Inside, Wes and I are directed to separate dressing rooms. The interview isn’t for another hour and a half, but it takes that long to go through makeup and wardrobe. I end up wearing pinstriped Levi’s and a basic white T-shirt, a blatant attempt to make me daytime TV appropriate. The selection reminds me of what I’d wear for my grandparents, covering up as much as possible. I don’t protest, I’m on their turf. The least I can do is pretend I want to be here when I’d rather be sleeping.
During this process, one of the producers for the show walks me through what to expect. We’re slotted for a thirty-minute segment and then after we’re welcome to stay for a tour of the studio, which essentially means they want pictures of us in the studio to use on their social media.
Once done, I’m directed out of the dressing room and deposited on stage right. “You’ll be on after the next commercial break. Ingrid will welcome you and you'll sit on the side of the couch closest to Ingrid. When she talks about any images, they’ll be on the screen behind you. As a reminder, this is a family-friendly program.” There’s a pointed emphasis on the phrase family-friendly.
“Got it. No tainting the children with my filthy mouth while I help you capitalize on my dirty sex music.”
The only response I earn is a glare, fair, I did provoke that.
Yup. They wish they could cover every single one of my tattoos and throw a wig on me. The only reason we haven’t done any nighttime television interviews is because they have more freedom over the topics covered, and with Wes and my complicated past, Lydia and Derek thought something you’d watch while drinking your morning coffee would be safer.
“If they don’t want your filthy mouth, I sure do, and honestly, I don’t like sharing,” Wes says as he comes to stand next to me. His hand finds mine, but I pull away. “It’s dark.” The hurt in his voice makes me wish I didn’t have to let go.
“And there are cameras and people everywhere who still might see.” It comes out sharper than I intend. But I’m more on edge than I thought I’d be. I haven’t done a live interview for over a year, not since the press junket with Jamie and everything in me is winding tight.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Even in the dim lighting of the wings, I see his expression fall.
From the stage, an artificially bright voice chimes, “We have some amazing guests here with us today. You might know them from crying in your bedroom in the 2000s or from their more recent music that has you screaming the lyrics in the car, though that might just be me. Let me welcome Wesley Hart and Avery Sloane as our newest Morning People.”
The live studio audience erupts as we walk across the pale wood flooring of the stage, waving until we reach the stiff butter yellow couch across from Ingrid. She’s a white woman with honey colored hair in her late forties with a wide mouth framed by smile lines. Her French manicured nails wrap around a steaming branded mug of what I think is coffee, though if it were something stronger, I’d respect it.
“How are you two liking Chicago?” she asks.
“You mean besides the wind chill?” Wes replies smoothly earning a titter of laughter from Ingrid and the audience. “Otherwise, quite welcome.”
More stiffly, I add, “It’s always a treat to come back and perform here.”
“Speaking of last night’s performance! Behind me is one of my favorite moments.”
The screen behind us fills with a professional shot from last night. Wes in that crop top of his with my face on it and me in my black dress. It’s the high point in the song, a full out belt that makes it look like I’m yelling at him. They could have chosen any of thousands of images, but of course they select one that makes me look bad.
This feels more like an acute type of psychological torture designed just for me and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone popped out with a clipboard and welcomed me to a personalized circle of hell.
I grit my teeth and smile so hard I think I might need to see a dentist after this.
Ingrid leans in and asks Wes, “I have to ask, what made you choose this shirt? It isn’t the first time we’ve seen you using fashion statements to support Avery.”
“I can’t call myself her number one fan if I don’t have the merch to back it up, can I?” He’s quick and smooth with his response, settling into the couch and taking the opportunity to stretch his arm along the back cushion.
“Whoa, how did you get so lucky?” Ingrid turns her attention back to me and fans herself. Her eyes land on him, lingering far longer than they need to. I don’t like it at all.
“Well, he begged me to join him, so he’s really the lucky one here,” I grit out.
Wes shrugs, not seeming to notice. “True.”
“Is it also true that the relationship between you two is more than professional? I’ll admit it, I was one of the fan girls back in the day. When you went on your first tour, we all were certain you were a couple. I even had a blog, but don’t you go looking for it. I’ve scrubbed the internet of any trace of it.”
“Why do you care? It’s not like it has anything to do with the tour.” Which, last I checked, is what we’re here to talk about, not for her to ogle Wes and spill personal details.
She looks at the crowd and cocks her head. “Come on, tell me I’m not the only one who wants to know?” Sounds of affirmation come from the audience.
My control snaps, still I keep my composure, matching Ingrid’s chipper tone. “What about you? How’s your sex life?”
“Excuse me?” Ingrid’s jaw drops as the crowd collectively gasps.
“How. Is. Your. Sex. Life,” I enunciate and pretend I genuinely believe she didn’t hear the first time. “You want to know about mine, right? I think it would be fun if we all shared, got really intimate. Or does that make you uncomfortable being asked that on live TV for everyone to talk about at nine in the morning?”
“Take it as a compliment. You two have always looked great together.” Ingrid tries to regain control of her show and fails.
