I exhaled and opened my eyes.
Three things I can see: Emerald ring on my right ring finger. The red carpet beneath my diamante Louboutins. Courtney’s makeup brush coming toward my face.
The coping mechanism, in tandem with Courtney’s powder application, stopped the racing thoughts. But I still yearned for something to relax me, more than the Xanax and two shots of whiskey I’d downed in the limo. Something to numb my mind completely.
My eyes darted around the venue, landing on various acquaintances I could get everything from weed to cocaine from. But I had to perform in a couple of hours and couldn’t risk anything else in my system. I’d just have to suffer through and deal with my heart later.
It was a shame I’d come to loathe these events so much. I used to love them—everyone clamoring to talk to me, desperate for sound bites or photographs. But the glamorous novelty wore off over time, and the process became more painful than enjoyable. Starving myself. Stressing about puffy eyes. Having to be “on” the entire night. Plastering a fake smile across my face as I answered the same question fifteen times in a row. It was exhausting. But, like my God-fearing Aunt Jackie would say, there’s no peace for the wicked.
Sweat pooled around the nape of my neck, making me instantly regret wearing my hair down and not slicked back in a bun like my stylist suggested. Panic crept through me as I imagined my slinky satin dress, which I could feel clinging to my back, covered in wet patches.
Silk gown, godless town.
I quickly typed the words into my notes app so I wouldn’t forget them. It was how I kept track of any spur-of-the-moment lyric ideas when I didn’t have my songwriting book with me.
Fake smiles… something… drown?
I finished adding the incomplete musing as my publicist Rebecca guided me down the carpet. A camera flashed as I turned the corner, followed by another and then another. I flinched at the bright lights, forcing myself to breathe before handing my phone to Rebecca and stepping into the firing line.
“Harlow, over here!” photographers shouted from all directions. I inhaled as I posed, changing my stance every two seconds. I pushed my hair behind my shoulder and straightened, sticking my neck out at different angles as I shifted from pouty lips to a varying range of smiles with ease. I was thankful for the distraction, being forced to focus on tightening my body, sticking out the right parts just enough while I held my breath.
Rebecca stepped in front of the cameras with her hand held up before gesturing for me to move down the carpet. I exhaled a sigh of relief. But the feeling was fleeting.
“Kamryn, Kamryn!” the photographers shouted as I exited, their cameras pointed toward the young pop star behind me. It was a sobering reminder of what I used to be. An innocent eighteen-year-old with the world at my feet, excitement in my eyes, and a genuine love for the attention and glamor of it all. I wondered if Kamryn would one day become as jaded as me, see these events for what they really were—a circus. And we were just animals, trapped. Our only purpose to entertain, no matter our mental state.
I followed Rebecca over to one of the shouting faces, Leyton Russo of STAR, who was waving excitedly in her pink jumpsuit behind the gilded rope. If she weren’t media, I’d be tempted to think she was a sweet lady. But everyone had an angle in this business. Everyone.
“Slayyyy!” Leyton screeched as I walked over.
I air-kissed Leyton and winked at the camera.
“How are you, girl?” Leyton said, waving her hand in circles. “You look insane. IN-sane.”
“Thank you, thank you!” I beamed with my first and last genuine smile of the night.
Being complimented was the best part of the red carpet. Regardless of whether or not they were sincere, it was nice to hear something kind in the moment, especially since later, once photos from the event circulated online, it’d be difficult to find many niceties among the hateful comments. Some would call me too fat, others too thin. Some would say I had had too much work done, others that I was looking old and haggard. It was impossible to win.
“So first, I gotta ask…” Leyton said, bringing me back from my thoughts. “Who are you wearing?”
“Gucci,” I responded, holding my arms out so the STAR camera could capture the dress.
“Well, the navy is stunning on you. Simply stun-ning.” Leyton snapped her fingers in the air as she replied. “Now, tell me, are you excited for your performance? I know I am.”
“Of course, can’t wait!” I added a fake squeal to help mask the lie.
“What can we expect? Anything you can tell us?”
“Ummm…” But before I could answer, Rebecca pressed a hand on my shoulder and pulled me away.
“Expect the unexpected!” I winked at Leyton before disappearing into the crowd.
Expect the unexpected?I rolled my eyes at the lame response. Even after all my success, all the awards, I was still another cliché.
Rebecca motioned me toward a familiar middle-aged man with frosted tips. Despite his hair, which was stuck in the 2000s, Conor fromAvantwas one of the best-dressed men in the room, donning a suit from Tom Ford’s recent collection.
I told him the same thing I had told Leyton at STAR but with a few extra details. In the middle of explaining once again how the idea for my latest song came about, Conor pressed a finger to his earpiece, his expression changing from focused to mischievous. I followed the cheers, my heart flying into my throat when I saw the reason: Colton Scott.
I tried to swallow my mounting anxiety, praying my three layers of makeup hid the red flush in my cheeks. I knew eyes—and cameras—would be on me, studying every twitch of my face for a reaction. A faltered smile. A split-second, downcast glance. Something, anything they could use as proof of my feelings for him.
