Endless Summer Nights (17 page)

Still, I was able to float home on an invisible cloud. Like someone with an amazingly wonderful secret that they were just dying to let out. From people I passed on the sidewalk when I exited the studio to everyone sitting with me in the last car of the slow-moving local D train, I wanted to shake hands and give hugs and tell my story. I was doing it! Like, really doing it!

I walked into my father’s old house, nearly expecting him to come running out of his room to hear my good news. Standing in the middle of the living room on newly laid wooden tile that I’d installed myself—with some help from Leticia and Clayton on weekends—I gave myself a hug from him to me. He’d be proud of any progress I was making. And happy that I was doing it my own way. I tried so hard to smell his English Leather, feel him holding me, hear him singing in my ear. Although there was nothing, I knew he was there with me in that house. I went into the basement and pulled out
Finding Love in Brooklyn.
Put the record player needle at the start of the line indicating the third song on the black wax. Stepped back and let out a deep, humble breath as the opening bars played. I waited and waited to hear his voice next, him singing about me. But that never happened. The music, the notes rolled on, but what I heard wasn’t what was on the wax. In my ears were notes being sung by another man—Marlo Lee. It was his voice singing to me, singing of me. I looked up at the ceiling and saw us sitting in that bedroom in the mansion beside the Atlantic, the guitar, a feeling in my gut that this was everything I needed. How could I have fallen so fast and so stupidly? I felt so dumb for wanting him right there with me and my news at that moment. I hadn’t wanted to admit that to myself for a long time, but right then, listening to him sing, I couldn’t deny it.

I wrote a love song in the basement with my energy that night. Afterward, I climbed two sets of stairs up to my old bedroom and went to bed with my heart somewhere between pure joy and confusing pain. I had great news, but the one person who would understand was gone.

I picked up the phone to tell Leticia. At least she’d be happy for me.

“Hey, girl,” I said somberly when she answered. “I need to talk.”

“What’s up...?” She sounded just as uneasy. “What’s on your mind?”

“Marlo Lee.”

“Wow. I told Clayton you already knew.”

“Knew what?” I anxiously opened my eyes to the darkness in the room.

“Oh...never mind.” Leticia slurred her words with anxiety.

“No. Tell me. Just spit it out,” I insisted, sitting up. My heart started racing, edging on palpitations. Did something happen to Marlo?

“He’s engaged,” Leticia said. “Well, about to get engaged or something. That’s what every gossip and entertainment site is saying online.”

My body screamed, but I said nothing. I could feel Leticia shaking her head.

“I know how you feel. You know that.”

“Whatever—it was just one night and I don’t care what he—” I started, but ended with an expected, “Who is it?”

“Pilar Amber. That Vietnamese model who was Ms. Universe. She was on—”

“Dancing With The Stars,”
I let out like a death announcement.

“Yes. She was on there the season he was on there. I guess they’ve been dating for a minute.”

I looked down at my feet, laughing disgustedly. “Straight-up liar.”

“At least you know now.”

“Some consolation.”

“I guess.” Leticia sucked her teeth. “So, if you didn’t know that, what were you calling about?”

“Nothing, girl,” I murmured, falling back into my starting position in the bed. “Absolutely nothing.”

* * *

Two weeks on contract with Megatron’s publishing company and I was sitting beside him on a first-class flight to Brazil. It was a small thing, but still big to me. Just the idea that he thought I should come along for the ride to write in such a beautiful place and be with him as he was in the studio with an artist he was developing was great. A few times before the trip, Candice and Antha implied that there was a romantic reason for his attention to me, but I denied any of their claims. He’d been nothing less than a gentleman in my presence. I was sure he was just grooming me, which was far more of a compliment than trying to get into my pants.

“It’s always good to get away from the city to write,” he said, organizing his things in his window seat beside mine in the aisle. “Don’t get me wrong—I love BK, but there’s something about a beautiful place that inspires. Three nights in Brazil might be just what the doctor ordered.”

