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“Well, I’ve sort of gotten into the habit. It was so embarrassing at first, I had to force myself to do it, you understand.”
“I do?”
“I… I hate all of it.”
My eyebrows shoot up. She does? I scoot over and sit at the edge of her lounger. She gathers her knees to her chest to give me space. She looks so small like this, as if she’s a child. She almostisa child—she’s two years young than me, like Eden.
“Why do you do it then?” I ask her more gently than I’ve yet spoken—to anyone perhaps.
She shrugs. “I don’t know why,” she says, and the weird thing is, I totally get it. Doing dumb things and not knowing why. “I guess I want to keep people around. To keep people liking me, you know?” I do know. “I want it so bad, Isaiah. The fame, the... everything.”
I can’t relate to that last part—everything happened for me so quickly I never had a chance to know if I wanted it or not. To choose it.
“Ok. Here’s the thing. Now you have the opportunity to make it happen,” I tell her. “It is happening. You are opening for me. Everyone who didn’t already know your name will know it after our first show. And there is a year’s worth of shows to follow that one.”
She shivers, a small smile tugging at her lips. I have her. I know I have her.
But I don’t want to make her decide anything just because she wants to be a part of these shows. I want her to find her own truth and follow that. Just like I should have been doing all those years.
“But if you want to keep working with me, here is what needs to happen: One, these girls need to go,” I say. I’m not negotiating that. “Two, you need to treat everyone, and I meaneveryone, with respect. The musicians, the crew, every single person you meet. Eden, the girl you all gave your purses and shoes to… She is a writer. She is not staff.”
Lou looks down at her hands.
“She volunteered to hold them, it was fine,” she says, but her voice is quiet, as if she’s doubting herself.
“It was insulting,” I say way more vehemently than I needed to. Lou’s eyes snap to my face. She looks taken aback. Good. “If you insult her, you insult me. Remember that in the future, please.” She blinks wordlessly. “And three, no leaking anything to the press. If I can’t trust you, you’re out and I’ll hire the Greeks for my opening act. I mean it.”
She’s nodding. I think she’s crying again, but this is a different kind of crying.
“Did you hear my terms?” I ask her more softly. I was firm and specific. No need to be cruel.
“I did.”
Her face is blank; I have zero idea what she’s thinking. Is she mad? Is she stewing in rage? Is she dialing her agent in her head right now to vent about my yelling at her? Is she already spinning the tale she’ll sell to the media about how I abuse the singers I work with? I have no idea. I had no delusions that this would be remotely easy, but right now it is excruciating.
“And?” I prompt.
“And I need to do something,” Lou says. “Right now. Excuse me.”
She gets up and leaves without even a backward glance.
I don’t follow her.
What did I just do? Have I made everything worse?
A few minutes pass and I’m still not following her. I stay up here in the quiet. I grab my phone and try to look up Eden’s poetry, just out of curiosity. I try to google her name.
I can’t.
I try to look for her awards, the names of her poems, anything including her name and poetry.
I can’t.
I give up.
I run downstairs to my guitar. You know, away.
Eden’s phone
