Chapter 62
Theo
The woman onstage is incandescent. No longer haunted but achingly alive. She’s on her knees and we’re on our feet, the entire Grammy audience, clapping so hard our palms hurt, the sound of twenty thousand people shouting and whistling an overwhelming sonic experience.
Bryan, suave in his tux, grabs my arm. His eyes shine.
There will never be a better moment than this, watching Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny receive a standing ovation.
They’re trying to catch their breath—Hannah staggering to her feet, Ripper by her side, Kenny behind his kit—and they stare back at us like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.
Bryan cups his hands around his mouth and yells. I try to memorize everything.
The show lets the cheering go on for a few more seconds, and then the last thing I see before the lights go out is Hannah’s disbelieving face.
The stage turns black and a spotlight finds the next presenter, a luminary of R&B, resplendent at the podium.
I settle in my seat with the rest of the audience, but I can’t help staring at the stage, wanting to be back behind it where I belong.
As the presenter makes a joke about her own career that draws laughs, Bryan leans in and whispers, “Song of the Year—that’s the songwriting award Hannah’s up for, right?”
I nod. The Saints lost their Rock categories in the preceremony, so the odds aren’t great she’ll win one of the top prizes of the night, but hope buzzes in me nonetheless.
Bryan shakes his head as the presenter announces each nominee. “There’s no way the band’s actually breaking up. Not when they’re capable of a performance like that?”
“Talent was never their problem.” I’m too emotional to say more, so I take a sip of the water bottle I’ve smuggled in.
Tonight, Bryan and I have learned there are two versions of the Grammys: one for the famous people and one for the rest of us.
While the celebrities walked the red carpet and got seated at the small tables near the stage, with cocktail service, we were ushered in a normal door and now sit in stadium-style seating a mile away from a cash bar.
Bryan is still bitter he doesn’t get to rub shoulders with Beyoncé.
But his shock that the band is actually dissolving is nothing compared to what I’d felt two weeks ago when Kenny called to give me the heads-up.
With Hannah focused on her recovery, I understood it, even if I hated it.
She wasn’t allowed to bring her cell phone into rehab, but I’ve texted her a thousand times anyway, each note sent off into the universe like a message in a bottle.
Officially setting up Ford Records has kept me busy, but I won’t pretend I haven’t been counting the days until this ceremony, hoping Hannah would appear.
I don’t know if she has her phone on her tonight, or, more importantly, if she’s out of rehab for good or just the weekend.
I don’t even know if she wants to see me.
All I know is that I’m here watching her from among a sea of people, like the fan I’ve been since the beginning, and even if I don’t get anything more from Hannah Cortland, it feels like a gift.
Well. Also torture.
Bryan elbows me and I glare at him, rubbing my newly healed arm. “They’re back,” he whispers.
The Saints, led by a Grammy docent, make their way to a table up front, shaking hands and thanking the people who stop them for congratulations along the way.
They’ve changed out of their performance clothes.
Now Hannah wears a simple black gown, her golden hair loose down her back, and both Kenny and Ripper wear actual tuxedos, which may actually be the most surreal part of the night.
Hannah’s put on weight, and there’s a healthy flush to her skin.
The last few months have been good to her.
There’s a deep pang in my chest.
Bryan squeezes my shoulder as the presenter clears her throat and the auditorium goes quiet in anticipation. She begins to unfold the envelope. “And the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to . . . ” She glances down, then leans into the mic. “Hannah Cortland, ‘Six Feet Under.’”
I clutch Bryan as he shrieks, “That’s our girl!
” and the audience applauds louder than they’ve cheered for anyone all night.
Up at the Saints’ table, Kenny leaps out of his chair and Ripper tugs on Hannah, trying to get her to stand.
I wish more than anything that I could see her face in this moment.
I wish I could grab her and tell her I’m so fucking proud.
Ripper finally succeeds in getting Hannah to stand, and the audience quiets once more as she makes her way up the stairs to accept the golden gramophone. She turns to face us, wide-eyed, and people in the nosebleed section start to whistle.
Even from where I’m seated, I can see her hands shaking.
I hold my breath for her.
“I . . . ” Hannah bites her lip and looks down, too overwhelmed.
The whistling and clapping escalate. Like always, the audience wants all of you when you’re onstage, and she’s giving it.
She takes a deep breath, and when she tries again, her voice is steadier.
“I’ve dreamed of standing here my whole life.
” She glances at the statue. “I wanted this so badly.”
Shouted encouragement breaks out, followed by laughter.
“I grew up,” Hannah says, still looking at the gramophone, “with no talents other than the strange one of being able to write a song. So I guess it made sense, growing up in an achievement-oriented household, that getting to this place, to the highest honor in our field, would be my goal. For so many years I thought getting here would show the world I was good enough.” Hannah’s gaze sweeps the arena, and the stadium hushes.
“But then my sister died, and everything changed. I got new dreams, and one of them was to keep her alive the only way I knew how. That’s why I wrote ‘Six Feet Under.’ And that’s why I need to thank the fans who organized the Patron Saint Virginia campaign, which is a more beautiful tribute to my sister than any I could’ve imagined.
