Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
M att’s last stop on his tour before the break is at Merriweather Post Pavilion outside of Baltimore. My hometown. I can’t think of a better place to see him perform live for the first time than in the same arena where I saw my first concert: The Chicks in the early nineties. The same place where my friends and I sneaked beers from the beverage carts and sprawled out on the lawn, singing with Dave Matthews Band, Jack Johnson, John Mayer, and Counting Crows at the top of our lungs in the hot and muggy summer nights.
Despite our relationship feeling more and more substantial, I still haven’t shared with anyone that I'm dating Matt, besides a few trusted coworkers who watched the entire thing unfold and, of course, Meredith.
I still consider our relationship need-to-know information because I don't want this cocoon we’ve built to be subject to scrutiny, especially after the little scare we had in the Hamptons. That, plus the potential blowback if anything gets out in the press before Matt is ready. He’s only recently opened up about his precarious history with the media. It’s a complex relationship that is both needed and dreaded. After hearing his stories, I understand why. One night over sushi in my living room, he filled me in on the whole sordid history and the moments that still haunt him.
“Once I started dating Jackie, it was open season," he told me. "They sat outside my house for weeks and months just trying to get a glimpse of anyone who came and went. My housekeeper came to the door in tears several days in a row after some of the paparazzi screamed things at her about her kids and where she lives to rattle information out of her about who I was dating. I had to meet her at her car every day to make sure she got inside safely.
"My buddy’s wife rode in the trunk of his car to avoid being photographed and considered a ‘love interest’ of mine. There were no rules, especially back then. It is not normal behavior. Not even close to normal. It can make you feel insane,” he said, shaking his head.
“There was a lot of deception in those early years, and I had no clue.” He still gets worked up even all these years later. “These journalists would take me, this young, dumb kid from this little town, whose eyes were as wide as saucers that this was actually my life now—they’d take me to the fanciest restaurants, the hottest spots, SoHo Houses, the Ritz, nightclubs, the Beverly Hills Hotel, front row at the Knicks games, all these places I would’ve never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d be. I’d sit there, and a parade of beautiful women would walk by, women who never would've looked twice at me two years before. They’d order drinks, top shelf this and that. Only the best food. Matt, anything you want. You got it. They’d get me real cozy, like we’re friends, and my guard came down, if it was even up to begin with. And I’d do what I do best: I’d talk. And talk. And fucking talk. And try to be funny and witty, to be clever and charming. To say the things they wanted to hear. And ultimately to win them over, like I’d had to do repeatedly with these types of people for years as I tried to get into the industry. And then again as I tried to carve out my place in the industry. I trusted them. They’re supposed to be professionals, right?
"These writers are backed by these huge institutions, and I na?vely thought there would be some collaboration, like hey, this is the direction we're going for with this article , some type of heads-up. Not like hey, let’s exploit all the worst parts about you and your most traumatic relationship . Or at the very least, a little humanistic approach, maybe just acknowledging that I'm a real person with feelings and a life, not just ad revenue. Right? Wrong. I was so wrong. And then an article comes out, and then another, and another. Next thing I know I’m getting calls from my publicist telling me that I’m the biggest fucking idiot on the face of the planet and I need to fix it immediately. So, then I go into the next few interviews intent on course-correcting the previous discrepancies. And it all backfires. Remember how I told you I compounded the problem?"
I nodded.
"Yeah. I did. Quite beautifully. I just started rambling, trying to overexplain myself, which is never a good thing to do with a potential adversary. It was not good. And after that, it was a feeding frenzy. People could smell blood in the water, and I was the chum. So, I got another call from my publicist telling me that my career was—in no uncertain terms—over. Dead. Never to be revived. And that I only had myself to blame.
“It took me weeks before I could stomach opening a computer. I was terrified at what I’d see. Remember, this was the height of tabloids, gossip blogs, sensationalized headlines. They were everywhere. These piecemeal articles, parts of conversations completely out of context. It painted a picture of me as this real piece of shit—an entitled, misogynistic asshole, completely undeserving of all my success. And of course, it was sprinkled with all the darkest parts of my relationship with Jackie— quotes from her, quotes from me, pictures of us, a timeline of our relationship.
