It’s going to be a long day of not being able to touch him. Kill me now.
The lobby is teeming with industry insiders. A constant hum of overlapping conversations fills the space. Publicists negotiate with staff about the lighting in the rooms, how to best flatter celebrities visually, and tightening up security to verify that no unruly guests can find their way to the event. One staffer points to some decorative features on the crown molding, explaining that there are additional security cameras hidden there, a new and discreet feature.
We hurry to the wing of the hotel where all the conference rooms are, where various forms of media outlets are stationedand ready to give us back-to-back interviews in a junket-like fashion.
I’m doing a roundtable (me at a table with multiple journalists asking me things) in the Sycamore room, and Griffin’s got a press line in the Valley Oak Room (more media outlets set up, he’ll go from one to the next in order), so I kiss him goodbye and we split up for most of the day.
After my roundtable—where I answer pre-approved questioned like “What’s next after this record?” and “Which song are you most excited for people to hear?” and “Tell us how your relationship with Riff Hurley has affected your current music, if at all”—I’m due for an acoustic media session. It’s an intimate performance in the Cypress Room, which has a few rows of auditorium seating for select members of the press. There, I perform two songs: one of my popular singles and a deep cut. A guitarist from my team accompanies me on the single, “Call Me Crazy,” and I actually accompany myself on the piano for a simplified version of “An Open Book.” The acoustic session ends in another interview, with questions focused on the songs and what they mean to me and some of the writing process behind them.
At that point, I finally get to eat, although it’s really more of a meeting with members of my team while I scarf down fettuccine and Caesar salad. Based on his text messages, Griffin is having a similar “lunch” with Braden.
I get one free hour, but Griffin has a roundtable, so I decompress alone in the room with a coconut water.
It’s networking after that, and then I have to meet with my stylist for hair and makeup refreshers and we debate whether I should change my outfit, but decide to keep my skinny jeans with black Louboutin stilettos and my striped tee and navy cashmere cardigan. “You’re really pulling off ‘casual chic,’” she tells me. “Let’s not mess with it.” I’m glad because I always feelbest in high heels, even though they’re a lot for a full day of this sort of thing.
As the afternoon wears on, I finally get to do some joint interviews with Griffin and we don’t hesitate to get cozy for the cameras. This has been highly anticipated, it seems, as the Redwood Room is packed with press.
“It seems like all your pre-relationship music about each other was written separately,” one of the journalists says. “So, when you started working together, on ‘Lip Sync’ for example and ‘Hate to Love,’ was there any tension between you, or had you already worked things out by then?”
We field a lot of questions like that, carefully describing our relationship timeline. That was something we had to prepare for well in advance, to avoid any holes in our story. Our answers are similar to what we said to Cal Moreda; both our teams agreed we should say that there was initial pressure from the label to collaborate, that we were reluctant at first, but that working together allowed us to overcome our differences.
“When did you know that this was more than just a formal collaboration? What made you realize you had serious feelings about each other?”
I answer honestly. “When I got to know him better. Before that, it was easy to think I already knew what he was all about. I had to look more closely, and once I did, it was really obvious what an amazing guy he is.“
Griffin hesitates. “You know, I don’t think for me that there was an exact moment. It was gradual. It crept up on me, honestly. Then one day I woke up and I had to admit she was all I cared about.”
With all these people here, I have to stifle the tears that prick at the back of my eyes. Under the table, I squeeze Griffin’s hand so he knows a fraction of what that means to me.
Photo ops are a given once we’re done with questions.
When that’s over, we head down to a nearby club and do a quick sound check for our upcoming mutual performance at the evening showcase—we’re singing “Hate to Love” live for the VIPs—and afterward we get dinner.
Dinner of course is not on our own. It’s a group dinner with people from the label. Daisy is there too, so I catch up with her on one side of me while Griffin, on the other side, talks to a producer he’s been wanting to work with.
The showcase performance goes off without a hitch. Everyone already loves “Hate to Love” and it’s easy to sing now that I have no reservations about what I say to Griffin. No need to resist what I feel, or try to act one way or another onstage. We sing our hearts out until the last note, inching closer the whole way through, and finish with a kiss that the audience goes wild for.
And as if all that isn’t enough, there’s still the afterparty.
I tell Griffin, “This day has, in the words of Death Cab for Cutie, ‘carried on like long division.’”
He laughs.
I’m grateful that the afterparty turns out to be pretty chill—not too many people, not too loud, just mingling throughout the Sequoia Room and the adjacent hotel bar. More of a mixer, really.
Since we knew these events would run long (they always do), we’ve planned to stay the night at the hotel again.
“It’s like a getaway,” Griffin said while our assistants were booking us. But really it’s just so when we’re tipsy and exhausted, all we have to do is stumble upstairs and fall straight into bed.
An hour in, Griffin is nowhere near me. I spend some time talking to Daisy again, along with her manager and mine, about a new collaboration, which I’m ashamed to say took me this long to get excited for.
There are some brands trying to network their way into celebrity endorsements; Apple tries to gauge my interest when they see I’m wearing the latest Apple Watch, while someone from Thursday Boot Company chats up Griffin across the room.
As things wind down and some attendees start to filter out, I manage to get a moment with Griffin and the members of The Don’t You Frets, an indie band he was just telling me about the other night. They say they’ve seen a few of his old videos going around and like the way he sounded. Apparently they used to play some of those venues too (different years), so once they get talking about the grind of all that (indie music life before getting a record deal) he’s completely absorbed. Personally, I’m desperate for a water—I’ve had my fill of wine—and I doubt Griffin has hydrated himself well today, based on how I’ve seen himnothydrate himself well most days we’ve been together, so I offer to slip out to the bar for us both. He agrees to a sparkling water and gives me a peck on the cheek.
The three sets of double doors to the Sequoia Room are propped wide open, allowing traffic to flow freely to the hotel bar.
At the bar itself, a glitzy black lacquer setup with soft lighting, I wait for two people to order before I make my own request.
