But, it turned out, people loved it. It was a huge commercial hit, one of the biggest successes I’d ever had. Critics were calling it the best song of the 2000s, revealing a new depth to my maturation as a recording artist. Whatever that meant.
I wasn’t what you’d call an introspective man, but even I realized a lot had changed for me over the past year. Ana had certainly been the catalyst, but right before I’d met her something else big had happened. My father had died. I’d spent so long defying him, proving my own worth in opposition to all of his values. In all that rebellion, I’d almost forgotten what I wanted. Now, he wasn’t there to fight with anymore. I wasn’t saying it was a good thing that my father had passed away. I was simply realizing that since he’d been gone, I’d felt a shift. I’d always had his brick wall to rail against. Now, without it, maybe I didn’t have to fight so hard? Maybe I could let go and admit what I really wanted?
What I really wanted was Ana. I sent her a note along with the packet Lola put together. Honestly, songwriters didn’t get award party invites. There wasn’t even a BMA category for best songwriter. A lot of artists didn’t write their own songs and they didn’t exactly want to broadcast—literally—their lack of musical ability. But Ana deserved to be there. The song was hers. She’d heard the scratch of an idea from me and she’d blossomed it, grown it into the haunting tune that now played across the world. Lola knew everybody, so when I asked her to ask someone as a favor to Ash Black, not only had Ana received an invitation but I’d been able to slip my own note into the packet along with it.
I got nothing back from her, though. I guessed I could have said more in my note. I’d kept it short. But I’d said it all in the letter I’d written her back in January, and then again in the song she had to have heard a million times by now. Another long, pleading note might seem like overkill.
But what did Ana think of the song? Our song. I’d created the lyrics and I suppose a case could be made that I’d come up with the original melody. A whole team of lawyers from the label had tried to talk me out of giving Ana songwriting credit, or at least they advocated for co-credit. But my lawyer, Nelson, had stuck by me. He’d insisted. It was his client’s wish. And what Nelson insisted upon, Nelson got.
I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone. I didn’t need to prove I could write a song like that. It was Ana’s song. Now I just needed to know what she thought of it. And, more importantly, what she thought of us.
§
The night of the awards show, I flew solo. It felt strange to be there without my band mates. Strange but good.
Walking into the pre-party, I was completely sober. How’s that for crazy? Rock god Ash Black sober. At night. At a party. What were the chances?
Stylists put me all in white. A little cheesy, I’ll admit, but sure, I went with it. I cut off most of my hair, too. It felt cleaner, like a fresh start.
Pit Bull came over and gave me some shit about stealing his look. We both wore all white and rocked mirrored aviator shades. I wasn’t saying anything, but I had about a foot of height on the guy. He was pretty cool, though.
I still didn’t know if Ana was coming or not. She’d RSVP’d yes, I got that out of Lola. But sometimes people said they’d show and then didn’t. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much.
Even if I did see her, who knew if she’d want to talk to me? She’d closed up shop after that night in the cabin. I didn’t even know exactly what she’d overheard me and Connor talking about. I’d been pretty drunk. I remembered Connor telling me that his sister was in the hospital from an overdose. And I remembered giving him a lot of reassurances that nothing was going to change. Everything was going to stay the same.
It must have been some of that talk she overhead. So, I honestly couldn’t deny whatever stupid things she’d heard me say. I could blame it on the alcohol, or blame it on my 14 years of friendship with Connor translating into pressure and guilt.
But, really, I had to be honest. Back then, I’d had some doubts. I’d been recognizing my feelings for her, but I hadn’t been man enough to tell her. I’d let myself get spooked by it. Maybe a small part of me had wanted things to go back like they had been.
Once she’d left me? All shadow of doubt vanished. I wanted Ana. I needed Ana. Nothing else mattered. And if she gave me an opening at this awards show, I’d take it and tell her myself.
Nervous, I sipped some water and surveyed the room. People came over, said a word or two, but I was looking for one woman and one woman only. These parties were a lot easier when I’d been drunk, or had an easy lay at my side. One I was interested in, at least. I still had the easy lays all around. A woman standing eagerly in front of me gave me a sultry smile and not-so-subtly plumped up her ample breasts. It wasn’t her fault I didn’t find her attractive. Last year, I would have been all over that. Now? She wasn’t Ana and I wasn’t interested.