“And to be fair, there was certainly truth in all of it, but only in shades. I was arrogant and uncouth and testing the limits of shock value. I'm not proud of how I handled a lot of things back then. But the general outcome was almost irrevocable. They basically said that no one should listen to my music, no one should bother to work with me, ever. And that no one should ever let their daughter within one hundred feet of me.” He paused and stared at the floor.
“Feeling misunderstood is something I’ve been dealing with my entire life. I can mostly handle it, though it doesn't feel great. But to feel like the entire world not only misunderstood me but hated me—and there wasn’t much I could do about it—was too much. I was gutted.”
My eyes welled. I couldn’t imagine how anyone who spent more than ten minutes with Matt could ever misunderstand his intentions, his character, the core of him.
"That was around when I started therapy for the first and only time. It was immensely helpful. The tools I learned there got me through that time. But it was touch and go for a while. I moved back to Allentown with my dad for nine months to decide if I even wanted to try again. Which I did, clearly. But it took a while to rebuild the armor enough to get back out there." He’d laid back on the couch, deflated.
This entire saga, the months and years of fallout that it created, was part of the reason, he explained, that he instituted a “say nothing” policy over the past several years.
“I looked at other people who had long careers in music. Granted, most of them were before social media, before smartphones, so it was just less opportunity to say something dumb or fuck up and have people find out about it, so I didn’t have much guidance. But those artists, like the greats, they never said anything unless it was about the music. Nothing ever about their personal lives. I also looked at other public figures in general who had long careers in their fields. Like the royal family. Sure, they get bad press, but the Queen had a saying, “never complain, never explain,” and that stuck with me. If I don’t say anything, my words can’t get twisted. And I never have to find myself in that position again. I get to keep doing what I love, which is making music, and I don’t have to deal with the other bullshit.”
"But it sounds like you've learned a lot of powerful lessons from those experiences. If it happened again, you'd be way better equipped to handle it. You were basically a kid, thrust into the industry without so much as a cautionary tale," I pointed out.
“I am the cautionary tale,” he said with a sad smile.
Admittedly, after that conversation, I spent an evening Googling old articles and guessing which ones he had been referencing. In some interviews he gave in his early years, he came off as a little obnoxious and cocky. Some didn’t even make sense to me in the context of what the interview was supposed to be about—his music.
I shut my laptop before I could go too far down the rabbit hole. I couldn't reconcile the person I knew from the person I was reading about. And I could see how damaging it would be to only have a small facet of your life, a static moment in time, captured in print. I wondered what it would be like for me to have my every misstep documented on the Internet for all time. What a complete nightmare.
In the few months we’ve been together, I’ve watched him navigate the press and the publicity firsthand. He is an expert, no doubt, at evading them, and if he’s ever gotten caught in the crosshairs unexpectedly, he never looked it. He knows which spots where they’ll likely be and avoids them. He makes sure to build relationships with the owners of restaurants, stores, and coffee shops he frequents, who go out of their away to respect and ensure his privacy. He gives interviews sparingly and only with people he has real and long-term friendships with—those he can trust. He stays off the grid of social media almost entirely, with the majority of his posts prescheduled by a publicist, nothing ever in real time. He knows how to keep me safe from lurking eyes. Arriving at and departing from places at different times, rarely together. Using service entrances, even disguises like hats, sunglasses, and COVID masks to obscure our identities. Part of me feels a rush at the game of it, but another part of me feels like he is hiding me.
I joked about it one night.
“Are you kidding me? I am absolutely hiding you. I would never subject you to the mayhem that accompanies me unless absolutely necessary,” he said.
I appreciate the protective instincts but wonder what that means about us in the future. What constitutes necessary ? At some point, if we continued dating, someone will have to know. How will he react? Moreover, how will I react? I dodge pictures in the very average circumstances of my very normal life. HR had to track me down for two months to get an updated headshot for the hospital directory.
When I was a kid, my mom frequently told me, “Stop looking like you’re scared!” any time she took a picture of me. I’ve never felt like I look quite like me in photos. Matt, on the other hand, is living and moving art. Candid photos of him walking, getting in and out of cars, and conducting his daily business look straight out of a magazine.
“Do you practice your angles and poses while you’re on a treadmill or something?” I asked him while I brushed my teeth. He was in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, lounging in my bed. I stood at the doorway. “Seriously, though, how do you never have a wonky eye, or like three chins in any pictures like most people? Like me?”
