She rolls her eyes and shoves the notebook to the side. “When you asked me to do this, you told me you liked that I could see through the bullshit. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable.”
I slump back against the couch, and allow a fraction of the truth to come forward. “Originally, I hated Caper. I thought it would be this pitstop on the way to something better, but it turned out to be the something better. Before then–”before Wes–“I floated from place to place, not willing to commit to anything in my life out of fear it would be torn away. In Caper, that changed, for a time.”
Kendal eyes me, but accepts my answer. I try not to think about what else she’ll manage to tear out of me because for the most part, it feels good to throw myself into this project.
We work awhile longer, mapping out early events, but only get as far as George’s diagnosis. Even talking about it now sets me on edge. She and I still talk, and she updates me on her checks, but after what happened with Dad and then later Wes and I? The distance between us makes it less painful.
But I guess the pain is part of this. If I want to tell the truth, there are some things I can’t avoid.
Including Lydia, who I meet at noon the next day.
I’m early for our reservation at Humphrey’s, a Michelin starred small plates restaurant in East Atlanta. Its whitewashed brick walls and mosaic tile accents cause the place to feel light and airy.
Originally, I avoided reaching out to her, but after multiple failures to find someone tolerable to work with, I bit the bullet and looked her up.
There are two types of talent managers I’ve met—those who are in it to make the most out of their 15 percent cut, and then there are the ones like Lydia. People who love music and do everything they can to support the artists who make it.
But there was a time when I didn’t care about good music or anything other than losing myself in the industry. I got what I wanted, and I lost Lydia because of it.
My eyes stay glued to the door, but after five minutes I check my phone. I have a message, but it’s from Kendal, not Lydia. Apparently, there’s another producer who wants in on the project. Immediately, I have mixed feelings. Another producer means another person who has say over the documentary and I’d rather not have someone else dictating how I tell my story. Still, this could be good for Kendal and her career. I just wish she would have talked to me about it first.
“I was wondering when you’d call,” Lydia says, sliding into the chair across from me.
Her sudden appearance makes me drop my phone. It clatters onto the table, causing the cutlery to clink against the plates. I fumble to snag it and throw it into my purse.
“Do you need a moment?” She cocks an impeccable brow. Lydia is a Black woman in her late thirties and probably the most effortlessly stylish person I’ve ever met. She’s dressed in an oversized sweater layered over a button down. A gold cuff hugs one of her ears. Her natural curls are secured up in a poof.
“No, it’s nothing that can’t wait. Just a message from someone I’m collaborating with.”
“Taking on projects and a tour? God, you’ve been busy.”
A waiter comes up to the edge of our table. “Hello, welcome. What can I get you to drink?”
“We’re actually ready to order,” Lydia says. “We’ll be taking the caviar service and two of whatever is the most popular.”
“Are you—” The waiter starts.
Lydia gathers the menus and holds them out. “It’s not every day I get treated by a client, and I’ll be taking full advantage.”
“Here’s my card. I don’t even want to know the total.” I hold out the card then nearly drop it as her words register. “Client?”
“It took you nearly ten years to realize you were wrong. You’re going to buy me a nice meal and tell me what Emilia’s face looked like when you told her to kiss your ass.”
“How do you know I told her to kiss my ass?”
“You’re back, and the real Avery Sloane tells everyone exactly what she thinks. There’s no way you didn’t. And I’m also going to need you to tell me exactly how much of what happened atThe Excavator’spremiere was exaggerated.”
“What would you think if I said none of it?”
“That I wish I was there to watch from the sidelines.”
“Does this mean you’re good to work together again? Because I need a manager and I hate everyone else.” I’m hoping I’m not misunderstanding her. Working with her is exactly what I need. Someone I can trust without second guessing her motives. Someone who knows that success isn’t just having good numbers.
“On one condition.” Her voice goes deadly serious. “Catch me up on everything.”
“Nosy.”
“If you want me on my A game, I need to know what I’m getting myself into. And you do have a tendency of getting in the most interesting messes.”
