Yet here I’ve been for the past few years clinging to the girl I once was.
I spent my mid-twenties desperate to get back down to my high school pants size (which still wasn’t small enough for me before) and, to be frank, I haven’t one hundred percent given up on that dream yet—even though I eat like I have. I’ve spent the majority of my career trying to live up to the “ideal me.” And I’ve spent all my time at Glambam desperate to get my masters back because deep down I felt like having them would mean I hadn’t completely lost that part of myself, that girl from the beginning of my career who was young and full of hope, instead of whatever I am now—aging faster than I’m comfortable with, rife with emotional baggage, and unsure where to go next.
But that’s pathetic.
I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’m proud of what I’ve overcome. My thighs are thicker and so is my skin. I’ve accumulated wisdom along with my laugh lines. I’m smarter and stronger and more skilled. I don’t want to go back to the days when I didn’t know my worth.
What the hell have I been doing, fighting tooth and nail for my first two albums? It’s my work, special songs that mark eras of my life, and it feels wrong to let someone else have ownership over it. And yet, there are so many other things that were taken from me that I’ll never get back—time, innocence, pieces of my heart—and I can accept that.
So why not those songs too?
Yes, maybe someone else profits off of them, the same way men I’ve been with have undeservingly benefited from my attention or my body, the same way lesser celebrities have used me for my status and clout before. It hurts and I can’t change it, but I live with a clear conscience, knowing that I work hard and I treat others with respect, even when I don’t receive the same respect in return.
My old music doesn’t define me. What I do every day does. And today, the best thing I can do is protect the people who matter. If two years’ worth of my blood, sweat, and tears is the price, I will gladly pay it.
I scroll through my contacts until I find Dana Hatton’s number. I already called FM Sound first thing this morning to get it; now I just have to give her my answer.
Do I send a text?Hi Dana. This is Harmony. You win.Or maybe,Hey, it’s you-know-who responding about the you-know-what. Answer: affirmative.
No. She’s not getting off that easy. There’s more a want to say. A lot more.
If this woman dares to threaten me, she’s going to get an earful before I give her what she wants.
HARMONY:I’ve made my decision, but I want to tell you in person. Where can we meet?
She tries to argue than an in-person meeting is excessive. I promise her it will be quick, and that this is too heavy for a text message.
DANA:Fine. Saks, women’s clothing, 3:00. Come alone or you know the consequences.
Somewhere public of course, where we could reasonably “run into” each other again.
HARMONY:See you then.
The second she spots me, she steers me behind a blouse rack, glances around to ensure we’re not directly in view of any security cameras, and pats me down.
“You think I’d be wearing a wire?”
Sliding her palms down my sides, she replies, “You were so insistent about meeting in person. I have to make sure you’re not trying to do something stupid.”
Sneaky audio recordings aren’t worth anything legally, and I’m sure she knows that, but she also probably knows there’s the possibility that I could anonymously leak it myself if I dare to try and catch anything she says. It’s not always about what can be done legally; social damage can be even more threatening, if done right.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “This has to do with my ego.”
She finishes her assessment, then steps back and folds her arms. “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“I’ll do what you say.”
“Great.”
“But I want you to know something.”
“What.”
“I’m not ashamed of anything you have on me. I’ll admit I’ve made mistakes and I could have pushed back when my label asked me to mislead the public, but I’ve done my job. I’ve shown up and I’ve worked my ass off, often at great personal expense. If it were up to me—if it were onlymycareer on the line—thiswould be a non-issue. Luckily for you, my feelings for Riff turned out to be real, and I won’t do anything that hurts him.”
“Yes, lucky me. Are we done?” She actually looks at her Rolex to emphasize how much I’m wasting her time.
“You know what? No. We’re not done. You said FM Sound made me who I am, but it’s kind of the other way around—don’t you think? Who would you be if you hadn’t ‘discovered’ me? Who would be eager to sign with you if you couldn’t say you’ve worked with Harmony Sonora? You didn’t pluck me from obscurity. I showed up, I did my thing, I put myself on the line.”
