Chapter 16 She Tastes Like the Real Thing, My Fake Plastic Love
She Tastes Like the Real Thing, My Fake Plastic Love
RIFF
ABOUT AN HOUR EARLIER
“Wow,” I say to Mikayla, “this is … kind of crazy.”
“It is.” She seems to be taking me in, observing my clothes, my demeanor. “But it’s really good to see you. You’re looking … sharp.”
Because I’m still caught off guard by her being here, I tug on my lapels and say, “Why, thank you,” in a playful tone that makes me sound like a dumbass.
I forgot how she used to think my sense of humor lacked sophistication.
Clearing my throat, I add, “You look … very nice, as well.”
She really does. Mikayla doesn’t “glam” up often, she always leans more toward professional—chinos with blouses, that sort of thing—and practical. I liked that about her, that she wasn’t too focused on material things, just on her goals. But I won’t lie, she’s a vision tonight.
Which leads me to realize how attracted I am to ambitious women. Mikayla is like Harmony that way, and creative too. Not that I’m attracted to Harmony. I was. Right now it’s—I mean, not that I’m not attracted to her, but, what I’m trying to say is—
Never mind.
“Thanks,” Mikayla says.
“So, how are you liking the new job? I can only guess you’re here tonight because they wanted you at Ultracity.”
“What, you don’t think I’d get invited to a daXx party unless my job was daXx-adjacent?” She smiles.
I smile.
“The job’s great,” she tells me in answer to her own rhetoric. “I’m heading up the design for a special vinyl edition of the Super Surger EP. It’s going to have a neon Bauhaus feel to it; I’m looking forward to putting it all together.”
Because of our year-long past relationship, I know what Bauhaus means, so I can draw a mental image. “That’ll look amazing.”
Mikayla has won awards for her work, including the art for my second album.
She directed the photography (sun-faded film emulation) then used a rugged handwritten font for the title and headers, and laid out the images and lyrics in a minimalist editorial style.
It was hailed as “a look book for the modern country man, with an air of summer nostalgia.” I don’t ever pull out that album because it might as well have Mikayla’s fingerprints all over it.
That, and I’m not passionate about the songs I wrote (or co-wrote) for it.
It was during the photo shoot that I met her in the first place.
Over the next forty-five minutes—probably longer—she tells me about all she’s done since we broke up, the connections she made that helped her get a foot in the door at Ultracity, the interview process, and her first few days there and how the label differs from SiNKroNyze.
Then she asks about my deal with Glambam (I tell her the whole story of how I ended up getting signed) and my upcoming album (I describe the record’s overall direction and mention a few songs specifically), and finally, she brings up the subject I’ve been dreading most: Harmony.
“So what’s the deal with you and Harmony Sonora?”
How do I even begin?
“I’m surprised that didn’t come up earlier,” I admit. “Usually that’s the first thing people ask—maybe the second thing if they’re trying to be polite or not seem desperate for the scoop.”
“Glad to know I successfully padded my curiosity with plenty of other questions.” Her tone is lighthearted, but the way she drags her finger around the rim of her glass tells me something different.
She only ever does that when she’s nervous.
But why would she be nervous? “Where is Harmony, anyway? I’d love to meet her. ”
I glance around but don’t see Harmony in the great room. Which is good; I don’t want a witness to this. I don’t want Harmony to know how pathetic I am, sitting in front of my ex right now wondering if she still has feelings for me. “Really? I thought you didn’t like her.”
We never talked about Harmony when we were dating, but I do remember more than once Mikayla changed the radio station after one of Harmony’s songs came on in the car, and another time she commented on the pop-art cover of The Harmony Project, saying, “Well that was a choice …”
Mikayla curls her fingers around the stem of her martini glass. “I have nothing against her.”
“You just don’t care for her music.”
“It’s not my favorite. It’s a little angsty.”
I don’t know why, but when Mikayla says this, I feel something akin to what I felt during the Play By Hear interview, like I want to come to Harmony’s defense. “Angsty” isn’t an insult, I don’t think, but it feels like a reduction of Harmony’s music.
“Not to mention,” she adds, “that a lot of it hasn’t exactly been friendly to you these days. Speaking of which … how did you guys manage to get past that?”
“Every couple says things they regret,” I reason.
“Things like, ‘Everything about you is nothing but fiction’? Or, on your end, ‘She’s a lit match next to gasoline’?”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve really been following the feud …”
“Hard not to. It’s all anyone can talk about. In fact, just this past Monday, my boss was saying she wished Ultracity had a spectacle like that to draw attention to our artists.”
“A spectacle,” I repeat bitterly.
“Well that’s all it is, isn’t it?” She leans in close and whispers: “A big show?”
My pulse kicks up. “What makes you say that?”
“Come on, Griffin. I know how this works. Fans are more than ready to ship two people who look good and sing well together, and you think, ‘Sure—why not feed into their fantasy?’ It boosts engagement and, subsequently, sales. It’s an easy choice.”
“You think Harmony and I are just doing this for attention?”
I mean, we are. But it didn’t start out like that. The diss tracks were genuine; the label had nothing to do with those. And it’s not like either of us was happy about taking it to the next level when Charles started playing career chess with us.
“Aren’t you?” Mikayla asks.
“Is that what you think of me? That I’m eager to perpetuate lies about myself? You of all people know how much I hate the … the costume … that I have to put on for my music.”
“Right, but that hasn’t stopped you from playing along all these years. Why should now be any different? I’m not saying it’s your fault. I know it’s complicated, that you don’t feel like you have much of a choice.”
“Harmony and I met at a party and we hit it off,” I say clearly. “Then we had a misunderstanding, which led to us writing a few songs about each other. All of that was a hundred percent authentic.”