He laughed. “No, I don’t practice, but I’ve done enough photo shoots with exceptional people to know what works for me and what doesn’t. And for the record, you only have three chins when you make that ridiculous face. See, I can do it, too.” He shoved his chin back and down, revealing his own triple chin.
I finished brushing and walked over to him, kissing each one of his chins. “Well, somehow they still look sexy on you.”
* * *
I invite Meg to be my plus one for Matt’s show in Maryland. I tell her I got tickets from some exec at the hospital and want to relive some of our youth. She replies to my text.
YESSSSSS. 100% I am in, and I cannot wait followed by, Did we ever see a Matt Johnson concert when we were in high school?? Drawing a blank on him, but he could’ve been lumped in all those shows we went to half blacked-out the summer before college.
Hmm, sounds familiar. Maybe?
I've known Meg since the third grade, when we were both trying out for the travel field hockey team in Towson. Meg is fiercely competitive, an incredible athlete, and an even better friend. We've seen each other through all phases of life and relied on each other during tough times like my parents’ divorce, her dad’s battle with colon cancer, puberty, a dozen heartbreaks, and everything in between.
She was the only person in my life to caution me about Nick—after all, she was there from the moment we met. She shared her warning shortly after I moved to New York, when I was back in Baltimore visiting for a weekend. The two of us were sitting outside at Ryleigh's in Federal Hill on our third round of orange crushes when she said out of the blue, "I'm just not sure Nick is the person for you, Jules." When I pressed her on it, she said, “I can't think of anything specific. It's just a feeling. He's just … not it.” I was shocked and a little hurt. We never spoke of it again after that night, and she dutifully stood by my side as maid of honor at my wedding.
To her credit, she did not mention it at all when I finally told her we were getting divorced. Instead, she and Meredith schemed up ways to torture Nick, mostly to make me laugh, and they also alternated making plans to ensure someone laid eyes on me at least every few weeks. “Welfare checks,” they joked.
I pick her up and we drive to the venue, parking in the VIP lot. “It came with the tickets," I explain. Once inside, we are ushered to our front section seats by Matt’s personal security.
“Also came with the tickets,” I say.
Meg looks at me sideways. “Okay, Ms. Big-Hospital-Donor-VIP-Tickets. I’m very happy to ride on your coattails.” We sit down as the opening band warms up. “This is a slightly better view than our usual lawn seats.” She turns around and cranes her neck toward the slowly filling back lawn.
“I’m pretty sure I lost a bra and most of my dignity somewhere back there in the summer of 2000.” She points.
I laugh. “You and me both.”
Out of nowhere, someone brings us tequila sodas with extra limes. The guy delivering the drinks says, “This is called the Sorority Girl—compliments of the band.” I smile, and my cheeks flush.
“What the hell does that mean?" Meg asks.
I shrug.
"Whatever, I'll take it. Damn, Jules, this is first class all the way. Class, class, class! I am here for it.”
We spend the next hour and most of the opening band’s set catching up on life. It’s been a few months since we’ve last seen each other, and since then, Meg, her husband, John, and two-year old Piper have moved out of our hometown to a suburb a little north of Baltimore called Lutherville-Timonium.
“Better schools, bigger yard, yadda yadda,” Meg says. “But tell me about your life. I’m married with a kid and bored out of my fucking gourd. Any dating? Better yet, any steamy sex?”
My face burns. Here is one of my oldest, best friends, and I'm holding back. I'm not ready yet.
“A few guys here in there. You know, New York. Full of Peter Pans and finance guys who have a lot of money in their bank accounts and are eager to tell you about it.” I try to deflect.
“Seriously, Jules? Don’t hold out on me, you know I live for this. No sex, nothing?”
Weighing my options, I decide to tell her about the mediocre one night stand I had with a minor league baseball player named Dean after the ink was barely dry on my divorce papers. My coworker, Beth, set me up with him after losing patience with me and my endless moping. She insisted, “The only way to get over someone is to get under someone new.” And while I found this to be both crass and untrue, I was too dejected to argue with her.
