Chapter 31
Theo
“Take it down a notch,” I whisper. “Giving you a tour is technically against the rules, remember?”
“My boy, on SNL. Meeting Kenan and shit.” Bryan’s whole face is bright with glee, his voice as loud as ever.
I sigh. “I’m not on SNL, Bry, my band is. And you could be here, too, if you hadn’t jetted off to Saint Lucia.”
Bryan, who’s wearing nothing but bright-blue swim trunks, throws a hand out behind him.
“You catching this view?” The view in question is a small cove of crystal-clear water ringed by palm trees.
On the white-sand shore, a beautiful woman perches in a bikini, sipping out of a coconut.
“You should’ve come with. I’ve been dying for you to meet Gemma. ”
“That’s Gemma? Wait, when did you two become vacation-serious? Last I remember, you were still flirting on the app.”
He shakes his head at me. “See, this is what happens when you get consumed by work. Everything I say goes in one ear and out the other.”
I make what I hope is my most charming apologetic face and he rolls his eyes. “Go on and give me the tour.”
I stroll down the hall, trying to look as nonchalant as possible with my camera out, and peek into the writers’ room.
Four twenty something men crowd around a table, heads bent over their laptops.
They’re surrounded by bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
One gesticulates wildly and I catch the words “Not actual bears, Jer, obviously.” In the corner, a woman with a buzz cut is curled on the floor, snoring.
“This is the writers’ room,” I whisper to the screen.
“Where the magic happens,” Bryan whispers back.
“They’re writing a skit right now. Can you hear that? Something about bears.”
“Hey, Gemma, come see this!” Bryan yells. The room full of writers startles and turns. I scramble back, mouthing Sorry, as Bryan keeps going: “He says there’s gonna be an SNL skit this weekend about bears!”
I hustle down the hall, carrying Bryan with me like a misbehaving toddler. “Too loud,” I hiss. This time when I glance at the screen, both Bryan and Gemma are crammed in front of the camera.
“Hi, Theo,” she says. “It’s great to finally meet you. Did Bryan tell you I watch SNL religiously?”
I glare at Bryan. “Hi, Gemma. So nice to meet you on this NDA-violating tour I organized for Bryan in exchange for his complete and total silence.”
“Do you think they’re going to do a skit about Hannah?” she asks, either not catching my sarcasm or deciding to ignore it. “They could do one about her paparazzi meltdown. Bryan showed me the TMZ video and said that was you carrying her away. I think that means you’re famous now.”
I groan. “You saw that?”
Bryan at least has the grace to look guilty. “It was everywhere, man. No avoiding it. It even made Entertainment Tonight, and you know my mom watches that. She called me all excited. For what it’s worth, we all agreed you handled yourself well. My mom said to tell you you’re looking buff.”
“Jesus.” I sigh. “What a nightmare.” Bryan yanks the screen so all I can see is his face. “Man, what’s up with you? You’ve been in a bad mood all week.”
I stretch out my neck and take a deep breath. “Everywhere we go, photographers have been waiting. It’s that Sasha Thee Pop Princess thing. The woman’s following is massive. People are going crazy trying to get Hannah’s reaction.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” he asks. “Your band’s getting famous. That’s a pill that’s going to come with some side effects.”
I’ve made it down the full length of the hall, so I turn into the only room with a door open, which happens to be packed with clothes. “Fitting room,” I whisper, and turn the phone so Bryan can see.
He whistles. “And there’s the woman of the hour.”
I crane my neck around a rack of cowboy costumes and find Hannah in the process of getting measured by two costume designers. They’re holding up pairs of pants and talking a mile a minute, so when our eyes catch, Hannah only nods before returning her attention to them.
“No wonder he’s willing to fall on his sword for her,” says a small, tinny voice from my phone.
Bryan widens his eyes at Gemma and hisses, “I told you not to repeat that.”
