Chapter 23
Theo
Speaking as a connoisseur of backstages, the Jimmy Kimmel Live!
setup is top-notch. Each member of the band is given their own dressing room, and even I have an office, complete with a loaner laptop and tasteful arrangement of white roses.
A sign on the door says “Theo Ford, Manager, The Future Saints” on an engraved placard rather than on a piece of printer paper someone’s taped to the wall. I’m thinking of stealing it.
Kimmel has a reputation as a stand-up guy, which is rare for comedians, especially those who were able to climb their way to the top.
The band and I have haunted his soundstage for the past two days, trying to get in as much practice as possible, and I’ve been happy to see that his reputation seems to bear out.
It makes me less nervous about the fact that, in a rare move, he’s asked to interview the band after they play.
It will be the largest audience we’ve put them in front of to date, and it’s a live show, which means anything could happen.
I lean against the wall outside a door marked “Hannah Cortland,” waiting for her to emerge. I’ve been killing time by tapping the rhythm to the song they’re debuting tonight, “Lady Dirtbag,” against my leg. After eating, breathing, and drinking their music
for two months, Hannah’s voice essentially runs on a constant loop inside my head.
The door opens, and a hair and makeup artist ducks out.
Hannah appears in the doorway, and the song in my head comes to a grinding halt.
I’ve never seen her in a dress before. It’s simple, a black slip with two delicate straps, but it hangs on her well.
Her thick hair’s brushed over her shoulders.
The stylist has even put fake eyelashes on her.
If she wasn’t wearing Doc Martens, I might not recognize her.
“No s-sleeping outside your door this time,” I stutter. “Just waiting to escort you to the stage.” I brace for Hannah’s eye roll, but it doesn’t come. She hasn’t moved, her hands still gripping the doorframe.
Her eyes travel the length of me. “You’re wearing an actual suit.”
I glance down at it. Dove gray and impeccably tailored, because I figured I shouldn’t show up to my first television show taping in anything less. But now my mistake hits me and I groan. “For the love of god, no Suit-in-a-suit jokes. I’m too on edge already.”
Down the hall, Kenny bursts out of Ripper’s dressing room, closely followed by Ripper himself. I point. “Even they’re dressed up.”
She squints. “Kind of.”
Kenny’s wearing one of those . . . Himalayan warrior robes we last saw on Dr. G in San Francisco. “He and Gunthy bought the robes together,” Hannah explains, catching my stare. “Obviously, ayahuasca was involved. I’m not sure what his excuse is for wearing it, though.”
“At least Ripper has a shirt on?” It’s a gimmicky T-shirt printed to look like the front of a tuxedo, but it will get past Standards and Practices.
“Theo Ford, as I live and breathe,” says a familiar voice. I turn, and there, of all people, is my college girlfriend, Liv Christie, striding down the hall holding a walkie-talkie.
“Liv?”
She throws out her arms. I run and sweep her into a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She laughs against my chest. “I’m a producer, dipshit. Don’t you remember I moved to LA?”
I pull back, hands on her shoulders, looking her over. She still looks exactly like she did in college: dark, wavy hair; a megawatt smile; natural elegance. “I had no idea you were in TV.”
She slaps my shoulder. “You’re sort of the one who got me this job.”
“What? Please explain.” Then I remember Hannah standing next to me, doing nothing to disguise her curiosity. “But meet Hannah first. Hannah, this is Liv. Liv, Hannah.”
“Of course I know our musical guest,” Liv says, sticking out her hand. “I’m one of your producers tonight.” She winks at me. “And this guy’s dreaded ex.”
“Not dreaded,” I correct. Mourned for and longed for, maybe. But that was years ago.
“A woman who wears many hats.” Hannah accepts Liv’s handshake. “It’s a pleasure.”
“I’m normally a classical girl,” Liv says. “Total Bach-head. But I love your voice.”
I shake my head at Liv. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. How?”
“Remember a year after college, when I was completely aimless, and you got me an interview with your talent agent friend? Well, a few years after working with them, they recommended me to their friend in late night, and that’s how I became a producer here.
All thanks to you being willing to help the girl who dumped you.
” She squeezes my shoulder so I know she’s teasing, but still, something twinges inside me, an echo of that past sadness.
Hannah smiles. “That does sound like Theo.”
“Which part? Helping me or getting dumped?”
Hannah laughs, but thankfully Liv’s walkie-talkie crackles before they can dig any deeper into making fun of me. “Liv, we’re ready for the band.”
