Chapter 56
Theo
When I climb out of the subway station in Times Square, she’s staring back at me in full Technicolor, lording above the tourists, larger than life: the Future Saints, splashed across a billboard.
Even though I’ve seen this ad many times by now, I stop in my tracks, ignoring the angry grumbles from people exiting the subway behind me.
The three of them are a tortured, roaring, beatific triptych, their signature poses recreated for the album cover.
It’s been two weeks since I released Hannah into the care of her parents and a car bound for Malibu, yet with these ads for the Saints’ album blanketing the city, I see her ghost everywhere.
It makes me lonelier, somehow, to have her so close and so far away at the same time.
I pull my peacoat tighter against the autumn wind and keep walking in the direction of the restaurant where I’m meeting Bryan and Gemma for breakfast. Say what you will about California’s eternal summer, but a New York fall has its own charms, even here in Mid-town, with the trees ablaze in orange and yellow and the city bustling in preparation for the holidays.
I pause in front of a small flower shop next to the restaurant, admiring the bouquets of roses, lilies, and ra-nunculus in the window.
I’ve been feverishly tracking sales of the Saints’ album since it dropped, and they’re every bit as strong as we’d hoped.
It turns out no one listened to Jerry Hughes at the New York Times.
Consumers cared about YouTube reviews and TikTok edits, and they had a very different opinion of One Day, Virginia.
Looking in the flower shop window, I’m struck by the urge to pull a Hannah and send Roger a bouquet with a snarky note.
Maybe something like: You’re welcome for not trusting your tired instincts.
Enjoy the spectacular album sales. The thought of Roger’s reddening face while reading the note brings me a thrill, but the next moment, my shoulders slump.
What’s the point in harboring old grudges?
It’s time to follow Hannah’s suit and move forward.
I pull open the door to the restaurant and a bell chimes to announce me.
Bryan and Gemma are already sitting at a table in the back corner, arms entwined, practically in each other’s laps. When they see me, they pull apart and flash big smiles.
“My favorite entrepreneur!” Bryan calls. He looks as sharp as ever in a well-tailored suit, a colorful tie knotted around his neck. “What’s up, buddy? It’s been too long. I missed you.”
“Bry, we hung out two days ago.” I pull out a chair with my good arm.
My face has healed up in the two weeks since my fight on the beach, most of the bruising and cuts faded, but I’ll be in this sling for another couple weeks.
Bryan freaked out when he landed at LAX and saw the damage, but in my opinion, these injuries are the least I deserve after temporarily losing my mind and starting a fistfight with strangers.
Thank god the man I lunged at took pity on me and declined to press charges.
“Exactly,” Bryan says. “Two days is too long.”
He’s been happy to have me back in the city, to say the least.
Gemma stands to give me a half hug. “Sorry for making you come all the way out to Midtown.”
“No worries.” A waiter comes by and pours coffee, and I nod my thanks. “I had to make the trek anyway. I’ve got a meeting with a loan officer today.”
Bryan’s face lights up. “Is today the big pitch? Is that why you’re all gussied up?”
I nod, trying to contain my nerves. I’ve been mostly holed up in my apartment for the last two weeks, channeling my complicated emotions into workaholism in true Theo Ford fashion.
Now I’ve got a tight business plan for the fledgling Ford Records, and all I need to start putting things into motion is a loan from a bank.
God help me: I’m actually starting my own record label. I’ve taken business advice from the Saints.
“You’ll do great,” Gemma assures me. Unlike me and Bryan in our suits, Gemma’s work attire as an Equinox instructor consists of head-to-toe spandex. “Enneagram Type Twos are known for making strong connections with people right off the bat.”
I think of my disastrous first meeting with Hannah and the band and smile to myself. “Is that so?”
To Gemma’s credit, she’d been right so far about my Enneagram type. I happened to know that because she forced me to take the personality test not even four hours into our first meeting.
As the waiter returns for food orders, my phone vibrates so hard it nearly jumps off the table. I stare at the screen for a moment, wondering why the hell the Saints’ new manager is calling.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Gemma asks.
