I can’t think straight. I realize I’m still wearing my stupid oversized sunglasses, and it is full on night. I take them off to see better.
“OMG!!!!” A woman nearby squeals. “Are you April Rain?” Before I can even answer, another fan spies me.
“April Rain!!!” A knot of people surrounds me, asking for my autograph and a selfie. Perhaps I’m not as much of a has-been as I thought.
Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth. —Persuasion
2
I don’t even need to give my name backstage. “April Rain!” The beefy security guard calls. “HUGE! Fan! HUGE! Can we have a selfie or...” he chuckles. “An us-ie.” I agree. We snap the photo. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he says.
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“Mr. West will be thrilled.”Will he?
He opens the door and waves me to a woman with a clipboard. This is definitely the upshot to being a celebrity, even a washed-up one. Sometimes, fame is a golden key. For the last few years, I’ve tried not to use it. But there is a strange comfort in knowing I still can. The woman with the clipboard tells me to wait. She texts something on her phone. I try to read her face. She seems flustered, worried. I suddenly have this crazy thought that Freddy requested that, at all costs, I am not allowed back to see him. “Just one minute,” she says. “I need to take this call.” She gets on her phone, turning her back to me and starts yammering. I’ve performed in enough venues that I’m pretty sure I can find my way backto whatever room they are using for the after party. I crane my neck down the hall, hoping to see him.
“How’s my hair?” I ask a random girl with purple hair packing up sound equipment.
She glances up from her work. “April Rain as I live and die.” She exclaims. “Don’t listen to any of the trolls. I love what you have done with your hair. And the extra weight. You are so, so brave.”
“Thank you?” I knew there would be comments like this if I returned to the spotlight. I had prepped myself for them. Told myself I was ready for them. At this moment, I am not so sure.
“Of course, I was devastated when you cut your hair. I mean, wow, it was so epic. But it is not a bad look. You look gorgeous even with your mascara smearing a little.”
“Oh, is it? Is there a bathroom I could use?”
“Yeah, sure. Right over there.”
I hurry down a narrow hall, speed walking to escape this fan’s “compliments” and slip into a bathroom. I gasp at my reflection. My white skin is even paler than normal, my eyes red-rimmed from crying. When that lady said my mascara was a little smeared, she was being generous. I am full-on raccoon eyes. I think with horror of all the selfies I’ve taken this evening. I can already imagine the headlines: April Rain Returns: But is she headed for rehab?
Ugh. I should have known all my crying would take a toll on my face. One of the drawbacks of radical self-acceptance is that I’m totally out of practice when it comes to worrying about my public appearance. While this mindset has been liberating, and I highly recommend it, it may not be optimal for staging a comeback.
“I love and accept myself,” I say out loud as I pull down enough paper towels to wipe the black smudges from under my eyes. I rummage through my small purse for lip gloss, which I apply as I whisper again. “I accept and love myself as I am.” And I do, I really do. But let’s be real. I haven’t seen Freddy for five years. I think it’s reasonable to want to look a smidge better than a raccoon in a dumpster fire.
New lips, new mascara, I’ve freshened my curls by getting them just a little wet and scrunching them. I look presentable—I think. Never mind this is a terrible idea. What in the world am I going to say to him?
“I love you. I always will.”NOPE, nope, nope.
“You were right and I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I miss you.”
“You were amazing up there. And will you marry me?”I sit down on the toilet and whimper cry. What on earth was I thinking? He doesn’t want to see me.But that song at the end of his concert. Gah!“All I do is miss you.”
No, I can’t take it seriously. That was part of his show. I should know that better than anyone. I was a pop star. There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute.” I wipe my eyes. There’s no hiding that I’ve been crying, but the mascara’s cleaned up.
I step out of the bathroom into the narrow gray hall. A teenage girl leans against the wall, looking at her phone while waiting for the bathroom. Even with her head bent down, I can see how lovely she is. I wonder if she knows this or if she miserably compares herself to others. I hope not. On seeing me, her eyes go wide. “April Rain!!!” She jumps up and down and then stops. “You are April Rain, right?”
“In the flesh.”
“Can I hug you? I just adore you.”
“I could really use a hug, actually.” She throws her arms around me. My eyes prick again with tears. I swallow. No more crying.
