I hit record, turn the camera toward me, and give my phone screen a winning grin. Which, let’s be honest, is possibly more “manic goblin” than “charming influencer,” but you’ve got to work with what you’ve got.
“Hi, this is Nick Marchesi, Anthony Devine’s biggest fan, and welcome to my home.”
CHAPTER TWO
ANTHONY
I am not a morning person. Especially not after another night of staring at a blank page until two a.m., willing words to come.
My muse keeps very inconvenient hours, but every artist I know lives with the same quiet terror: that one day she’ll leave and never come back. So we indulge her like a temperamental toddler, grateful for whatever scraps she offers.
Unfortunately, as has been happening a lot recently, my muse showed up just long enough to give me two half-lines of lyrics and then left.
I think the problem is she doesn’t recognize me anymore. She knew the guy who used to write raw, hungry songs in his friend’s basement. I’m not sure she knows what to do with this version of me, the one in a multi-million-dollar apartment with designer furniture and a carefully managed life.
I’ve been trying to write the same song for two months now. It’s supposed to be about connection. But every time I reach for the feeling, I come up empty.
I used to write songs that made people cry. Now I’m worried I write songs that make people nod along while they’re stuck in traffic.
I shuffle into the kitchen, where Gloria, my personal assistant—also known as the person who calls me out on my shit—is already perched at the counter, typing away on her laptop. She looks up as I enter, raising an eyebrow at my bedhead and wrinkled T-shirt. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the interior design sensation himself.”
“Interior design sensation?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but never that.
“Yeah, Keely just messaged me. ThatArchitectural Livingfeature you did has gone viral. You’re trending on Twitter. Or XYZ, or whatever the hell they’re calling it right now.”
I blink. “Wait, seriously? The architecture thing?”
“It has over six million views on YouTube.”
I blink some more, as if that might rearrange this information into something that makes sense in my pre-coffee haze.
Normally, pictures of me shirtless are what send my social media engagement through the roof. When I first started my accounts, I’d spent ages trying to come up with well-worded inspirational insights into humanity, accompanied by some arty photos. Then I accidentally posted a photo of myself in board shorts by a pool while on vacation and got thirty thousand likes within half an hour.
Hence, my social media feed is now curated by people who understand algorithms and features an endless parade of shirtless selfies and gym pics. It’s amazing what a little strategic flexing can do for your follower count.
You have to give the crowd what they want.
But I really didn’t think theArchitectural Livingshoot was what the crowd would want.
I’d actually hated filming it. I’d felt like a stranger in my own apartment, reciting lines about “authentic New York” while a crew member adjusted the angle of my couch for the fourth time.And they’d edited it into something so pretentious I couldn’t watch more than thirty seconds without cringing.
“I thought people only cared about my abs and my high notes,” I say to Gloria.
“Well, apparently, they also care about your taste in throw pillows. Who knew?”
I pull out my phone and open my social media apps. My eyes widen as I see the flood of notifications. “Holy crap. I’ve gained ten thousand followers overnight.”
“I know. It’s so weird.”
Gloria continues to tap away on her computer while I stumble toward the coffee maker.
“Uh-oh,” she says just as I’m pouring myself a cup.
I glance up. “What’s wrong?”
“Um…I don’t think you’re going to like this.”
“What is it?”
