I could feel my ears reddening as I opened my mouth to answer. “No.”
“Okay, because I’m a little torn,” she said. “On one hand, I don’t want your career to be defined by a famous man, or by a man at all. On the other hand, I know how this machine works—you’re standing in front of me because a very famous man put you here, and he’s a good one at that. It’s a cute story: ‘Out of nowhere, Asher Reyes saw Maggie Vine singing and fell in love with her voice. He hired her to write original music on his movie—which she was perfect for. And then, much later, he fell in love with her.’”
“Well, that’s not exactly what happened—”
“Or, we have option B: ‘Asher Reyes fell in love with unknown singer, Maggie Vine. He hired her to write original music on his movie because he was fucking her, not because she was right for the job.’”
I shifted in my Converses, thrown by her blunt delivery.
“Neither of those are true,” I said.
“So, tell me your truth before I read it somewhere else.”
“Asher and I fell in love when we were teenagers at summer camp.”
She drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “You can’t be serious.”
“For a few years we were a thing. And then we went our separate ways. I found out he got the rights to my favorite book, I knew I could crush the music, I auditioned for him and Amos, and they hired me. I’m not sleeping with Asher Reyes. Up until a couple weeks ago, I hadn’t seen Asher since we were seventeen.”
Shelly tilted her head at me. A slow smile crept up on her overlined red lips.
“I like your story the best.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“Maggie, you have talent—real talent that I believe in. I’ve watched every live performance of yours that my intern could get her hands on. You wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t see longevity. And you can string out your fifteen minutes, easily. But I want to warn you: the world loves nothing more than to form a strong opinion about a headline without reading the article. It’s getting harder and harder out there to earn people’s respect. My first warning here, and it’s not likely, but you should know: if you’re Asher Reyes’s girlfriend first, then it’s possible, if the movie doesn’t do well, that that’s what your brand will be. Now if the movie and music are as beloved as we both hope they will be—you’ll be just fine. But there’s also the possibility that you break this guy’s heart before your songs are due, and his dick shrivels up and he tears up your contract, calling it ‘creative differences.’ I’m telling you, kid, I’ve seen it all, and I don’t want your career to end before it’s begun, nor do I care to see what a long lawsuit against the most famous man in America looks like.”
I heard what she was saying. The worst moment of my past was ringing like a bell behind my ears.
“I get it. So, if, let’s say, we do decide to—”
“Finish the job first. Go a month into filming, when they’ve already recorded your songs and can’t go backward. And then, go for it. Go get that photo op of Asher Reyes making out with you on a yacht in St. Barts. Let him undress you on the yacht, for all I care.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said slowly, trying to stop my imagination from painting the vivid portrait of Asher using his teeth to take my bikini off on the aft deck. Not specific at all.
“One last thing, my team did a deep dive into your social. Mazel tov: you’re clean as a whistle. But I don’t have access to your DMs. So, is there anything regrettable on there, or anywhere else?” She folded her arms, dead serious. “What I’m asking is: Is there anything from your past that I need to know? Any lost demos floating around? Any horrible stories? Important people you pissed off?”
I went to shake my head, but the name Cole Wyan was stuck in the back of my throat, stiffening my body. I had a demo that was technically floating out there, somewhere. But it was irrelevant now, so I tucked the knowledge of it back where it belonged: into the darkest, most horrible corner of my mind. That man had taken enough of my past, and I refused to let him anywhere near my future.
I dropped my shoulders, shook my head, and painted on a smile.
“We’re all good,” I said.
It felt so nice that I almost believed the lie.
25
THIRTY-FIVE
THE SUN SET OVER CENTRAL Park, leaving a glittery afterglow, which poured in through Marea’s windows. The long yellow-and-orange marble bar seemed to echo the sunset outside, and I sat at the far corner, poring over my script notes, pretending to be important enough to occupy a space so elegant without drooling in every direction.
All at once, the collective chatter quieted, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. I glanced up, seeing the eyes at the bar widening toward the front door. Asher stepped inside with his jet-black hair perfectly tousled. He walked tall, but his attention darted around the room and he clasped his fingers together nervously. All these years, and he still wasn’t used to strangers’ eyes on him. His hands went to his sides as his eyes found mine, and he approached me with a warm smile. I tried not to stare at his hard torso, which was peeking out under his white deep V-neck shirt—which he somehow made fancy with a dark blazer.
I fumbled with the straps on Summer’s white silk top from the Row—running my hand over my clavicle so that I wouldn’t reach out and grab him. I should have brought Elsa’s blue gloves. I should have poured gasoline into my eyeballs. I should have done something to make being in the same room as Asher Reyes—both of us all dressed up and grown-up—less swoon-worthy. I needed to Act One Elsa my way through this: “Conceal, don’t feel.”
I hopped off the stool as he hugged me, and I soaked in the lavender pomade in his hair.
“So, you’ve had quite a last couple days,” Asher said, grinning as he pulled back.
Wandering eyes hiding behind crystal-clad cocktails took us in—strangers pretending not to give a shit, while absolutely giving a shit. I was too unimportant to be looked at this way.
“Well, being in your orbit was always entertaining, why should now be any different?” I said.
He raised his brow and shot me a sly grin. “I could say the same to you.”
Heat found my cheeks and I elbowed him in his side, indicating that he quit flirting with me, that he stop reminding me of the times where I stripped naked and made him follow me into a moonlit lake. Yet I looked down at my hands with a shy smile, giving him every indication that I wanted him to continue flirting with me. And I did. I didn’t just want to nudge my elbow into his ribs. I wanted to use my hands to take off his blazer. And his pants.
Asher glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes, interrupting my maybe-reachable fantasy. He leaned down toward me, allowing the heat of his mouth to linger over my ear.
“Okay to go over there, smile at each other, and let that guy snap his one photo?” he asked, nodding to the other side of the bar, where the smarmy subway man stood outside the window, rocking back and forth on his heels, waiting.
Asher got the bartender’s attention without even trying, and we ordered our drinks and made our way across the room, where the paparazzo got his money shot and scurried away like the lizard he was.
A few glasses of pinot later, Asher and I sat nestled side by side in a discreet corner booth. We had finished dissecting the themes of each of the movie’s songs, and moved on to laughing over our shared memories. Namely, the time I visited him in San Diego and his parents’ dachshund shat inside his mother’s Valentino heel. Asher wiped a tear from his eye, holding his ribs to quiet the belly laughter.