I frown at the phone. “It’s a guy I used to work with.” I haven’t heard a peep from any of my former coworkers since I was fired.
“Maybe Roger’s private plane went down in the Bermuda Triangle,” Bryan suggests, yelping as Gemma slaps him on the arm.
“I’ll be right back.” I grab the phone and wander to an empty part of the restaurant.
“Hello?”
“Theo! Wow, you must be on top of the world right now!”
I remember Patrick Auber as a happy-go-lucky guy, which is why I’d told the Saints he’d make a good replacement for me, but his tone is beyond happy—Pat sounds thrilled.
I can think of nothing in my life that warrants “being on top of the world.” “Uh, Pat? Did you call the wrong person?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Hold on,” he says cautiously. “Do you not know?”
I glance back at Bryan and Gemma, who are watching me, and shrug. “Know what?”
“Dude. The Grammy nominations were just announced.”
As soon as he says it, I remember: today is the day. I’d gotten so wrapped up in prepping for my bank meeting I’d forgotten to watch.
“And—” I stutter. “What did they—”
“Am I really the one telling you?” Pat’s voice is incredulous. “Oh, this is great. Theo, the Saints got nominated in every category we submitted them for. They’re sitting with five Grammy noms, man. The whole Manifest office is going nuts.”
The world tilts under my feet. I whip back to Bryan and Gemma. Bryan rises out of his chair, unsure what’s happening.
My Saints. My band. They’re Grammy nominees.
I could weep—right here, in a deli two blocks from Times Square.
“Congrats on ‘Family Fruit’ especially,” Pat continues. “How cool that you’ve got a Grammy nom under your belt too. I was calling to say—”
And that’s when Pat’s voice turns to white noise as I remember that it wasn’t just the Saints on the ballot. It was me.
Me. Theodore Ford Jr. A Grammy nominee. Not a middleman, but a cocreator.
Bryan’s gotten out of his chair to pace, his expression worried.
“—and it would be great to grab lunch sometime,” Pat is saying when I tune back in. “Give us a chance to catch up away from the office.”
“Yeah, sounds great, Pat.” I can’t get off the phone fast enough. “I’ll text you sometime—thanks so much—bye!”
I’m not even finished pressing the off button when I shout, “I just got nominated for a motherfucking Grammy!” Gemma screams. The worried expression melts off Bryan’s face. “What?” He seizes me and lifts me off the ground.
“Bryan, my arm!”
“Oh, shit—sorry!” He drops me like a hot potato, then turns to the mostly empty restaurant and roars, “My best friend got nominated for a Grammy!”
“You’re going on the red carpet!” Gemma shrieks.
A few kind waitstaff applaud politely.
“Oh my god.” I try to get ahold of myself.
But as soon as I focus, I go lightheaded again.
“I should tell the loan officer about this, right? Wait, should I reschedule for a day when I can think straight?” “Um, no rescheduling and yes, tell them.” Gemma looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“Tell them the second you shake their hand.” “Theo.” Bryan’s voice has grown serious. “Are you going to call him?”
I know who he means. Bryan’s the only person who knows I’ve been holding on to that slip of paper with my dad’s phone number. And if there was ever going to be a time to stride back into my father’s life, it would probably be now.
I try to picture it: my dad in the quaint Cleveland four-bedroom I’d found while searching his address on Google Street View, getting my call out of the blue.
Would he even answer? If he did, and he found out the son he left behind became a Grammy-nominated producer, would he tell me how much he regretted leaving, how he’d thought about me every day for the last fifteen years?
Would we talk for hours, make plans to see each other? Would my whole life change?
I can’t picture it.
Instead, my mind drags up a memory of the day I got my Dartmouth acceptance. How I’d waited with bated breath for my mom to come home from her second shift at the Dollar Tree, ambushing her with the letter as soon as she walked through the door. The weary pride
that filled her face. The way she’d hugged me so tight. Slowly, I shake my head. “No, actually.” Instead, I dial a different number. A few seconds later, she answers. “Theo.” My mom sounds so happy. “I was just thinking about you.”