Jared:Yeah, I remember that. He said something like “If you want more music out of us, let us get in the fucking studio to make it.” I remember it so clearly because people rarely got under his skin.
Wesley:It got to a point where Martin told me to get out of town and let the rest of them record. So I went to the one place, one person, I needed to see.
Wesley
Spring 2014
“Luca suggested I frame the Rolling Stone article and put it there. But is that too self-indulgent?” I said, standing across the street from Avery’s hotel, watching her pace through the window to her balcony.
Martin would probably kill me when he found out I flew to Paris instead of some remote off-the-grid mountain. But fuck it. He took away my primary distraction—working on the album—and I needed to see her. Be seen by her.
Fans wearing her merch and paparazzi clustered around the front door. It was a gloomy day, and I’d been shielding myself with a black umbrella.
She stopped in her path, thinking. “You already tried it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, it didn’t fit the space, left this awkward gap.”
“What else have you looked at?”
“I’ve gone to a few shops in Manhattan but not feeling it. Come out here to help me.”
“I can’t just get on a plane.” She cocked her head. “You’re talking to a girl with a sold out European tour.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say, so I came to you instead.” Her pacing stopped again. I loved seeing the effect I had on her when she wasn’t aware I was watching. “I’m outside.”
Avery came to the balcony, dipping at the waist to look over the edge and survey the crowd. They burst into cheers. “Yeah, so are about a hundred other people. Fighting for my attention.”
“But you like me best and you know it.”
I could tell the moment she spotted me by the sound of her strangled laugh. “Please tell me it’s you across the street and not some other guy dressed like a budget serial killer.”
“Excuse you! Budget? This hoodie was three hundred dollars.”
“Not something to be proud about, Gaflin,” she said, reminding me who I was. Not Wesley Hart. Just some kid from the middle of nowhere Tennessee who listened to music on shitty headphones with his best friend.
“See. That’s why I need your help with decorating.”
“You didn’t need to make up an excuse to see me.”
“It’s not an excuse. I really do need to fill the wall above my mantle. This is serious business.”
“I’m hanging up now,” she chimed, then paused. “There’s an entrance around back. I’ll let security know to let you through.”
Up in her room, the sheets on her hand-carved four poster bed were flung to one side. I imagined her burrowed under them until I called, that I was the reason she bothered getting up at all. I was jealous of the half empty water glass resting forgotten on a table, its rim imprinted with old lipstick. That color would look better on my cheek anyway. Or mouth. I wasn’t picky.
“Give me a minute to throw something on.” She pulled the door between the living area and bedroom mostly closed, leaving it ajar so we could talk.
I was left to continue my exploration, conjuring up her stay in my mind. I did it often in other places too, even if she’d never been. It was an exercise of sorts—maybe I was scared offorgetting her intricacies, partly because so much of me only exists because of her. If I forgot her, I’d forget myself.
“I’m not complaining. But I thought Martin would have you locked up, away from cameras and press.”
“What’s one more picture? Obviously, they can’t get enough of me.”
“Are you holding up okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? They’re obsessed. It’s good for the band,” I said. It was already done, and there was no need to complain about something I couldn’t fight. Maddie was trying to get my attention, so if I didn’t appear to care, I could pretend I was winning.
“I don’t remember asking about the band.” The door pushed open. Avery had changed into simple jeans and a long sleeve black turtleneck, the new tattoos encircled her wrist just barely peeking out, vines with dainty leaves. She had a thing for floral tattoos these days.
