“True.”
“Wait. You aren’t mad?”
I tilt my head towards Will. “You’re an idiot, and keeping that from me was bullshit. Giving him anything from the beginningwas stupid, and going to his house and threatening him was even stupider. But I understand where your heart was. And—” I say, holding up my hand to let him know I am not finished. “I know that you are actively working on working through your control issues. So I don’t expect that you’re going to keep anything else from me. Right?”
“Right. I promise.”
Nodding curtly, I turn back to Blake. “Right. So, what can we do about this? Anything?”
Blake moves his eyes from me to Will, then back again. “That was surprisingly functional,” he says dryly.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling broadly. “We’re a work in progress. But we’re both working on progress, and he’s super hot, so it’s worth it.”
Blake's eyes flutter shut, and he shakes his head. “I take it back.” He stands and walks to his office door to escort us out. Apparently, our meeting is over. “I will look into this with legal, and I will let you know. Will, if you could send me that recording?”
Will nods and pulls his phone from this pocket. I hear the ping of a notification on Blake’s laptop.
Inside the car on the way home, Will reaches over to take my hand again. “I really am sorry.” He brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss into my palm. Goosebumps pop up along my forearm.
“How sorry?” I tease, cutting my eyes towards the front of the car to confirm that the divider is completely opaque.
Will unbuckles his seat belt and slides to his knees, maneuvering himself in front of me. Even in the face-to-face configuration of the SUV, he doesn’t have much room to spread out.
He starts at my throat, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping his way to the forgiveness I’ve already given him. His mouth trails lower, over my collarbone, down the center of my chest, pausing just long enough to make me impatient. When he tugs up the hem of my hoodie and presses his lips against bare skin, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all day.
“Sorry enough to grovel.”
THIRTY-NINE
ARI
In a matter of weeks, we have a solid plan for ourStay Loudmini resistance tour. Two weeks of shows and speeches around the country, in major protest hubs and cities currently affected by the worst of the immigration raids and police violence.
Our momentum for finding venues and partners is easy at first. Venues in Minneapolis and Chicago answer our calls with enthusiasm that borders on relief. Community organizers reach out before we even finalize dates. Legal aid groups, immigrant support networks, LGBTQ youth centers—everyone seems ready for something loud, unapologetic, and big. The energy is contagious, and for the first time since the charity concert in New Orleans, I feel like we are moving toward something instead of reacting to it.
Blake has been a machine. He coordinates permits and security details while simultaneously fielding criticism from some of his own colleagues who think we should focus on the music. As if every form of art isn’t political in some way. As if there aren’t people hurting in this country that don’t get to share the privilege of being ignorant.
Naz starts drafting ideas for stage visuals that blend protest footage with live art, with the help of Luc’s sister Georgia, who it turns out is a really good artist. Will and I spend a lot of time passing ideas back and forth, and once we get into the studio with Jesse, the song comes together beautifully.
What’s It Gonna Beisn’t subtle. It isn’t meant to be. It’s unapologetically honest and in your face. It’s a call to action, an accusation, a plea.
I think it might be the most important thing I’ve ever had a hand in creating.
Once there’s enough buzz, we start getting pushback.
A venue in Houston suddenly claims scheduling conflicts. A theater in Atlanta backs out after a private donor threatens to withdraw funding. A city council in Florida reconsiders our permit application after a few well-placed calls from a senator who has never once attended one of our shows. The pattern becomes obvious quickly, and even though it makes my blood boil, it does not surprise me.
Blake handles it all calmly and strategically, with our legal team on speed dial and three backup plans for every cancellation, thanks to Emmy. Within days, new venues are secured. Outdoor spaces are permitted. Community centers and small businesses open their doors and lend us space and resources to help our cause.
They can bully us out of one space, and we’ll simply show up in another. They cannot stop us.
We’ve just finished our final recording forWhat’s It Gonna Bewhen Blake shows up at the studio and pulls me and Will aside. Blake gestures us down a hallway to a small break room, hisexpression carefully neutral, which is more concerning than if he looked pissed.
He waits until the door to the lounge clicks shut behind us before speaking. “I got a call this morning,” he says, resting his tablet on the table. “From an entertainment news outlet.”
“That doesn’t sound new,” I say lightly, but I can already feel my stomach twisting ominously.
“It’s not. What is new is the exposé they’re about to publish. About the two of you,” he says, tapping the tablet.
