Pia blinks at me. “You think I hate you?”
“Iknowyou do.” I busy myself with the papers and pen so I can avoid her gaze. “I know you’re only doing this because your manager gave you no choice.”
“You think my manager has that much control over me?” She scoffs. “Nobody has that much control over me. I do what I want when I want. Full fucking stop.”
“So you don’t hateme?” I ask. I wish my voice didn’t sound so fragile.
Pia’s lips curve into a slow smile. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Her eyes pull me in again. Once more, she’s a cat, hiding her thoughts, her motivation, her next move. She gives me just enough to encourage my imagination to conjure up the wildest fantasies, the most impossible dreams, the sweetest of illusions. I feel like I’m falling into a trap – her trap.
“We need to work on the chorus,” I say after clearing my throat loudly.
“Yes, we do,” Pia agrees after a beat. “And I need to help you with your writing.”
“I don’t see how you’re—” I’m interrupted when Pia reaches over me and grabs the papers and pen. On my next inhale, my nose is full of her smoky, spiced scent, and it’s almost dizzying.
“So, my brother found that writing on blank paper made life extra difficult, so we’re going to need some lines here,” Pia says as she starts drawing surprisingly straight lines horizontally across the paper. “And we’re going to write clearly and in short lines. Just a few words.”
She then starts to sing her first verse – the amended version – slowly as she writes the words, skipping a line after each refrain to keep the lyrics more spaced out. The words aren’t immediately clear to me, but when I recall what she just sang, they start to come intoclearer view. Pia then goes back to the first line and starts to fill the blank line with … with doodles.
“And one of his teachers encouraged him to use visual prompts as much as possible,” Pia explains as she draws two eyes and then a featureless face with hair in my exact style. On the next blank line, she draws a bed.
“You’re good at drawing,” I say.
“I know.” Pia leans back and admires her work. “Maybe I should have gone down that route instead of being a rockstar. Probably wouldn’t have made as much money, but maybe I’d have been happier.”
I open my mouth to interrogate her on that statement, but then close it when I remember it’s not my place. Besides, Pia has moved on, drawing more visual prompts next to the corresponding words.
“Now sing your verse, slowly,” she says, the pen poised in her hand to write the words.
I do as I’m told and watch as Pia writes more words on the page.
“Fuck you,” she says when I stop singing.
“Pardon?”
She shakes her head and doesn’t look at me, already drawing her own black hair. “You have the most beautiful voice,” she laughs to herself. “In fact, maybe Idohate you, because I’ll never sing like that.”
I’m overcome with a red-hot blush that feels like it encompasses my whole body, but I know for certain it’s visible in my cheeks, so I look the other way, pretending to comb my hair with my fingers.
“Don’t do that,” Pia says. I turn back to her.
“Do what?”
“Deprive me of the sight of you blushing.” Her eyes roam my face. “Not when it makes you look so pretty.”
I freeze. Her words. The way she’s looking at me. It’s absolutely a trap. It’s right there in front of me. And suddenly, I want to fall into it. I want her to grab me. Iwantto be trapped.
My hand moves. It’s lifting off my knee and going above the table. It travels towards Pia’s face, and she watches it. When it touches her cheek, I inhale sharply, and Pia’s eyes snap to mine. I hold my breath as I apply more pressure, curling my fingers around the shape of her face, my fingertips resting on those world-famous cheekbones.
I wait for her to shrug me off. For her to give me a derisive comment. For her to laugh at me, or worse, to swear and curse at me like the world has seen her do countless times in interviews. But she does the very opposite. She closes her eyes and leans into my touch.
This is a version of Pia I’ve never seen before. Not that I’ve seen many versions of her. Maybe, it’s as simple as me never seeing therealher but rather what the newspaper and magazines portray her to be, what the record label wants us to think, an image that other people have projected onto her, and stupidly, I’ve swallowed their lies.
Until now.
“Pia,” I say, and of course my voice is croaky and hoarse. But Pia doesn’t seem to notice or care.