I duck between two racks of oversize animal costumes and clutch the phone close to my chest. “Everyone at the label is excited by this feud with Sasha. Roger’s over the moon we’re getting hounded by paparazzi.
It’s starting to feel like they want to keep Hannah .
. . I don’t know. Off-balance. But that would be unethical, right? Am I crazy?”
“Man, fuck Roger,” Bryan says, with the brashness of a man currently standing a thousand miles away from his boss.
“Bryan—”
“No, I mean it. You know how I feel about him. Remember that time he took credit for your work with that weird metal band, what were they called?”
“Sister Nightmare.”
“Right. I know you have this unrequited love for him, but he’s a user. I wouldn’t put it past Roger to be the one sending the paparazzi—”
Roger’s head pops into the empty doorframe. “Do I hear my name?”
“Roger!” I’m ashamed of how high my voice squeaks.
“What? Really?” Bryan calls. I hastily punch the screen until the FaceTime ends.
Roger steps into the open doorway, throwing out his arms. “Surprise!” He’s wearing an all-white suit, aviators, and shiny caramel loafers with toes so pointed the ends look like spears. “Your favorite boss is here.”
I throw an arm around him, exchanging brief backslaps. “I thought you were supposed to be in LA this week.” White-hot guilt hits me, but I swallow it down and try to keep a neutral face.
Roger stuffs his hands in his pockets and surveys the room. “Wrapped my trip early.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Couldn’t miss your first time in Studio 8H. Where’s our girl?”
I jerk a thumb behind me. “Right here.”
It’s hard to discern what Hannah’s thinking when I usher Roger past the racks of costumes and say—as loudly and brightly as possible—“Guess who showed up to support you?” Her face goes from curious to a blank mask.
For his part, Roger exudes enthusiasm. “Hannah Cortland,” he coos, thrusting out a hand. His wrist is weighed down by a massive watch. “Roger Braverman. It’s wild we haven’t met before now.”
Hannah coolly inspects Roger’s hand. He always glows with good health, but in today’s all-white ensemble—one I’m sure cost more than a month of my rent—he’s perhaps a shade too tan.
To my relief, she finally gives Roger’s hand a pump. “I’m guessing we haven’t met because the Saints were never worth your time before,” she says, and my relief is dashed.
But Roger only smiles. “You’re probably right.”
She returns the smile without teeth. “Did you get my flowers?”
“What flowers?” I ask.
Roger laughs too loud. “This one sent flowers to my office after the Vegas show. Wanted me to thank her for the stunt she pulled at Caesars Palace. Credit where credit’s due, it sold a lot of tickets.” He nods. “Girl’s a firecracker. Which is why we love her, right?”
“Right—” I start.
“Dear god,” he says, his attention switching whiplash-fast. “Is this what you’re wearing?” He turns over his shoulder and yells at the two costume designers. “Excuse me! I need someone.”
Hannah looks down at her top, a sequined corset that glitters in the fluorescent lights. Onstage, she’ll be a pillar of light.
Our eyes meet. “I like it,” I say softly.
“No, no,” Roger insists as the costume designers scurry over.
“What is this shit—is she going to a club? Think suicide-chic.” He snaps a finger at one of the designers.
“Show me your hoodies. The baggier the better. Her brand is sad girl, okay? You’re going to paint that shit around her eyes. The dark, moody stuff.”
Hannah looks at me. I read the question in her expression. The implicit trust.
“It’s Roger,” I say, trying to will my confidence into her. “He always knows what he’s doing.”
“Damn straight.” Roger claps me on the back. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to make a great department head.”
I can’t help my reaction—those are the words I’ve been waiting for. My face splits into a grin: too wide, nearly beaming. I clear my throat and rub a quick hand over my mouth, trying to wipe it away before I embarrass myself. “Uh, thank you. So much.”
Hannah watches it all. Her eyes are still on me when she says, “Okay, Roger. Go ahead and dress me.”