Business Insider: ‘Monarchy to Meritocracy’ with a snapshot from her introductory press conference, her thumb grazing the opposite wrist. She stared down the journalists wearing the same brazen expression she shot at me when I provoked her during boxing lessons:Go ahead, test me. Let me show you how wrong you are.
Forbes: ‘The Future of New York Real Estate.’ Her hand rested on the window overlooking Manhattan, wearing a soft smile like she was hiding an important secret. Jealousy roiled in my gut, wondering what the hell the photographer had said to get her to smile like that.
Fast Company: ‘Move over, Grandpa,’ showing her reclining in a power suit with those sexy Jimmy Choos propped up on her desk … and all her freckles on display.
Ignoring the twisting of my gut, I decided to tell her how proud I was of her in my text that night. I tried to send it consistently at 10pm, and every night it shifted to ‘Read’ almost immediately. I imagined her in her bed, with Prudence by her side, waiting for me to wish her goodnight. I'd seen her looking at the texts her dad sent her, her fingers hovering over the keys. Was she conflicted about not responding?
I grabbed my Coke and pushed through the door to head home … but I still wasn’t ready to go back inside and face their endless questions, not yet.
I leaned against the iron railing in front of Mama’s duplex to scan the Manhattan skyline. Only eight miles east, yet a million miles between us.
My eyes tracked south to a skyscraper, rising to the 78th floor, turning away before I could discover whether her lights were on. Would it hurt more or less, knowing that she left me to work herself to the bone?
I pushed open the gate and sat down on the concrete step, dropping my head into my hands. What the hell was I doing? It had felt like such an obvious way to show her I still cared, but what had I expected to happen? I sing some stupid songs, and she gives up her empire to do push-ups in a field?
After a few minutes of trying not to look at the skyline, the door swung open behind me. I felt the heat of a body on the stoop beside me followed by a warm hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for pressuring you. I know that you’re not doing it for the money.”
“Do you?” I asked, lifting my head to face my sister.
“Of course,” Adriana said. “Otherwise I’d be demanding a salary as your social media manager.”
I laughed at her bluntness. “So why are you doing it, then? Why do you care so much?”
“Because I get the dopamine hit of the public reactions.” She held out her phone. “Read these. Comments from people who love your music.”
I barely glanced at the screen. “I don’t need to —”
“Just read them,” she insisted, shoving it into my hands. I sighed, knowing the futility of resisting.
My fiancé and I are long-distance, and we play your covers together every night on FaceTime to stay connected. Thank you for making love feel real, even from miles away.
I lost my wife 4 years ago, and your music brings me peace. Thank you for making love feel eternal.
My parents have been married for 40 years, and last night i caught them dancing in the kitchen to this one.
I blinked hard, jaw clenched. I hadn’t realized that what I was doing mattered to so many people. Sure, I’d seen the subscriber numbers climbing but I had no idea …
Then, a sneaky username stopped my scroll.
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
You didn’t hear this from me, but 12 of today’s listens are from one account.
Suddenly, I couldn’t scroll fast enough. “Adri, can I filter all the comments from one person?”
She leaned over to show me, and I clicked into a series of messages. Connor never said Tori’s name, but the hints were all there.
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
This tab didn’t close for two days.
Ripped this one and uploaded to a private playlist before it gets taken down.
Despite a packed calendar, I always reserve a 15-minute lunch at exactly 1.
And then, the one that hit me square in the chest:
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
