative bone in my body outside of music, I will do my best to try to paint whatever image he tells me to.
He picks up a cue card from in front of him, clearing his throat before reading it out loud. I feel my cheeks heat at the look he gives me, and I know in my gut that I’m not about to like what he’s going to say.
"The image we’re painting today is a basketball court." He smiles with an eyebrow raised, and I immediately know the way this interview is going to go.
Of course, an interview about my career is somehow flipped and focused on a man I barely even know.
I should've seen it coming.
Here. We. Go.
***
‘She’s so robotic.’
‘Is there anything else to her other than her ability to sing songs?’
‘How can anyone not find her boring??? Seriously.’
‘Trevor is asking her all the right questions, but it’s like having a conversation with a tree.’
‘Oh my god, how does my girlfriend like this chick?’
‘She’s such a plain Jane. I think I fell asleep watching this interview like, three times. At least her voice is soothing, I guess.’
‘YAS QUEEN, give us absolutely nothing.’
‘Why does she deflect when asked about my boy? Seems Avery already has her on a short leash.’
‘At least Jones doesn’t have to worry about her talking too much during—’
"Surely you’ve read enough of those comments?" My attention snaps to Josie, my eyes burning from my fixation on the screen. I watch her over the top of my laptop screen, her expression all too smug. Like she’s caught me doing something embarrassing, and cannot wait to tell my parents.
I didn’t think the interview would go live right away, but it was uploaded to YouTube almost immediately after we got back to our hotel. The views climbed quickly, and comments rolled in with it.
I knew people could be assholes, but I didn’t think it would have this type of emotional impact on me. Maybe I’m not as tough as I used to be. Or maybe living in a small town didn’t truly prepare me for the real world and the harsh realities.
I did well, though. I avoided any questions about my personal life at any cost, like my PR training taught me to do. I could tell Trevor was getting frustrated.
I may have intentionally not given him a lot when he tried to squeeze me dry, but I also live a very boring life. Nothing exciting is happening to me aside from the tour.
It’s as simple as that.
I don’t have a love life, I definitely don’t have a sex life, because all I really have time for is work. And even then, I haven’t even had the time to try to write anything new.
I woke up this morning to texts, phone calls, and Instagram messages, all from people wanting to know what was happening between Avery and me, to which I responded, ‘absolutely nothing.’ My family believed me, but Lizzie was disappointed.
She told me she wanted to live vicariously through me because the men back home were simply boring, or already happily married.
I laughed it off and changed the subject to Willow.
My photo album is now full of pictures and videos of my niece, doing nothing but sleeping or attempting to roll over.
"I’m not reading the comments," I tell her, quickly clicking the tiny x at the top corner of the page before opening a new window. Not that she can see my screen from where she sits.
"Good. Your final show here in New York is tomorrow, and I don’t exactly want you to be mopey on stage. Well, more so than you already are."
I hear the words she says, I really do, but they don’t have the same effect on me she expects them to.
If I had let her words sink in, maybe they would have, but it seems I’ve found another topic to bury myself in.
Avery Jones.
If the world wants to know what’s going on with him and me, I want to know who he is, outside of basketball.
"Why are your fingers tapping away at your keyboard like an angry woman writing to the manager?" She walks over to me, flopping down onto the couch, her view of my screen now obvious. "Ooh, has he finally piqued your interest?"
"No." I slam my laptop closed, realizing I can sneakily Google him on my phone without her prying eyes. "And I do not mope, by the way. It’s hard to mope when you’re too busy trying not to mess up your own songs."
She hears the frustration in my voice and changes the subject again. "Should we watch a movie or something?" Crossing her feet at the ankle on the very expensive coffee table in my hotel room, Josie picks up the remote control from the couch beside her.
"Uh, I’m a little tired," I tell her, hoping she gets the hint. Instead, she throws a blanket over her legs.
Her night is just getting started when mine ended hours ago.
A knock sounds at my door before I can come up with an excuse to get her to leave.
Tonight is the first night I planned to be completely alone with no distractions. But there’s nothing quite like pumping yourself up to do something that takes every ounce of courage you have, only to not get the chance to do it.
I mean, what I have planned isn’t exciting.
It’s my medication, for Christ's sake. An unfortunate necessity that I need to force myself to become acquainted with. One I’ve put off for six whole days.
Having a crowd while I administer my first dose, isn’t exactly how I pictured it going.
This is for me to deal with, and me alone.
I need peace. I need silence. I need clarity, or I might jab it into the wrong spot, or do it too fast or too slow, or with not enough pressure.
I need…to be alone
Dammit.
Opening the door, a green-eyed Akira Rain stands in front of me, a bottle of expensive champagne held out in her extended hands. "I thought we could celebrate," she says, pushing past me, heading directly into my kitchen.