Mikayla gets pensive, playing with her glass again. “You … you really hit it off?”
“Yeah. We had a nice time. She was great.” Mentally, I reflect on the conversation Harmony and I had, all the random things we talked about, the cute way she would gesture when she got especially animated about a topic.
“It seems like that was short lived though, if you ended up in a song right after.”
“Yeah, but even when we were fighting, it was sort of like a tennis rally, you know? Fast paced, suspenseful. She’d fire at me, I wasn’t sure I could get to the ball in time, but then I’d send it back and she’d have to scramble for it.
Making her scramble was really satisfying.
Then again, so was watching her surprise me with backhand that nearly took me off my feet. ”
Thinking about “Mr. Five-Foot Ten,” I’d have to say that was the equivalent of a solid backhand swing in Harmony’s favor, no matter how it stung.
“Wow,” Mikayla says. “Sounds like quite the … whirlwind romance.” By her tone, I sense she doesn’t approve.
That reminds me of my own lyric, “She’s the eye of a hurricane,” and I say, “‘Whirlwind’ is pretty accurate.”
“Then tell me this: How did you go from diss tracks to … whatever you’ve got going on now?”
“Well we … talked it out … obviously. Realized we’d been too harsh. Apologized, all that.”
She scoffs. “Sure.”
“What do you mean, ‘sure’?”
“I don’t know.” Mikayla shrugs. “It just seems a little too easy to me. A little too … convenient. You’re both releasing new music soon, you already have the nation’s attention from the feud.”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘serendipitous.’”
“Maybe.”
“Why is it so important for you to poke holes in my relationship? You broke up with me, remember? You knew I was dead serious about you, but I wasn’t what you wanted.”
Mikayla takes a ragged breath and slides her hand on top of mine.
“What if I told you I only came to this party because I heard you were going to be here? If you believe in serendipity, then my job at Ultracity serendipitously allowed me this opportunity, although the choice to accept was a calculated risk on my part. I felt like I needed to see you.”
I shake my head. “What? I don’t—”
“The night I ended things, I knew you had the ring. I’m sorry—you’ll never know how sorry—but I couldn’t let you ask what you wanted to ask.
You had started talking about how serious you were, on and off for months, how sure you were about us, and every time …
I didn’t know what to say, how to tell you that I wasn’t quite there, or that I wasn’t confident we were a good fit long term. ”
“So you were fully aware …” My stomach lurches.
She nods. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. Or that I … don’t … still.”
I gape at her, speechless for a long moment before I manage to say, “You … could have talked to me any time. You could have asked to see me, or called. Instead you waited for an excuse, at a place like this?”
“I needed to see for myself.”
“See what?”
“Whether you were happy with her. Whether it was real.”
“And if I hadn’t started dating Harmony? If you hadn’t seen everyone freaking out about it online? Would you have tried to talk to me then?”
“I …”
“Or is it just because it’s her?”
“I think you deserve better than that,” she admits. “Better than someone who would publicly embarrass you over and over. In a way, I guess seeing you with her made me feel … protective. My mother always says protective instincts can reveal the truth about who really matters to you.”
My behavior on the podcast immediately comes to mind, but I can’t pick that apart right now, so I put a pin in it.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I argue. “I never was. Some of it was tough to listen to, but Harmony says what she thinks, heart on her sleeve, even if it’s wrong.
Unlike you, who kept your thoughts and opinions to yourself when it was important.
You could have told me from the start that you weren’t ready to talk about marriage, or that you were unsure, instead of letting me go on like an idiot. ”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“And then you hurt me anyway—far worse than if you’d spoken your mind sooner. I’d rather brutal honesty than gentle humoring.”
“You can’t tell me that’s the basis of a good relationship, though,” Mikayla says, nodding at something across the room. “Brutal honesty in song? Bantering like teenagers?”
I look up to see Harmony has entered, with Daisy Malloy and four other women. They’re smiling and laughing and trying out the slot machines.
An odd sense of peace comes over me.
“Maybe the feud was real,” Mikayla continues, “but I just don’t buy the rest of it. I know you, Griffin. I know—for obvious reasons—how you act when you’re dating someone, how sweet and affectionate you are. You’ve barely touched Harmony in public.”
“You know what?” I stand up, pushing away from the table.
“You make a good argument. Let me see what I can do about that.” I stride over to Harmony, not even sure Mikayla is watching because I don’t dare glance over my shoulder and lose my nerve.
But she has to be watching, and she damn well better get the point.
Harmony’s companions turn to see me as I approach, which prompts Harmony to turn too.
I reach her and put my hands on either side of her face and draw her lips to mine and kiss her deeply.
Everyone around us gasps, which gets the attention of even more people.
For an instant, Harmony is tense, but then she melts into me and kisses back like she’s been aching for it as much as I have.
I completely forget where we are. I don’t care anymore. She tastes as good as the night I met her—better, even.
When somebody whistles and snaps us out of our daze, I remember why I did this, the statement I originally wanted to make and to whom. I scan the room for Mikayla, but she’s gone.
Harmony, with her cheeks all flushed, strains her height on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear, “You’re all good. She definitely bought it.”
Her friends giggle and drag her off toward some roulette wheels (where you can’t lose, and all the winnings are from Rolex, Chanel, or Cartier). She smiles at me faintly, almost … sadly?
Did she want me to kiss her? Like, sincerely?
The irony.
In trying to convince Mikayla that my fake feelings were real, I think I’ve now convinced Harmony that my real feelings are fake.
Wait—real feelings?
I stare after her as she disappears into the crowd.
Shit.