Dean was perhaps one of the most attractive people I’d ever laid eyes on; he was truly incendiary. But fifteen minutes into our date, I realized he was about as sharp as a spoon, and the conversation I had to pull out of him was so dull and uninteresting, it was downright painful. I decided to cut my losses and suggested we go back to his hotel room, where he couldn’t talk and I could enjoy his chiseled six foot six body. It was fun, but the lack connection made it barely memorable. Especially in light of the chemistry I have with Matt that penetrates to a molecular level.
“Ohhhhh my God, Dean sounds dreamy.” Meg swoons. “What’s his last name?” She pulls out her phone, ready to Google a picture of him, right as the lights dim and Matt steps out onto the stage.
“Shhhh, I’ll show you a pic of the minor leaguer later, the show is starting.”
Matt saunters around the stage, the lights turn on, and he strums the first chord of the show. As his hand drives down over the guitar, the hair on my arms stands up. I realize that besides the private concert I saw in his apartment without him knowing, I have never seen him do his craft in person. He knows it, too.
Several songs in, Meg looks at me.
“Holy. Shit,” she says.
I agree. I could not have prepared myself for what it would be like to watch him perform up close like this. He is completely captivating. Mind-blowing.
“Is he looking at us?” Meg looks to the row behind us. “Why does he keep looking in our direction? Is he looking at the other sections like this? Wait, is he looking at me ?"
“No, Meg, he is looking at every section the same. He's just really, really good at his job.”
“Good at his job? I am good at my job. I make Excel spreadsheets. He is pure, living sex. I am practically sliding out of my seat over here.”
I cannot deny the sex oozing out of his every pore as he sings and plays his guitar on the stage. He is so completely consumed by what he's doing, his every fiber seems to be in sync, connected. I've never seen someone so confident, so talented, so dedicated to their obvious God-given gift. His face contorts, his entire body committed, as he strains to hit certain notes or play challenging parts of a song. I am mesmerized. In a trance. I can’t tell if it’s the heat under the packed pavilion, the tequila, or the idea that every single person in the arena is probably having the same unholy thoughts about Matt as I am—but I'm somehow the lucky one who gets to live them out. Either way, I am completely and utterly intoxicated.
Matt ends his first set and takes a short break. The lights come on, and Meg is fanning herself with her purse.
“Okay, I cannot emphasize this enough. What. The. Fuck. Julia, he is so insanely hot. Who knew? I’d never even thought twice about him, but watching him sing like that? How do his fingers move so fast? He is like sex on a stick. I’m dead serious, I need to go change my panties. How is that even legal for him to be that hot? I feel like I might combust just watching him. Do you think I could get John into a Matt Johnson role play? Honestly, he fucking better because I will be dining out on the memory of that man for a long, long time, my friend.” She babbles on, and I can't stand leaving her in the dark anymore, especially hearing her gush.
“Meg, I’m going to tell you something, and you have to swear you will not say a word.”
She turns to me, eyes gleaming in anticipation of a juicy secret. “Like the time we crashed your mom's car when she was out of town and blamed it on gale force winds? Or the time I made out with the substitute teacher after finals week?”
“No, Meg, like the time we saw your mom with the neighbor while your dad was on a work trip—like a could do harm if discovered, no telling a single soul type of secret.”
The seriousness lands, and Meg straightens up. “I swear.”
“I have been seeing Matt for the past few months.” Her eyes search my face. Nothing registers.
“Matt? Matt who…?”
The recognition hits her like a bolt of lightning. She jabs her finger toward the stage.
" That Matt? The guy who I just told you made me literally slide out of my seat? You are dating him ?”
“ Shhhhhh! Keep your voice down!”
She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes bugging out of her head. “I know now is not the time, but very soon, I am going to need every. Last. Detail. Don’t you dare gatekeep.”
I smile. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but after the show I’m going to hang back and see him, so are you okay getting an Uber home?”
“Honey, I would be happy walking home if it means I get to hear a little snippet of what might be happening with you and him behind that stage.” I laugh hard and hug my friend. Matt walks back out to thunderous applause and starts his second act.
Somewhere in the middle, Meg leans in and whispers, “Is he kind to you?”
“Very,” I answer with no hesitation.
A small smile appears on her lips, and she nods. We spend the rest of the show swaying back and forth together, exchanging wide-eyed glances of shock that this is indeed my life.