“I’m going to walk her to the stage,” she says to me, then turns to Hannah. “I hear you’re doing five with Jimmy after?”
Hannah nods. “Fingers crossed I don’t choke.”
“Don’t worry. He’s a pro. Come on, let’s hustle.” Liv turns to me. “Meet you offstage?”
“Definitely.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and look at Hannah. “You good?” “Yep,” she says, surprisingly curt, looking between me and Liv. “You two enjoy the show.”
*
The second they disappear around the corner, I text Bryan.
THEO: You’ll never guess who I just ran into on the set of Kimmel
brYAN: IF YOU MET BEYONCE WITHOUT ME I WILL HOLD IT AGAINST YOU FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES
THEO: Probably should’ve offered more context. This is a normal person—Liv Christie.
brYAN: Damn. Blast from the past. What’s she up to these days?
THEO: Apparently she’s a producer on the show
brYAN: Was it awkward seeing her again? Did you tell her you moped around your apartment playing the Smiths and crying for weeks after you broke up? Did you beg for your Whitesnake T-shirt back?
THEO: I honestly forgot she had that. It wasn’t awkward. She seems happy, and that makes me happy.
brYAN: SIGH
THEO: What
brYAN: My best friend the martyr. Never met a sword he wouldn’t fall on or a wounded woman he wouldn’t fall in love with.
THEO: Slander
brYAN: Tell both your wounded women I said what’s up. That’s Hannah and Liv, in case you were wondering.
THEO: Expect my lawyers to be in touch
*
Liv and I stand offstage where the cameras won’t catch us as the Future Saints get into position on the small Jimmy Kimmel stage. I’m trying to memorize everything—the lights, the crew, the audience—when Liv glances at me. “Do you get this nervous every time they perform?”
“More or less,” I admit. “The first band I ever managed, I was afraid they were going to forget their words halfway through a song. With the Saints, I’m more worried they’re gonna . . . ”
“Fall off the stage? Smash an expensive guitar?”
“I see you’ve spent time on the internet.”
“Hard to miss these days.”
The audience hushes as the lights sweep the stage, and the director’s assistant points at the band.
They launch into “Lady Dirtbag,” a song Hannah swears is feminist because it’s about how women can suck as much as men.
I study the crowd. They’re into the song immediately, which is particularly exciting because Hannah let me help write the opening hook.
A minute in, Ripper muscles off his guitar and shifts to a piano in the corner, his long, tattooed fingers flying over the keys.
Sadly, that showboat bastard can play the piano perfectly.
Near the end, the song winnows to Ripper’s steady melody, Kenny’s low drumbeat, and Hannah’s voice, spare and raw. She closes her eyes, hands cupping the mic, as she tells us why she doesn’t deserve anything, not our pity, not our kindness, not our love. It’s mesmerizing.
I blink back into reality as the song cuts out and the audience explodes into applause, and then they’re standing. A standing ovation.
“Look at you,” Liv yells over the noise. “You’re vibrating.”
“That was good, right?”
“Yes, Theo. That was very good.”
The band exits and the show goes into a commercial break. In the lull, Liv turns to me. “Brief break, and then they’re back for their interview. You going to make it until then?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly the picture of composure, am I?”
“I think it’s nice. It means you really care.” Her eyes sweep my face. “So how’s life, Theo? Outside of work, I mean. How’s your mom?”
“There’s life outside of work?” I joke. “And she’s good. From what I can tell.”
Liv raises her brows, and I feel a jolt of regret for being too honest. I’d forgotten that everything that happened with my mom went down while Liv and I were still dating, so she had a front-row seat. “Don’t tell me the two of you still aren’t talking?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “We talk. Just not . . . much.”
She gives me a rueful smile. “It never made sense to me that a guy like you fell out with his mom. You’re so good at relationships. A lot better than I ever was, even in college.”
“Speaking of—Bryan’s curious whether you still have my old Whitesnake T-shirt.” I hold up my hands. “His question.”
“What a subtle change of subject.” Liv rolls her eyes, then gives me a contrite look. “Sorry. Nosy old Liv. Five minutes into our reunion and I’m poking old wounds.”
I sling an arm around her. “You might be nosy, but you’re still pretty cool.”
Once, years ago, I thought I’d marry Liv.
We met freshman year at Dartmouth, and I was immediately in awe of how freewheeling and uninhibited she was.
For a guy who’d had to work hard for everything, she was fascinating.
We were an opposites-attract couple: Liv’s family was rich, full of Dartmouth legacies, and summered in the Berkshires.