Chapter 33 Just Trust Me, You’ll Be Fine
Just Trust Me, You’ll Be Fine
HARMONY
As I sit in the back of my limo alone, wearing my gold-sequined bomber jacket, my Notes app cursor blinks at me from the bottom of a screen full of text.
There’s nothing more I can add to this.
After so many months of anticipating this day, it’s finally here—the day Griffin and I release our new music in tandem.
I haven’t spoken to him in a week, not since the morning after I told him I’d be conceding to FM Sound.
It wasn’t intentional, going this long without a word; I figured he’d try to call or text me, at which point I would reply (once I’d given Dana my answer and there was no turning back) and we’d slowly find our way back to each other.
But I never heard from him, and then I didn’t know how to bridge the gap in communication while also navigating the process of preparing this announcement for the public.
Maybe he’s mad at me, and maybe I deserve it, but that’s a fear I’ll have to deal with later.
For now, it’s hard to say where we stand.
However, the release party seemed like the best place to tell everyone where I stand with my music. There will be tons of press, plenty of attention. All eyes will be on us because of our media-worthy romance and collaboration. And this is important.
I reread my digital copy of the speech in a whisper even though the partition prevents the driver from hearing me, going over the beginning in a rush so that I don’t get emotional before I’ve even arrived at the party.
For this part, I mention that I’ve tried to get my first two albums back and talk about what they mean to me, how I wrote them when I was still young and struggling financially, how they came from the depths of my soul (more or less), and how they’ve been the means by which I’ve been able to keep making music to share with my fans.
I talk about how I’ve become a new person since then and that it’s time to embrace that change.
Then I’ll say, “With that in mind, I have decided to leave the past in the past. My masters will stay with my first label, FM Sound, the people who amplified my voice early on and helped me complete the work I once thought would go unheard by the masses.
There will be no more bad blood between us.
Those songs will continue to be available to buy and stream, and will always be a symbol of a dream realized.
“Some of you have asked if I’ll record Harmony’s Versions of them, and the answer to that is no.
Regardless of who legally owns the first recordings, the songs are mine—because those are my words, my melodies, and because that is my voice on every track.
No legal document can change that. I have nothing to prove.
“So tonight we celebrate the release of My Lucky Stars—and There Goes The Sun, along with the Night + Day EP—and I hope you’ll join me as I move on to a new era, as I let go of ‘the glory days’ which, let’s be honest, had their fair share of inglorious moments.
Riff and I have worked hard this year and we’re excited for you to hear what we’ve put together. The best is yet to come.”
Rereading the last few words once more, I fidget with the sequins on my jacket, which itself is a visual farewell to my first two albums. I don’t feel ready, but I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
With Stefanie and two of my assistants in tow, I step out of the elevator on the glass-walled rooftop of the Concordia, a 36-story high-rise downtown.
The sky is a gradient of dark blue, violet, and magenta, bleeding into a strip of gold on the horizon, an ethereal transition like it knows the significance of this night.
All the light pollution in the city makes the faint, emerging stars even more faint, but the thousands of tiny bulbs strung overhead provide a lovely manmade substitution.
Security subtly clears a path for the “soft arrival” (no one is supposed to announce me or draw a lot of attention, but a ripple of notice moves through the crowd of guests).
A few cameras flash in my direction.
My team quietly coordinates my entrance, guiding me to a landing area away from everyone else.
Here there is a galaxy backdrop and sofas upholstered in dark blue velvet.
I greet my publicist and then my stylist, who does a quick assessment of my hair, makeup, and outfit.
She checks the silhouette of my gold bomber jacket and white top, the same vegan leather skinny pants that I wore to the FANTASIE release party, and gold pumps, while a pre-approved photographer waits to get some first-look photos.
I’m supposed to be the “night” side of Night + Day, so I kind of went opposite by wearing gold, but it just … felt right. I needed to be bold for this.
“Where’s Griffin?” I ask.
“According to Braden, he’s running a little late,” Stefanie tells me. “Nothing serious. We’ll get some photos of the two of you together in a bit.”
I take in the scope of the venue, which is high up overlooking the city and a portion of the valley.