I know I’ve been away for a while, dealing with my demons, but please know you’ve made my dream come true.
” She raises the gramophone. “Not this statue. You.”
The audience applauds again. My heart aches for her.
She tucks her hair behind her ear. I can almost feel the silk of it against my fingers.
“I also want to thank my dad for seeing that I needed something to be proud of as a kid and teaching me to play guitar. Ripper, Kenny, and Bowie, thank you for being the best friends a girl could ask for. Sorry, Bowie, but I had to say your name in public. Someone please pass him the smelling salts.” Her eyes scan the crowd and suddenly—improbably—they land on me.
Bryan squeezes my shoulder again. My heart threatens to pound out of my chest.
“I might’ve written this song before I met Theo Ford, but I wouldn’t be standing here today without him.
So thank you, Theo, for giving us everything you had.
Who knew our hero would arrive one day in a suit?
” Her amused eyes leave me and sweep the arena again.
“And speaking of suits. Wherever you are, Roger Braverman, for everything you’ve done .
. .” She pauses. The entire audience waits with bated breath. “Fuck you, and fuck Manifest Records.”
It’s like someone set off a bomb—gasps erupt across the arena. “Oh god,” I say, at the same time Bryan whoops, “Of course she did.” An entire table of hip-hop artists near the stage stands and applauds. It’s pure pandemonium.
Hannah leans into the mic, her eyes lifting to the rafters, and says, barely audible over the noise: “I hope that made you proud, Ginny. You know this is for you more than anyone else.”
Then she thrusts her gramophone into the air and strides off the stage.
It takes the next presenter, a ten-time-Grammy-winning elder statesman of country music, a solid minute to calm the crowd, which the producers can’t be happy about.
Bryan nudges me. “I can see you stressing, bro. But you’re not her manager tonight. You’re the talent. So fuck the rules.” I smile and exhale, trying to breathe past my knee-jerk worry. “Fuck the rules,” I whisper, trying it out.
“I’m honored to be back at the Grammys to present Record of the Year,” the country star drawls loudly, when the audience finally quiets and he gets an opening. “These are the outstanding nominees.”
Record of the Year. Bryan rubs his hands together. I think I might be sick. A video plays snippets from all the nominated songs on the large screen, including the Saints’ “Family Fruit,” which runs with the picture of the band that graced the Rolling Stone cover.
“And the Grammy goes to . . . ” The presenter struggles to open the envelope. It feels like the whole arena holds its breath, or else I’m projecting. “‘Family Fruit.’ The Future Saints.”
My hands fly to my face. Bryan leaps to his feet as the arena applauds. At the Saints’ table, Ripper and Kenny hug each other fiercely as the announcer starts listing everyone who worked on the song.
“Get up!” Bryan shouts. “They said your name! You won!”
The world shifts into a dream sequence. Bryan tugs me out of my chair and pushes me toward the stage. Everyone I pass turns to stare. I know in her lake house in Virginia, my mom is screaming at her television, or sobbing at it, or both. Maybe somewhere, my dad is watching too. Maybe he’s proud.
Ripper and Kenny barrel into me before I can make it to the podium.
“We did it, Suit!” Ripper shouts, jumping up and down. “We did it!”
“We fucking did!” I yell, all concern for producers and censors out the window.
Hannah emerges from backstage and the four of us, plus our mixer, Claudia Forsythe, huddle around the mic. There’s no time to even say hi to Hannah, much less everything I want to say. She shoves Kenny forward. “You’re up, Ken doll.”
I make the mistake of looking out at the audience as Kenny begins to say his thanks.
So many eyes stare back. And so many of them belong to musicians I’ve worshipped for years, sitting at tables only a few feet away.
My throat goes dry and my mind blanks, to the point that when Hannah tugs my hand, I turn to her with wide eyes, not understanding what she wants.
She smiles tenderly. “It’s your turn. Take us home.”
“You’re not going to speak?”
She shakes her head. “This one’s yours.”
Kenny and Ripper clear a path to the mic. I grip the sides of the podium, and for a second, all I feel is terror. Then I picture my mom watching and holding her breath for me the same way I held mine for Hannah—and suddenly, I can breathe again.
“When you’re a manager or a producer, you dedicate your life to the people you work for, and if you’re like me, you’re more than glad to do it.
” I squeeze the mic tighter. “But tonight I’d like to dedicate this award to a little boy who grew up lonely in Virginia, listening to Whitesnake after his father left, dreaming of a day when he would feel happy and whole again.
” I stand up taller and look straight into the audience, straight into the cameras, straight into the eyes of anyone watching from home.
“The seed of this dream might’ve been planted in sadness, but it’s grown into something joyful.
We did it, kid. I hope I’ve made you proud. ”
Lights flash and wrap-up music plays as the audience applauds.
Kenny and Ripper, giddy and laughing, push me toward the curtains where Grammy producers stand with golden gramophones, one for each of us, and it’s all so overwhelming that I almost miss when Han-nah leans in and whispers, “Meet me at the back door in ten minutes.”