I turn onto my side, phone warm against my ear. “I do a version of it too, you know. The keeping-a-record thing. Caring about something where nobody can see me do it.”
“The fan account,” I say. “RileyStickLovers. Fourteen thousand people who love the thing I love, and not one of them knows my name. I pour everything into it and stay completely invisible. It’s the safest way I’ve found to care about something out loud.”
“That’s not sad. It’s kind of amazing, actually.”
“It’s just a fan account.”
“Maybe,” she says, and lets it go, and I lie in the dark with my phone warm against my ear feeling, for no reason I can name, completely understood.
"When are we going to stop doing this?" I ask. "This phone-call thing. This distance thing."
"Soon," she says. "I'm working on it. I'm rearranging tour dates. I'm—I'm trying to figure out how to be in the same city as you in a way that doesn't immediately complicate everything."
"What if I wanted it to be complicated?"
"Then I'd already be on a train to you."
I put in for three days off on a Wednesday, which I have never once done in four years, and my manager is so startled he approves it before I’ve finished the sentence.
“I’m visiting family,” I tell Ravita in the lunchroom, which is true. “My sister. She moved around a lot for work. I don’t see her enough.”
“You have a sister?” Ravita blinks. “You have never once mentioned a sister.”
“She’s really private,” I say, which is the most honest thing I’ve told Ravita in months. “We’re close. But it’s complicated. She’s my half sister, and estranged with my parents.”
“Everything with you is complicated lately.” But she softens. “Go. See your sister. Send me a photo so I know she’s real.”
The truth is a set of nesting dolls. My sister Jani lives north in the same town as Rhonda. I’m going to sleep on Jani’s couch and tell her nothing, and somewhere in those few days I’m going to see Rhonda.
Me:I’m visiting in two weeks! I’ll be staying at Janis. Maybe we can hang out?
Rhonda:You’re actually coming?!
Me:Put me on the list for the show.
Rhonda:Already done. Cant wait. Xx
I stare at the two little x’s at the end of her message like they’re a code I have to crack. Rhonda Mars, who manages crises for a living, signed off with kisses. I put the phone face down on my chest and lie in the dark and let myself want it, out loud, in my own head, without deleting a word of it.
CHAPTER 6
THE TOUR STOP
I wake up at 6 AM staring at the dark ceiling, thinking about how much work needs to be done. It doesn’t help that Sandy’s been late twice. Jo’s phone is more interesting than Jo is. There’s a booking agent who needs a decision on tour dates. None of it is why I’m awake. Lena flies into my city in three days, and I have been counting down the hours like a setlist.
My phone's on the nightstand. I shouldn’t check it yet. Lena won’t message me yet, its early and she’s asleep.
I get up. Make coffee. Open my laptop. The studio email inbox is a list of logistics and complications. Three messages from the label stacked in the order of escalation: A&R rep. Publicist. Artist relations. All marked urgent.
SANDY GAUNTLET'S WILD NIGHT OUT: BELLADONNAS GUITARIST PHOTOGRAPHED LEAVING EXCLUSIVE CLUB WITH UNNAMED COMPANION.
The photo is grainy. Sandy's wearing sunglasses at midnight. The woman next to her is wearing leather and could be anyone.
I take a deep breath and close the article. I open a new email and start typing.
The studio is the usual basement concrete smell—coffee, humidity, no windows. Jo's phone is face-up on the mixing desk. Rebecca again. Ana's on the couch with her guitar. Jeremy's running ghost notes through the air with his drumsticks.
Sandy's chair is empty.
