It’s a lot easier to give advice than to take it. But I’m tired of being the guy who cheers everyone else on from the safety of a comment section while being too chickenshit to take a risk of his own.
So, I take a deep breath. And another one. And one more for good luck. Then I type out the message.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
If you’re back in NYC, do you want to meet up sometime?
My finger hovers over send. This could ruin everything. This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I once tried to make ramen in a coffee maker.
But it could also be potentially the best.
I look at Jade, who’s watching me with a mixture of concern and exasperation. Her signature look, really.
“I’m going to ask him to meet,” I say.
She nods slowly. “About fucking time.”
And before I can talk myself out of it, I press send.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANTHONY
Nick’s inspiring me to write songs.
My muse—that fickle, unreliable creature who abandoned me somewhere around my third album—is suddenly back. Demanding attention at all hours. She won’t shut up.
I’m usually too exhausted while I’m on tour to even bother to attempt to write, but this time I’ve been cranking out lyrics and melodies in hotel rooms, backstage, even during sound checks, when I should be focusing on the actual show. The words won’t wait for a convenient time. It’s like a tap has been turned on inside me.
My band thinks I’ve lost it. During rehearsal in Sydney, I stopped mid-song to scribble a line about “different cages, same locks” on the back of the setlist. My guitarist, Jake, just shook his head and muttered something about me finally going full tortured artist.
And then I spend most of the sixteen-hour flight home from New Zealand sketching out three complete songs and the bones of what might be my next album. The flight attendant kept offering me food, and I kept waving her off. I couldn’t risk losing this feeling—this weird mix of longing and hope and fear that sits in my chest like something alive.
When Nick is offline and not responding to my messages, I find myself rewatching the spoof video he made, and even that, seeing his cheeky grin and the way his brown eyes sparkle with mischief, is enough to inspire me.
I’ve watched him introduce Figgy Smalls at least fifty times. I could probably recite the whole video from memory. Gloria caught me watching it during a meeting last week, and I had to pretend I was doing “market research” on viral content.
She didn’t buy it.
The private terminal at JFK is blissfully quiet compared to the chaos of the main airport. One of the perks of fame, or maybe just the necessary armor against it. No lines, no crowds, no one asking for selfies while I’m jet-lagged and looking like I haven’t slept in twenty hours. Which I haven’t.
I took a random snapshot of the JFK sign through the window of my private jet and sent it to Nick because I’m excited about being home, and somehow, Nick is the person I want to share that excitement with.
But I’m not prepared for the response that comes back.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
If you’re back in NYC, do you want to meet up sometime?
My breath leaves me.
I stumble, nearly dropping my carry-on. My bodyguard shoots me a concerned look, but I wave him off.
Nick wants to meet me.
My hands shake as I stare at the message. This is it. This is the moment where everything either becomes real or falls apart completely.
Do I want to meet him in person?
