Jamie squeezed her hand. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms. I don’t blame her after what I said. And now she won’t return my calls or texts.”
Cory joined Jamie at Emma Lou’s side. “She’ll come around. No one is immune to that charm of yours. The beard, though, is questionable.”
Jamie lightly jabbed Cory in the shoulder.
“I’ll try talking to her too,” Sammi said, her nails clicking on her screen.
“Just because you ain’t in the same room, it don’t mean you can’t reach her. That’s what the music’s for,” Jamie Sr. said.
Emma Lou looked at Jamie in that way all grandmothers did when they knew they were right. “I have a feeling all those songs you played for us are about her. Be sure to look after that heart of yours. She might want it back someday.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
After Brinton’s therapy session with Dr. Mensah on Friday, she stared into the abyss of the open blog post on her laptop. They’d agreed that productively questioning her scariest thoughts would help her better manage them.
While she didn’t know why Jamie had said what he did, Brinton warmed up to believing that he had the best intentions. She learned in therapy that forgiveness was a gift, not for others, but for oneself.
The open letter that Brinton had written was the start.
Publicly telling her story, her own way, was the path to freedom. Brinton longed to shed the anger and sadness, a crackled snakeskin, so she could become anew.
Pausing Sade on her headphones, Brinton read the words aloud one last time.
AN OPEN LETTER BY BRINTON SHAW
You probably know me as the girl who threw up on an unsuspecting country music star at the Grammys. I became a punching bag for keyboard warriors and trolls hell-bent on making me feel as small as possible. But joke’s on them: I already felt small. Because that’s how anxiety tells you to feel every waking moment of your life.
So, for the record, I was not drunk or high out of my mind during that livestream. I was experiencing a severe panic attack.
Then, a few months later, I found myself in a strange, new place. That place was Iris, Tennessee, where the people took me in and showed me a spectrum of warmth and kindness I’d never experienced. One of those people was Jamie Crawford Jr. I don’t need to tell you who he is. But for the uninitiated, watch his excellent performance at this year’s Yeehaw Fest. He is as hardworking, thoughtful, and soulful as they come. And yes, he’s made a few mistakes. I’m sure you read about those too, in an article published with my (albeit buried) byline by Landmark.
And about that article: while it was sold to you as an intimate look into an overexposed persona, Landmark manipulated the circumstances so they could benefit from my poor reputation—assoiled as Jamie’s Grammys boots, you could say—to drive clicks to the website and sell print issues. And so, I quit. I was not fired, as many have claimed, because I allegedly slept with Jamie. This allegation factoring into such dialogue crystalizes our society’s unchecked subjugation of women. Do better.
I’m also aware of infinite speculation about my personal relationship with Jamie. And the truth is, that’s none of anyone’s damn business. Until one day, if we choose that it is. What I will say is that in the time that I knew him, he encouraged me to accept myself, crippling fear and all. I’ll always be grateful to him for that. He is a remarkable man who deserves everything that he’s working toward in this next chapter.
If you’re wondering, the worst part about leaving Landmark was breaking what I’m sure was the longest tenure for a Black staff writer. Sending thoughts and prayers for who comes next—you’ll need them. Because Landmark values inclusivity only if it doesn’t hinder their bottom line.
You will be the hot sauce on the stringy, unseasoned chicken breast that is corporate America. You will feel the hypodermic prick of anxiety every time a pair of skeptical eyes look straight through you. But remember: you are so much more than a box to be checked. You’re an artist.
Jamie taught me that too.
I may have gone viral during my most mortifying moment on Earth. But now, with this open letter, I’m taking back my power. And my reputation.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Once she finished reading, Brinton made sure she uploaded the accompanying images correctly. Then, she posted it. In truth, it was anticlimactic, since no one followed her Substack page. But it was the first step.
Sammi had agreed to spread the blog link to all her media contacts, which Brinton needed for this to work. They’d been in touch over the past few weeks, and Sammi had shared updates on Emma Lou’s recovery.
Turning down Sammi’s multiple invites for Brinton to return to Iris and watch Jamie perform his new songs was a necessary evil. It was a goodwill gesture, since Jamie had decimated her heart, but how would it feel to stand there and look at him again? To feel every spike of emotion when they couldn’t possibly be together? The well was too poisoned.
The concert was later that night, which was an unfortunate coincidence, but it wouldn’t deter her plan. She opened a new text message to Sammi.
Brinton: Here’s the link. Let’s do this.
Sammi: Here’s to changing the narrative, honey.
An hour later, Brinton’s phone exploded with texts and calls, her email was over-run, and her social media mentions popped off.