I was talking with a guy I didn’t know too well when she arrived. He was about my age, a Brit, and I liked his music. He had an original voice and a down-to-earth way about him. He’d only just broken out in the past year or two and didn’t seem like he’d become much of a wanker. Yet. I hoped he stayed that way.
Funny thing, we hadn’t spoken a word about Ana, not at the party or any time before then, but all of a sudden he leaned in and said under his breath, “She’s here.”
I tensed up. How did he know I was waiting to see Ana? But I guessed it was common knowledge, our romance, every step recorded and broadcast.
I turned and saw Ana across the room. I guessed she was wearing a shimmering dress, but she was what shone in the crowd. She looked amazing, radiant, and my breath caught in my throat.
The guy I’d been talking to clapped me on the back. “Good luck.”
Ana looked over at that moment and met my gaze. I guess maybe other people talked to me, maybe they didn’t. I couldn’t pay attention to anything or anyone else besides Ana until she finally made her way over to me. Her long legs in that dress, stretching down into high, high heels. The hemline barely hit her mid-thigh. I could reach my hand between those thighs and part her legs so easily.
She stood in front of me and swallowed, licking her lips, nervously.
“Ana.” My voice sounded husky.
“Hi, Ash.” She had a hard time meeting my eyes now that we were standing close. It took all the willpower I had not to scoop her into my arms, sink my mouth to her neck, carry her off out of the room like a caveman. She was mine. We belonged together. Didn’t she feel it, too?
Someone came up and started babbling to us about our song, congratulating us on our mega hit. There was talk of nominations for VMAs, the Grammies later in the year. I never took my eyes off of her.
“Red carpet time, people!” Lola arrived, right on cue. “Oh, look. You’re here.” Lola didn’t sound happy about it, but she could kiss my ass. She probably considered Ana a liability. Loose lips sink ships and all that. But I considered Ana my future, if she’d give me a shot.
“May I?” I extended my hand, hoping Ana would take it. In front of all those people, we hadn’t had even a second to talk. But she looked up into my eyes and with a soft smile, she put her hand in mine.
31
Ana
My parents and I arrived in L.A. two days before the awards show. I thought about calling Ash, of course I did. Especially since I’d found out that my crazy roommates had destroyed a letter he’d written me many months ago.
I didn’t know what was in the letter, but a letter wasn’t usually what you sent when you didn’t care at all about someone. After a break up, if you were psyched about it, you tended to let communication die down. You might get back in touch if your ex had something of yours, a favorite shirt or a bag you’d left behind. But that you’d take care of with an awkward text, not a long letter.
I didn’t have any of Ash’s stuff, and I figured if he’d somehow misplaced something he cared about but didn’t care about me, he had many minions to do his bidding. He c
ould task any number of handlers to do his dirty work. No, I didn’t think he was missing his favorite pair of headphones or socks. He’d had something he wanted to say to me in that letter. Unfinished business.
And then there was, of course, the song. The song of love and heartbreak and longing. In the airport, my parents and I had stopped to buy coffees. Not sandwiches, mind you, my mother insisted on packing those from home instead of—as she put it—paying through the nose for that sawdust and cardboard. While we were placing our orders, Ash’s voice came out from a speaker behind the cashier.
“That’s your song, Anya,” my mother murmured.
“That’s the song my daughter wrote.” My father lacked her subtly, announcing my accomplishment to the cashier. He proudly told anyone and everyone who’d listen about my song, bulldozing right through people’s confusion (I thought that was Ash Black?) and my protests (Dad, not everyone needs to know). I had to admit, after a lifetime of trying to live up to their high expectations, it did feel good to have done something that made them so proud. Even if they didn’t really seem to fully understand what was happening.
“Our baby, a big time record producer in L.A.,” they’d sigh. I’d protest that that wasn’t what had happened, but they’d shush me with a, “we know what you’ve done.” It was pointless to argue.
On the night of the awards ceremony, they accompanied me down to where the show would be held and televised, but they steadfastly refused to head into the pre-party or have anything to do with the red carpet arrivals. I didn’t think I’d be walking the red carpet, either. I was just a songwriter. And a part of me really wanted to go hide in the back row seating with them.
But another part of me? That part of me said I was there for a reason. I wasn’t just Ash Black’s pretend sham of a girlfriend. I was a musician and a songwriter, and my song was receiving a hell of a lot of recognition that night. I also had an assigned seat, right up close to the stage. Front and center.