I wanted to turn around and kiss him, and I wanted to hold Garrett at the same time. The last thing this moment needed was my boundless mind floating back and forth between these two men. His words seemed to wrap Garrett inside a blanket of possibilities. I preferred the unrequited what-if to stay safely behind heavy doors—inside the dark, devastating corners of my mind. I needed only Asher to occupy the warm, golden parts inside me. A sparkly swirl of those two men made me feel like I was walking into a sunlit room, where Asher and Garrett were seated at two separate tables, both of them holding a chair out toward me, expectantly.
I had always embraced my emotional state with such vigor that it was absolutely impossible to separate my heartache from my lyrics. My songs were specifically autobiographical, which was never problematic because no one had paid me to write someone else’s story. It wasn’t that I was fighting artistic growth with the stubbornness of a child, it was that I didn’t know how to embrace hope for a hopeless man after Garrett had put his loving you makes me hate myself card on the table. I needed to untangle the corners of my mind so I could dive into the stars with my palms outstretched and my eyes closed. If anyone could get me there, it was the man whose warm arms were wrapped around mine.
Asher tilted his face, just a few inches from me as he watched my expression tighten to concern.
“Mags, think of this as a privilege—a privilege to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. We’re all built different. We don’t feel the same. I remember the struggle I went through when I started acting, how I was terrified that if I felt loss, I would step out of a role and feel like I was losing my brother all over again. Sometimes it felt that way, but mostly, it felt incredible to have that gift—to be able to step into other shoes. I know you have it. I see the way you look at the world. It’s going to be uncomfortable, but if it isn’t uncomfortable, then you’re not doing it right.”
“Kind of not fair to give an Oscar-winning actor the opportunity to change my mind.”
He smirked at me.
“But it worked,” I added, squeezing his hand in mine.
I stared past Asher at the moondust, studying the expansive, chalky craters. Making it in this industry felt like walking on the moon. Impossible, otherworldly, floating, lonely, something you couldn’t explain to anyone else. And getting there without anyone in the passenger seat sure seemed like a hollow victory—one I didn’t want to embrace. I stood up and walked, with him a few yards behind me. I watched my feet create moondust on the floor, my throat humming the shifting chorus as I approached Saturn, then Jupiter. The loneliness and the majesty of it all swirled around inside me, until hope for the hopeless was a fully formed chorus—until I could find a silver lining without it being about Garrett. I roamed the room until I was able to become Yael. I felt my shoulders drop as I floated on, and I let the stars in front of me splinter back into my soul—piercing and uncomfortable at first, but then warm and familiar.
Sitting down at a far bench that was splattered with a projection of a million stars, I furiously typed lyrics into my Notes app.
Asher peered down at me as I finished writing the chorus. I grabbed my guitar and gazed up at him, and then, with good old-fashioned hope inside my soul, I sang Asher the new chorus. It looked golden and achingly shiny—it tasted like Pop Rocks, but with a bitter sour landing on my gums—an explosion of wild energy that needed a palate cleanser.
We threw hope to the fire and now I’m floating past Mars I should know better, but I don’t see no harm
The ashes of our maybes will keep me warm
Floating through Saturn remembering you tangled in my bed A time before we said words better left unsaid
I float through Jupiter but I still want the moon
I should know better
But darling, it’ll always be you
I exhaled the final note as if I had untangled the last clue of an escape room—with relief and pride.
“You made that look easy,” Asher said, shaking his head with an awed grin on his face.
I stood up and slung my guitar around my back, taking his fingers in mine. He pulled me closer to him with his hand around my waist.
“Well, you flew me to the moon. The least I could do was deliver you a chorus.”
“Deliver us a chorus,” he corrected.
“Us,” I said, liking the sound of it.
Us. Midnight blue. Hot chicken soup.
“Do you still think the movie’s ending is a ‘wild disservice’ to our lead?” Asher asked with a smirk.
He was referring to my frantic FaceTime the night before, where I hosted my own TED Talk: Why Yael must end up alone at the end of the film.
Truthfully, I understood the movie’s ending, and at the same time, I felt betrayed by it. Yael, our movie’s protagonist, refused to cling to anything besides a fantasy, and her fantasy came true because of a relentless eyes-to-the-sky mantra. Music and hope were her drugs, her bridges to a better life and her lifeline back home, when she recognized that the real thing she’d run from—the love of her life—was back on earth. She was a ball of sunshine who’d rolled around in some dark shit…and remained a ball of sunshine. After feeling the warmth of hope again, I didn’t want to let it go, but I was afraid of what would happen this time if it didn’t amount to something real.
Asher tugged my warring soul upward.
“Thanks for taking me to the stars,” I said against his lips.
“Only the best for you.”
He kissed me like he meant it, like he would send me to the moon just to watch me bathe in its afterglow. I kissed him like I would only fly to the moon if he was by my side.
We jetted home that night, and after eating an extravagant Italian dinner somewhere over the Atlantic, I fell asleep on Asher’s shoulder. He woke me up when we landed at Teterboro, with a car and driver scooping us up the moment our feet hit the asphalt.
The next morning, I woke thanks to the yellow sunrise pouring in through Asher’s bedroom ceiling—the downside to having an “airy” loft where the owners thought a rooftop skylight was the key to getting a daily dose of vitamin D. I rolled over and studied his olive skin wrapped peacefully in crisp white sheets. He even looked gorgeous when he slept. Beauty stitched with an aching sadness. My phone vibrated—pulling my attention away from the freckles on his arms. I read a text from my manager, Shelly.
Just heard your end credits song from Bex last night—the producer sent it over. Babe, you are going to be a goddamn star. BUCKLE UP. Also, call me the second you get this text.
I dialed Shelly’s number immediately, not even bothering to put on pants or a bra, as I hopped out of bed and slunk into the golden living room.
“Bex wants you to meet him at his home studio in Brooklyn, like, this afternoon,” Shelly said. “So whatever plans you have, cancel them.”
“Umm, okay. Why does he want to meet me?”
“Super vague, but he wants to have a ‘convo over tea,’ and I don’t let my baby clients have convos with music producers without me present, so I’ll be there.”
I had never heard an American twentysomething use the phrase “convo over tea,” but I would meet Fin Bex for a conversation over lukewarm Florida tap water if he wanted.