Maybe Once, Maybe Twice(94)
“Unfortunately, you signed it in perpetuity. Cole could release your song in twenty years if he wanted to. Look, obviously this guy found out you were about to become a success, he’s seen you online, he learned you were doing the original music for Asher Reyes’s buzzy film, and most significantly—he heard that you were recording with Fin Bex. Cole feels the need to engage in some sort of pissing contest with Bex at every turn—as Bex’s producing career has eclipsed his.”
I tucked my knees into my chest, holding my body to keep from falling apart in public.
“Cole’s going to take credit for my career, isn’t he? He’s going to get to profit off me, forever?”
I already knew the answer. Angry, hot liquid masked my vision.
“Yes, to both of those questions,” Shelly confirmed.
In the fairy tale, the villain doesn’t profit off the underdog until her dying day. The villain doesn’t get to take credit for discovering the underdog. The villain doesn’t loom large until the underdog draws her last breath. But now, my villain would get to do exactly that.
“When’s he releasing the song?”
“It’s Friday, Maggie.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means check your Spotify. Apple Music. It came out at midnight. Across all platforms.”
I went silent. I couldn’t bring myself to even move a finger.
“Do you want to tell me why you kept this from me?” Shelly asked.
I opened my mouth to explain, but shock strangled my throat.
“Maggie, before I lay into you, just know this: it’s a phenomenal single. The song is nothing to be ashamed of. But the timing, unfortunately, couldn’t be worse. I’m trying to do some smoothing here, which is why I need you to start talking. I don’t think Bex is going to want to produce you five seconds after Cole Wyan releases your first studio-recorded single to the world. Fin Bex is the most honest guy in the business, and all he expects in return is transparency. He called me pretty pissed off this morning. Angry I kept this from him, angry you kept this from him. He wants to press pause on recording today.”
Cole Wyan had stifled my career five years ago, and he was about to do it again. Silent tears started to fall, and I wiped them away quickly with the back of my hand.
Shelly let the sniffles linger between the phone lines.
“Maggie, why don’t you call me back later with the full story?”
“Okay,” I finally cracked.
I set the phone down on my lap, my eyes wide with tears, until I clenched them shut. I could feel the panic rising, the walls around my body closing in, my past and present swirling together to suffocate me in this beautiful marble lobby with the paparazzi waiting outside. I took labored breaths in and out, trying to get my heart rate to slow. Instinctively, I pressed hard on Summer’s name on my phone.
For the first time, a call to my best friend went straight to voicemail. Historically, I had never enjoyed sitting by myself with horrible news. Summer was my first phone call, my lifeline, the person who would come over and hold me for a brief moment, and then clap her hands and form a game plan for success. Unlike myself, Summer preferred to sit with her shit quietly—she did not enjoy a group project—which is why her phone was off. Yesterday, she sent an email to all her friends, letting them know that she and Valeria were getting a divorce. It read like a stone-cold PR statement, which was of no surprise to me. Summer turned off her phone after sending the email. She wanted people to know her truth, but she didn’t want to talk about it—especially while untangling it herself.
My rock was crumbling in South Florida—I was without a lifeline, crumbling in New York City. I glanced down at the electronic key fob in my hand—the key to Asher’s loft, a reminder that I actually did have a rock.
I uncurled my limbs from my chest, slowly standing up as dizziness shot behind my eyes. I drew in air, my heart pounding as I watched my scuffed Converses take labored steps forward. I put one foot in front of the other until the balmy morning air was howling inside my lungs and my feet were planted on a cobblestone street in the Meatpacking District. I felt my finger dial a name on my iPhone’s “Favorites.”
47
THIRTY-ONE
I INHALED THE HARD SUN with my eyes closed—the aroma of freshly cut grass swirled with the stench of hot pretzels. It was the first warm day of spring—sixty-two degrees—which after surviving a winter in New York felt like the equivalent of a scalding summer day. I was grateful to have warmth on my pale shoulders—shoulders which were feeling the sun’s rays for the first time since fall’s harsh turn. It was honestly the only thing I was grateful for today.
I opened my eyes on Sheep Meadow, just as a red flat object came spinning toward my face at lightning speed. I slapped my hands together around the Frisbee before it could slice my face in two.
“Heads-up,” Summer said, deadpan.
She stood above a blanket, and I glared at her, throwing the Frisbee back with too much force. It soared over Summer’s straight long bob, landing in the hands of a woman standing a few yards behind Summer. The mystery woman was my age, maybe a little younger, twirling in the breeze, not even bothering to see where the Frisbee had come from. She wasn’t one to question why something fell into her hands—life just did, and you knew it by looking at her, the way the harsh sun bathed her face gently, like a soft light box on a beaming smile. Effortless. Her blond hair was perfectly pinned up to the side, her lips were a matte red, her long legs stood tall in a white linen dress. I swallowed hard as Garrett came into view, his bare torso folding around this mystery woman, swinging her giggling frame into a dipping kiss that made her chin go all the way to the sky.