I roll my eyes. “I’ve been out since my debut. It shouldn’t be any surprise to anyone that I’m hangin’ with a guy. I’m touchy-feely even with my pals. Wily’s straight, and I’ve probably kissed his cheeks in more pics than I can—”
“I told you what the label expects,” he cuts me off. “It’s vital right now that you’re single and remain that way. You’ve seen the numbers, you’re soaring for the sky, we’re movingup, Chase. Why do you want to sabotage that with a scandal?”
“I’m not sabotagin’ a damned thing.” I let out a laugh, at once back to blowing it off. “Tell the label to fuck off. We clearly know what we’re doin’. These new songs are killin’ it. It’s all viral sexy singin’ cowboys online. Let me have a boyfriend if I want.”
“Boyfriend?” He nearly drops his phone. “Chase…”
I choke back a chuckle. “Don’t talk to me like that, like you’re talkin’ down to your daughter.”
“You know what the label said to me? They handled it. They did their magic, whatever it is they do to leaks like this. It’s taken care of to the best of their ability. But they told me—I quote, and yes, real quote here—to ‘keep him in line’. Him. That’s you. They wantmeto do the impossible fucking task of keepingyouin line. How am I supposed to do that when you disrespect me, disrespect your label and your image, disrespect your team, and do whatever you want anyway? Aren’t we supposed to be …” His tone softens. “Aren’t we supposed to be friends?”
“You tell me,” I sass back.
“I stay transparent with you. But you aren’t doing the same with me. Why are these pics blindsiding me? Why did I look like a totaljackasstalking to Drew and Irene for over an hour convincing them I have any idea what’s going on in your personal life?”
“Transparent? Really?” I shake my head. “You’ve been feedin’ me fake compliments about my music for how long? When in fact it’s turned to shit. People call me a sellout now. And this new stuff I’m cookin’ up? It’s the most brilliant work I’ve put out since we started this. Everyone’s on fire about it. Everyone except you.”
Now it’s Ian who looks tickled with laughter like he’s losing his mind, hands going up to his head and hopefully not to rip out whatever hair remains on it. “I don’t think you quite appreciate the severity of this situation, Chase, and it’s takingeverylast cell of restraint in me not to pop off right now.”
“Please. Do us both a favor. Save some time. Pop.”
He shuts his eyes, choosing instead to swallow it all down. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and nods next to him without speaking. I pocket my phone and take a seat there, then lift my eyes to his and patiently wait.
When he speaks, it’s deathly quiet and calm. “You got sloppy. You used to not be. I remember your exes. Both of them, first year we were doing this. Then the guy two years ago who drifted in and drifted right back out of your life. Just a few little pics can paint a big picture, and soon, you’re hiding a secret fiancé, then Facebook groups and IG private chats pop up with wine-mom fan girls and suburban sleuth squads storyboarding all your personal business. They’re the ones buying all your tickets. All your merch. Wearing it. Sharing posts. Mashing those like and subscribe buttons. They made Chase Holt. They can destroy him. That’s what they believe. You owe them everything. Your life. Your time. Your music.”
“They aren’t like that. You don’t understand my fans.”
“Youdon’t,” he says right back, eyes burning into the side of my face. “The second they feel their Chase Holt slipping away, you got fans feeling betrayed, hunting you down, burning your merch in a backyard bonfire live on YouTube with 10 million viewers. We have to shut this down,” he demands.
I started shaking my head at some point. “No,” I finally say. “I don’t think they’re like that. That’s not the fan base I have. I know them.” I turn to the brick wall of Ian and his flared eyes. “Why not lean into it? Into me havin’ someone? I’m a singer with a backlog of a hundred songs about the one damned thing I ain’t allowed to have. Why? Love is somethin’ I deserve to actually experience, too, not just sing about.”
“Love? That’s what this is?” He points at the door. “Love is what’s waiting for you down there in Room 218?”
My eyes snap to his.
“Let me give you a clearer picture here, Chase. These people, they aren’t gonna be coming after you first. They’re gonna want to know who stole their Chase Holt’s heart. Where does this guy live? What’s his name? How can he possibly deserve our Chase? He will beeviscerated.”
I flinch at that word.
Looking away. Jaw tightening.
“Alright, fine.” His voice softens. “Think I’m being dramatic? Let’s look at it at another angle. What’ll everyone think about your guy? Thisgroupiewho caught your eye and followed you around to your shows? You have gay fans, too, y’know. Guys who’llwishthey could’ve been that lucky boy who somehowgotyou. They’ll hate him. They’ll think he seduced you. Trust me, it’s never gonna be his ‘personality’ they credit. Regardless of the truth, they’ll believe the worst version of it because it makes for tastier tea to tell their friends. Clickier titles for online articles. You want the world to think that low about your guy? Doesn’t sound like a story for the grandkids, does it? He’ll be socially and literallyeviscerated.”
“Stop using that word.”
Ian looks away. A silence passes. He rises from the bed, moves to the door and stops. “You know I fucking hate this conversation, right? Like, it makes me sick to say these things to you?” He looks back at me. “Believe it or not, I’m looking out forhimas much as I am for you. Please. For his sake if not your own. End it already.”
Then he leaves. Door closes.
Silence again.
I know Ian isn’t the villain here. Wouldn’t dare paint him that way. Maybe that’s what scares me most, that everything he’s said is terrifyingly reasonable.
They’ll hate him…
I drift with these thoughts back to TJ’s room. No one nearby. No eyes and no ears. I give it a gentle knock. TJ opens the door, his eyes sleepy but bright—he obviously fixed himself up a bit in the mirror while I was gone, hair back in place, face washed—and I’m let inside. “Got your phone?” he asks me. I smile backat him, put a kiss on his lips, and nod—my phone, and so much more.
It’s while we’re cuddled on the bed, lights out, bluish glow of the TV over us, about to fall asleep together for the first time, that I tell him, “After Nashville, we’re getting two full weeks off.”