Page 14 of It Happened on a Sunday
So instead of opening up the list, I pull out my phone and google the order of her albums. Then I swipe over to Spotify and put onSerendipity, her first.
I drive home listening to a less guarded, more hopeful version of the woman I met tonight. By the time I finish the heartbreak and poetry that is Sloane’s third album, I’ve figured out two things.
One, Sloane may feel broken, but she’s got more strength than my entire offensive line.
And two, flowers and phone numbers are just the pregame. What we might be able to give each other starts after the whistle blows.
Chapter 7
Sloane
“You ready for this interview?” Bryan asks. He’s the publicist assigned to accompany me on the tour and make sure I don’t do anything to bring the house of cards that is my, and subsequently his, career tumbling down on top of us. “It’s a big deal.”
“You say that about all of them.” I try not to move my head, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, but just that little movement makes Mandy squeak. Then again, she is currently wielding her mascara wand like a weapon.
“Yes, well, this time I actually mean it.”
“You always mean it.” I wait for Mandy to finish with my left eye before reaching for my iced coffee and taking a long sip. I may not have a taste for alcohol, but caffeine is a whole other story. Especially considering I only got about three hours of sleep last night.
I blame my lack of sleep on the time zone difference andnoton the dark-brown eyes and self-deprecating grin that continue to pop into my mind at the most inopportune times. Spoiler alert: all times are inopportune.
All of a sudden, the melody that’s crept into my head several times since I met Sly starts to play again. I reach for my journal just in case more comes to me, but it slips away like water through a broken glass. There and gone before I can so much as taste it.
Fuck.
I swallow down the frustration and tell myself it’s better this way.
I don’t have the time for inspiration to strike right now.
“Do you want another sip of your coffee before…?” Mandy’s voice trails off, but it’s hard to miss what she’s saying, considering she’s now holding a lip liner the same dark red as my hair.
“God, yes.” I grab for the cup and shut the music down hard.
Nothing but trouble lies that way.
Already, my stomach is in knots. My newest album dropped eight weeks ago, and ever since, I’ve been on a revolving carousel of interviews and appearances in between performances. I consider it a personal triumph that I even know what city we’re in right now. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited the album’s getting a better reception than we imagined—we’ve got our choice of magazines to cover. I just wish my people would saynoa bit more often.
Surely people are getting as sick of looking at my face in the supermarket lines as I am of showing it.
Then again, if I’ve learned nothing else from the past several years, it’s that people’s infatuation with the worst—preferably without any real evidence to back it up—knows no bounds.
“Who’s this again?” I ask when Mandy finishes with my lips after what feels likeforever. I’ve been putting lipstick on for years, and I still can’t figure out how anyone, especially a skilled makeup artist, can turn its application into a fifteen-minute process. Though admittedly hers does look better.
“Vanity Fair,” Bryan answers as he heads for the door. “It’s the cover story. I’ll be bringing them up in ten minutes, so make sure you’re ready.”
“Can’t wait,” I call after him.
Lucinda breezes into my suite as Bryan walks out. “Just finished steaming your outfit, and all I can say is don’t you dare wrinkle this blazer before the photographer gets here.”
“It’s just an interview. The photo shoot isn’t until L.A.” Ireach for what’s left of my coffee, then freeze as Mandy hisses. Apparently the last of her new-girl nerves have finally deserted her.
I pick up the cup and take a sip anyway, though I’m careful not to smudge her work. She narrows her eyes and looks like she’s about to complain, but the second I raise a brow, she grabs her makeup kit and scampers toward the exit.
Nice to know I’ve still got it.
“They’re bringing a photographer for behind-the-scenes content to accompany the photo shoot next week, so get undressed, will you? This shirt is tricky.” Lucinda looks me over from head to toe. “And stop trying to scare the newbies.”
“I don’t have to try.” I slide my robe off my shoulders and let it pool on the floor around me. When I was younger, I thought I’d never get used to stripping in front of people. But after years of thirty-second costume changes between sets and a full decade of being treated like nothing more than a commodity, I barely notice it anymore. Besides, it’s hard to care about modesty when so many of my secrets are sprawled about the internet for clickbait and sound bites.