"Great," I whisper to myself, trying to think of a game plan, a way out. Because if one thing is absolutely clear, it’s that my night has been planned for me, and I don’t think I’ll be able to make them leave without coming across as rude.
"Wait, what is that?" She places the bottle of champagne down onto the marble kitchen counter, staring directly at my painting from earlier today.
"‘That is supposed to be a basketball." I shudder when I take in the orange blob painted over a blue sky.
"You mean you kept it?" Akira asks, her nose scrunched up. "I watched that interview and assumed you’d just…set it on fire or something."
"I tried to toss it out for her, but she wouldn’t let me." Josie chimes from the couch. "Ooo, champagne! Yes, please!" My manager leaps to her feet, making her way to my kitchen, helping herself to glasses on the top shelf.
"It’s not that I didn’t let you. I just didn’t want them to see you do it," I say.
"He’s growing on you, isn’t he?" Josie asks, and Akira freezes as she reaches for a glass Josie just set down.
"Can we drop it? It’s a painting, not a love letter."
I never thought I’d wish for the version of Josie I had before the auction. It’s like, doing something ‘fun’ made her realize that she didn’t constantly need to be so strict, and now she’s trying to throw me under the bus or catch me in a lie.
I kept the painting, and that’s all there is to it.
My circle is tight.
The people I allow into my life typically share the same DNA as me, and that’s how I intend on keeping it. But having Akira and Josie around lately just feels right.
Whether their friendships will be permanent or on a strict work basis, it’s hard to tell.
I just don’t know if it’s what I want.
I watch the two of them as they sit and gossip about God knows what, mentioning names I’ve never even heard before. But there’s no talk about the shows we’ve played, and how tomorrow is the last one in New York before we take off to our next location.
It’s like Akira doesn’t realize she’s currently the biggest artist on the planet. Like, somehow she’s just a regular girl with a regular job, living paycheck to paycheck with a normal nine-to-five routine.
Glamorous lifestyle aside, she’s just a woman, unwinding with two of her friends after a long day of work.
She was a stranger to me once. One I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Now, with the size of this tour, it feels like all eyes are on me, just waiting to make one wrong move.
And it feels like Akira could be that wrong move, if I let her be.
"Do you want a drink, Ol?"
"I don’t drink," I blurt out while Josie watches me, and Akira pauses mid pour to stop herself from filling the third glass.
"Like, at all?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. "Not even one? For me?" She pouts her pink, full lips, and I give her a quick shake of the head. "You drank the last time we—"
"It, uh, messes with my medication." I stiffen at the involuntary words I just spoke out loud. I’ve said too much. "I’m just getting over a stomach bug, or something. Doctor said to steer clear of any alcohol that might set it off again."
Well done, Olive. Tell your friends you spent the last week puking your guts up and shitting yourself. That’s one way to make sure they don’t stick around.
"You’re not contagious, are you? Oh no, I’ve been around you all day." Josie holds her hand to her stomach, her white blouse no longer tucked in and hanging loose around her waist.
"No, I think I ate something bad. Last I checked, you can’t catch that.
I’m all clear. Just need to finish this round of medication.
Maybe next time, though." I smile weakly, regretting this day more and more as it comes to a close.
"But I am beat, guys," I say, checking the time on my phone to see the clock edging closer and closer to midnight.
My medication will have to wait.
Again.
At this point, I’m treating it like it’s an option, and not a priority.
Putting it off has become a habit that I need to break.
"You’re right. It’s been a long-ass day.
Maybe we can do this when you’re feeling better.
" Akira smiles, throwing the champagne down her throat before slamming the glass down onto the bench top.
"We have a few days break in between New York shows and Ohio.
" She pauses, and leans in closer to my ear.
"Will you set a night aside for me?" Her fingertips graze my forearm, her eyelashes fluttering at me, and my stomach does this weird thing where it feels like it wants to run a marathon, fly away, and dig a hole six feet underground, all at once.
"Unfortunately, Olive doesn’t have a break on those days. I’ve pretty much got her schedule jam packed." Josie gives Akira an apologetic look, while collecting her coat and her bag. Akira nods, tucking the bottle of bubbly under her arm before waving goodbye, and heading out the door.
"See you both tomorrow," she says, closing it behind her.
"While I’ve got you…" Josie hesitates, her hands twitching at her sides. "Tomorrow, you might wake up to news you weren’t really expecting," she says, her gaze wandering to my phone that lights up on the screen with my sister’s name.
"I should probably get that," I say quickly. "It’s my sister."
"No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow." And with that, my once loud hotel room is now uncomfortably quiet, and I answer the call before the silence renders me useless.
"Hey, Lizzie."