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Simon’s quiet for a moment. Like I just stunned him silent. “You haven’t really read anything that’s been said about you this morning, huh.”
“Not really. Like I told you, I just woke up.”
“You’re in for a big surprise then. People are eating this shitup, Tate. They’re saying you two are the next it couple.”
“It couple?”
“Celebrity couple. A couple the public wants to ship. Stan. Whatever terminology they’re using now,” Simon mutters. “Are you that out of touch with what’s going on in the world? I didn’t think you’d gone that far off the grid.”
Relief replaces the anxious feeling almost immediately. For once, the media seems to be working in my favor, when they’ve been against me for years. “Doesn’t seem like you’re keeping up with the lingo either, Simon. You sound like an old man.”
“Shut the hell up.” His tone is mild, so I don’t take offense. “I called you because I wanted to see if you’d like to meet.”
I’m struck silent for a moment by his change of subject—and what he’s requesting. “When?”
“This afternoon.”
“It’s Sunday, Simon.”
“Every day brings opportunity, Tate. And there is no rest for the wicked.”
“Are you calling me wicked?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and eventually, I fill the silence with a nervous chuckle.
“You know who you are. What you are.”
“And what’s that?” I ask.
“From my current viewpoint, you’re a man with untapped potential who’s about to have another breakout moment.”
I scoff. “Bullshit.”
“Meet me at my office this afternoon, and I’ll let you know my thoughts.”
“Why, Simon?” I grip my phone tighter. “Why do you want to meet with me?”
“To talk next steps.”
“Next steps for what?”
Simon sighs, like he’s irritated with me. “For your career. You’ve just been given a second chance, mate. Looks like you need to take advantage of it.”
* * *
I take a shower to clear out the cobwebs in my brain after that mind-boggling phone call. I stand under the hot spray of water for a long time, my head full of a jumble of thoughts and ideas, plus endless speculation.
Still haven’t fully explored my newfound internet blowup, but once I’ve dried off and slipped on a pair of boxer briefs, I can’t stand it anymore, and I grab my phone, settling on my uncomfortable couch before I open Instagram back up and punch my name into the search bar like an egotistical bastard.
It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this. Searched my name or the band name, checking up on what people are saying about me. I used to do it all the time, especially after the band first broke up. When all I wanted was a glimmer of that old adulation we used to get. When we were on top of the world and seemingly untouchable.
That changed quick. The fans who once loved us turned on us. We were a disappointment, especially me, and that was hard to face.
So I took the easy way out and stopped looking myself up. After I sulked for approximately a year and eventually got sober, I focused on my health and well-being. And part of making sure my well-being was protected included me not searching myself or Five Car Pileup on the internet.
This feels like I’m breaking some sort of personal rule, and I brace myself, waiting for the slam of insults and disappointment that I normally receive, but that’s not what I’m greeted with.
Not even close.