The rooftop itself displays several banners that feature artwork from the Night + Day EP along with photos of me and Griffin together, or which feature some of our lyrics.
The lyrical quotes are all tied to the celestial theme, with typographical emphasis: “Hate you to the moon and back,” “I think the moonlight’s makin’ me bold,” “We’ve hung all our hopes on a dying star,” “From sundown to sunup, I can’t seem to get enough,” “I’m brightly burning in the night sky,” “You walk away and there goes the sun,” “How am I? I’m absolutely stellar. ”
I’m starting to think Griffin and I are both a little obsessed with the firmament, if marketing was able to so easily source thematic material from work we never intended to be thematic.
Soundless clips of us recording “Lip Sync” play on multiple screens.
There’s a lounge area with low tables and paper orb lanterns that are either white or yellow (suggesting moon and sun). A lot of guests have one of two cocktails: something blue and purple and sparkling, or something orange that fades to red.
An elegant stage is decked out in midnight-blue velvet like the sofas in the landing area, and lined with tiny white lights. Golden ropes section off the VIP viewing areas.
Guests are wearing an array of quirky, dressy-casual ensembles.
I see metallic silver pants, sequined skirts, galaxy button-downs with jeans, white go-go boots, blue chiffon with glittering stars or sunbursts stamped on top, t-shirts with moon phases or zodiac symbols on them.
Someone’s wearing a blazer over a shirt that reads “Don’t laugh, I’m Sirius. ”
Music plays in the background, from what is certain to be a curated playlist of my old songs, Griffin’s old songs, and the duets we’ve previously released.
Currently it’s a remix of “Let Me Tell You,” a ballad from Griffin’s first album True Story, stripped down to sound more acoustic-pop and appeal to a broader audience.
Soon I’m ushered toward the label’s executives (the president, VP of marketing, director of licensing, and A&R and streaming managers) although Charles isn’t among them for some reason.
Bitterly, I think he should really be here—and on time—considering this whole thing (the fake romance, the joint release party, the EP) was largely his brainchild.
Anyway, there’s a lot of congratulations and pats on the back, and I also express my gratitude for the resources and the publicity, for all the work the label is doing to launch my new music.
After that, I circulate among celebrity guests. My attention lands on Daisy first because I’m so relieved to see a friendly face.
“Harmony, you look amazing,” she says as she hugs me. “I love the throwback to Lucky Stars!”
I adjust my jacket sleeves. “Thanks. It made sense, with the new album title and tonight’s theme and everything.”
And because it serves as a bookend to the chapters of my career it stands for.
My other friends—whom I made sure were invited—emerge to pump me up.
Madison admires the party and the decor and tells me how my whole story with Griffin really should be a movie.
Alexa is thoughtful enough to hand me one of the party’s signature cocktails, Midnight Shimmer, which involves blue curacao, cranberry juice, and edible glitter.
Lauren and Claire compliment my hair and makeup and say how excited they are to hear the music.
We only get a couple minutes to chat though before I have to move on.
I sip my Midnight Shimmer and talk to artists, actors, entrepreneurs, then other high-profile guests who aren’t celebrities.
Every interaction is short and repetitive, but I try to be as warm and photogenic as possible. Cameras flash around me.
Still no Griffin anywhere.
Where could he be?
“Running late” is one thing, but we’re nearing the time for introductory remarks—I can tell by the way the sound people are milling around on the stage, and by the tapering conversations—and he hasn’t shown his face, let alone made the social rounds like I’ve been doing for the past forty-five minutes.
Then, as I’m caught up talking to the editor of Populus about a dual feature, Griffin steps out of the elevator.
People murmur but overall suppress their excitement.
Meanwhile, I struggle to suppress my eagerness to go to him immediately.
He’s in a long-sleeved dark-gray metallic shirt, dark-wash jeans, and cap toe boots. Like me, he went opposite for his color scheme, as though he instinctively knows how to harmonize with me. When he smiles at someone and flicks his hair off his forehead, I completely lose my train of thought.
“Everything okay?” the editor asks, holding a Tequila Sundown in a gold-rimmed poco grande glass.
Griffin disappears to the soft-arrival landing zone.