* * *
The show winds down, and before the last song, I hug Meg goodbye and walk toward the side of the stage. I see one of Matt's familiar security guards, Marcus, as I approach. He is intimidating, for sure, but as I get closer his face breaks into a wide smile, and I see the kindness there. "Well, well, well, little Miss Julia, I was wondering when you were going to make it to one of our boy’s shows."
"He was incredible."
"Always is, baby girl."
I hug him, and he leads me backstage to the dressing room. I see all of Matt's things that have become familiar to me in the past few months. His boots are lined up neatly against the far wall, same for his guitars. A giant two-liter bottle of alkaline water and a half-drunk hot tea sit scattered on a coffee table beside a notebook. Several drafts of set lists are scratched out and rewritten. I walk over to the mirror and see his comb, his cologne that I love so much, and his toothbrush in its LED light antibacterial case. I smile at all of it. This guy.
I'm sitting in a chair when he comes off stage and bursts through the door. His eyes are energized, his cheeks rosy. Sweat glistens on his skin. He is completely irresistible. "Babe!" he says with a giant smile. I cross the room and grab his face, planting a big kiss on his lips.
“What did you think?” he asks, picking up a water bottle.
“I think you are spectacular. You have a gift. I was blown away." I help him peel his sweaty shirt off. "And it makes me even more attracted to you. Which I didn't think was possible."
"How attracted?"
"Hmm ... apparently the limit does not exist." I step back and strip off my top as I walk over to a dressing chair in front of a mirror, the bright lights, the waist-high countertop.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asks coyly.
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
He tosses his water on the couch and crosses the room in two long strides, grabbing my tits in his hands.
"God, you are so fucking hot," he says through gritted teeth. "But I'm all sweaty."
I smile and kiss his salty lips and neck. "I don't care."
I laugh and unbuckle his belt, yanking his jeans and boxers down. What a cliché this is—but I don't care.
In a minute, we're both naked, pants at our ankles, standing in front of the dressing room mirror. He kisses me, and it's full of want bordering on need.
"Bend over," he demands aggressively before grabbing my ass so hard I yelp. The fact that this sometimes reserved, incredibly sensitive, brilliant, thoughtful man is bossing me around is so titillating I almost come.
"Say please," I demand.
"Please." He bites my lip. Hard. I smile into his mouth. I love this.
Next thing I know, I'm hinged at the waist, my cheek pressed against the cool marble of the countertop. I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper—where it came from, I do not know. Or care. I cry out as he enters me, slamming all the way in with one swift motion. He fills me, stretching me, right to the brink of pain and pleasure. I lie there as he builds up a rhythm, listening to our skin slapping together and to the crowd out beyond the stage somewhere, collecting their things, heading home. Completely unaware the man they just spent two hours watching is fucking his girlfriend a few hundred yards away.
He grabs me by the root of my hair and yanks my head up so I can look at him in the mirror. His eyes are feverish and locked on mine. It is so intimate, so intense, like watching our very own live sex tape. He lets out a sharp exhale. "Fuck, fuck, Jules, I don't want to come yet."
I turn to look at him with a devilish smile. "But I want you to."
And he does, almost instantaneously.
I feel him jerk inside of me, coming hard, and I take his hand in mine and lead him to the place where we are connected, where he fills me, where I am dripping wet. I use his hand as if it were my own, and with only a few touches I am coming, too, rippling around him, gasping into the counter.
We stay like that, him collapsed on top of me, me collapsed on top of the counter, for several minutes. He carefully pulls himself out of me. I feel stunned, frozen in place from the rush of ecstasy and adrenaline. I watch him in the mirror as he duck-walks over to the trash can to dispose of the condom and then pulls up his jeans and fastens them. Then I see his hands on my ankles, gently tugging my panties back up. His touch is so tender, so loving, as he traverses my legs, my ass, my hips. He bends back over and repeats the same process with my jeans.
I stand up and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My hair is wild, my eyes bright and more hazel than brown, my face flushed and completed sated.
I look so alive .
And behind me stands Matt, the man who makes me feel this way. I turn toward him, and he wraps me in his substantial arms, now so familiar to me, so comforting. He kisses the top of my head as I hold on to his waist. We stay there in silence, until eventually Matt says with a laugh, "So, we are going to need to get you to more shows."
I smile into his chest. I take a moment to notice what I feel. All I can think is … happy.