Page 3 of This Side of Beautiful

As a waiter passed by, I grabbed some stuffed mushrooms on a small plate. I needed to keep my hands occupied as I scanned the crowd, hoping to see Del, my manager, or a familiar, friendly face from my past in the music business. I chomped on the tasty morsel as I strolled on the periphery of the ballroom. Del had said he would sit near the front at a table for the performers and guests if I decided to show up.

The guests radiated excitement, eager to attend one of the premier events for Houston’s Black elite. Black cowboys and the rodeo had been a part of Texas history for generations. Enslaved Black men had been among the first wranglers called “cowboys,” a term that had nothing to do with the rugged mythos of the Wild West and everything to do with their servitude. Not to be confused with “cowhands,” they were the backbone of an industry that would later erase them from its narrative. After emancipation, many of these skilled Black men became some of the most respected and capable cowboys in the West, even as history tried to erase them.

As a Houston native, I understood the importance of celebrating our place in spaces that had once shut us out. This gala, the crown jewel of Black Heritage Night at the rodeo, was an annual tradition, an honor to attend. And tomorrow, I would take the stage as a surprise guest of headliner Cash Black.

The joy was palpable with smiles, laughter, and a sense of homecoming woven through the room. But as I stood on the periphery, all I felt was loneliness as their excitement evoked my sadness.

I’d never imagined that if I were ever asked to perform at the rodeo, a place I’d gone to countless times as a child, I’d be here alone. No mother or brother in the crowd, beaming with pride, shouting that I’d made it. No ex, no man on my arm, whispering how proud he was of me.

I’d pictured Adam Temple, the retired NFL player I’d spent four years loving, standing beside me, sharing in the moment. But I’d burned that bridge to the ground long ago.

Now, on the eve of what should’ve been a momentous night, the only person I had in my corner was my manager of six months. A man who had soughtmeout after I posted a video of myself singing Lauryn Hill’s ”Ex-Factor”on IG — my mother’s favorite song. A moment of nostalgia that went viral. A moment that led to this.

Del saw something in me. Maybe something real, maybe something profitable. I wasn’t sure yet.

Both my last manager and my record label had unceremoniously dumped me after my final scandal, an affair with a married music producer. His wife? A beloved singer with a fanbase ten times more loyal and rabid than mine. I had been the villain in that story, and the industry had washed its hands of me.

Now, I was here, clawing my way back, trying to be seen as something other than a mistake.

I needed to find Del. I fumbled in my purse for my phone, distracted, gripping the tiny saucer in my other hand when someone bumped into me.

Everything fell. My plate and my purse crashing to the floor. My hand shot out to grab something, anything, to steady myself, and landed on the edge of a nearby table. A glass of water tipped over, drenching the bodice of the woman seated there.

She gasped, pushing back her chair, eyes wide with irritation.

“Sorry… sorry,” I stammered, struggling to regain my balance. But the room had started to spin.

Oh no.Not now. Not here.

I braced myself against the table, forcing deep breaths.I can do this. I can dothis.

“Aren’t you that rapper?” a voice piped up from the table.

I blinked, vision swimming. My heart thundered in my ears, drowning out the voices around me. My knees felt like liquid.Find something to focus on. Find something.

“Are you okay?” Another voice. I couldn’t tell whom it belonged to.

A phone appeared in my face. A young man holding up his fingers in a peace sign, grinning at the screen, angling for a selfie.

I recoiled, my breath catching in my throat as I caught my reflection in his phone. Wild eyes, lips slightly parted, panic written all over my face.

I shook my head and backed away, mumbling, “Sorry.”

The young man bent down, scooping up my purse. He held it out to me hesitantly. “Are you okay, MILA?”

Not my name.

That name was dead. That name had been my destruction.

Hearing it now only made my chest tighten further.

Coming here had been a mistake.

This night was for family. For friends. I had neither.

The walls felt like they were closing in, the music too loud, the lights too bright. I needed air. My breath was coming too fast, too shallow, my chest caving in.

Thump. Thump. Thump.My heart slowed, dragging me down with it.

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