Chapter Six Adam #4
I huff loudly, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s your takeaway from my very personal and heartwarming story?” The worst part is realizing her description is not wildly off the mark. Billy sort of did become my fucked-up fairy godfather.
“I just think it’s a mistake to dismiss professional indiscretions because of your own personal history with someone.”
It’s not that I dismiss anything. I’m fully aware of when Billy steps out of bounds, but I’m capable of being objective. Of using my own judgment.
That said, it’s hard to deny that there has been some overlap between my personal and professional relationships with Billy.
I clear my throat and push some of the food around my plate with my fork. “Well. Anyway, it wasn’t all about Billy—my mom’s disapproval. She didn’t want me going to Berklee either.”
“Really?”
“She was proud, don’t get me wrong. But she tried her best to shield me from the entertainment industry. She would’ve preferred if I became a doctor, let’s put it that way.”
Eleanor straightens in her seat. “I know your relationship with Atlas was complicated, but I’m, you know. Sorry for your loss.”
I appreciate the fact that she referred to him as Atlas instead of your dad as much as I appreciate the sentiment.
“Thanks.” I shrug, trying to convey that I still don’t totally know how I feel about it.
About all the biographies and articles that keep coming out dissecting his legacy, his music.
All the things that made him great, and all the probably true rumors about him being a misogynistic asshole behind the scenes.
Back when I used to get anxious about running into him around LA, I dreaded it and hoped for it in equal measure.
Because even when I hated the guy, there was always some tiny part of me that wanted him to not hate me back.
Guess that kind of longing is inevitable when your dad walks out on you before you even get a chance to know him.
Now he’s unavoidable, his picture popping up every time I scroll social media.
“Was he the reason you decided to study music?”
I tip my head back and forth. “Part of it. He got me into music really young.”
Admittedly, my memories of quality time with the man are sparse, given how long ago he peaced out of my life. But music was the only thing he ever cared about, so of course the few memories I do have of spending time with him are centered around that.
“Did you ever want to be a musician yourself?”
“Maybe when I was really little,” I say, “but doesn’t everyone want to be a rock star when they’re that young?
” Eventually, I realized I’d inherited most of my dad’s features and precisely none of his musical talent.
I’ve always found the behind-the-scenes stuff more interesting anyway.
“What about you? What made you want to get into the industry?”
“Oh, I fully wanted to be a pop star,” she says with a laugh. “My sister and I stanned the Disney Channel singers so hard. Growing up, my mom put us in pageants and stuff—”
Picturing Eleanor as a pageant girl kind of breaks my brain. “Wait, like, with the frilly dresses? And the creepy doll hair and makeup? And the tiaras?”
“Tiaras are for winners,” she says sardonically. “My sister placed first a couple times, but the best I ever got was second runner-up.” She waves her hands. “Point is, I quickly realized that I actually hate being the center of attention that way.”
I lean back in my seat, overlaying the idea of Eleanor I had in my head with this new information.
In a weird way, it tracks. Eleanor commands attention.
She’s nice to look at and difficult to ignore, and she has that aura of confidence that’s sort of…
captivating. But it never feels like she’s actively trying to get anyone’s attention.
“Always loved music, though. I would spend all the money I was supposed to be saving for college on concert tickets.”
“What was the first concert you ever went to?”
Her lips purse. The longer she hesitates, the more excited I get, because clearly the answer is embarrassing.
Finally, her eyes flick somewhere over my shoulder and she huffs and says: “It was Justin Bieber.”
“Oh, Eleanor,” I say, voice full of mock disappointment.
“I was a literal child, okay?”
“Bieber, though? Really?”
“I mostly went because Iris was really into him—”
Food forgotten, I lean forward and prop my forearms on the table. “Did you have a poster of him in your room?”
Her jaw shifts. “I shared a room with Iris.”
“So yes.”
“It was hers.”
“Sure it was.” My grin stretches impossibly wider. “Did you fantasize about marrying him? You did, didn’t you?”
“My tastes have evolved, is the moral of the story.”
“Obviously.” I gesture to myself as I lean back again, which earns me one hell of an eye roll. “So why A&R? Instead of becoming a talent manager or producer or something like that?”
She tips her head side to side, considering. “My first boyfriend was in a band.”
“And you were a Belieber?”
“The horse is dead already,” she says dryly. “They were alt-rock, and he was the drummer.”
“Ah.” I snap my fingers. “That was my second guess.”
“Anyway, I essentially acted as his band’s manager. It was around then that I started to think about discovering artists and getting to be the one to offer contracts that make someone’s dream come true.”
It’s a straightforward answer, but it throws me all the same. It’s just so… wholesome. Making dreams come true.
I think about the unanswered email sitting in my inbox, the band my rep keeps begging me to take a chance on.
I had more time to seek out new artists myself before I got promoted, and I loved that part of the job.
But even when I was young and overeager—desperately trying to get someone higher up the food chain to sign an artist I believed in—there was still a certain amount of ego involved.
I wanted to be able to say, I discovered them. I made that happen.
Eleanor makes it sound like ego has nothing to do with it. Like money and recognition and validation are all incidental to her. I can’t figure out if her motives have changed since we were interns or if I had her pegged all wrong before now.