“Yeah, right. You know you’re just going there to see women in thongs,” I joked. We’d become pretty comfy from being caged up in the studio most nights.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that. I might fool around and find my wife in Brazil.”

We laughed and I went to put on my seatbelt as the flight attendants started closing the cabin for departure.

While I’d promised myself I would think of nothing but my music on the trip, already Megatron’s comment about a “wife” turned a knife in my stomach that reminded me of my conversation with Leticia about Marlo and Pilar. I hadn’t slept at all that night after receiving the news. Then, and most days since, I was online looking for any information I could find about Marlo’s engagement. It was becoming an obsession I’d deny if anyone asked. Leticia was mostly right about her news. Everyone was talking about the new couple. Although it didn’t confirm their engagement, there was that seafoam-blue ring Marlo had given Pilar, and his team’s admission that he’d fallen quickly for the model. Every page had pictures of Marlo and Pilar and her long legs walking in Central Park or sitting in a bar. Some were with a smiling Kimya. Others were with celeb couples on red carpets and front row at basketball games.

I hated Marlo more each time I clicked, but I couldn’t stop myself. His smile. Her legs. It set ablaze some bottomless surprise at the deception I’d so easily fallen victim to.

“Mega! I thought I spotted you. They told me you were on an earlier flight!”

Megatron and I looked up toward the cheery rattle.

Behind one of the attendants was a thin yellow face with smiling, lavender-glossed lips.

“Pilar!” Megatron climbed over me to the aisle.

Pure panic surged around in my body like a typhoon. I didn’t know where to go with myself. So I smiled.

They hugged and traded a short conversation I prayed wouldn’t include me. But, of course, it did.

Megatron had been standing between me and Pilar, but he backed up for an introduction.

“
O-M-G!
This is her? The writer you were talking about?” Pilar said, looking down at me in my chair all smiles. She had on no makeup, but her skin looked like a fresh bed of powder in a compact. She was almost too tall to stand in the plane and her freshly blown amber hair was photo-shoot ready.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought you two knew each other. You know, because of Kimya—anyway, this is Sunshine Embry.” Megatron pointed to me. “Sunshine, this is Pilar Amber.”

Pilar bent down like a queen greeting a subject and kissed my cheek. “Thank you so much for your songs,” she offered graciously. “I’m so excited to work with you.”

“Work with me?” I asked.

“Yes. This is the singer—the one I told you about from the label. She’s coming to Brazil to record,” Megatron said, as if he’d been saving this as a surprise.

Suddenly, I felt so stupid for trying to be nonchalant about the project and not asking more questions. I felt so stupid about so many things. Like the rock on her ring finger that looked so much like the sea glass Marlo had tossed up at the lonely star on the beach that night in the Hamptons. Stupid.

“We’re going to have so much fun in Brazil!” Pilar claimed so excitedly. “Can you believe it? We’re recording my first album!”

“Actually, I can’t believe it,” I said. “Not one bit.”

A flight attendant came to the rescue, rolling her eyes to clear Pilar and Megatron from the aisle.

Luckily, Pilar’s seat was rows ahead of ours. She sat next to the window and flicked her hair over the headrest, but kept looking back toward Megatron and me. The seat beside her was empty. I looked to the door and waited, but no one ever came to claim it.

* * *

There’s nothing worse than feeling ugly in a beautiful place. Too bad I already knew what that was like working for Kimya, and doing it again in Brazil was like a tradition. But doing it at that point in my life felt as though I was being cheated. And that made me angry.

Megatron had been asking what was wrong with me ever since we’d taken off. I kept saying I was fine, but once we got to the hotel, I went and hid in my room for a long nap I never took. I called Leticia and complained about models singing. Could Pilar even sing? This was ridiculous. So typical of the industry. Why was I even working with Megatron? We scrolled through articles online to try to piece together what was going on. Apparently, Pilar had signed a deal with Columbia. They were putting a bunch of money behind her. Calling her the next Rihanna. Vietnam’s first pop princess mixing R & B with an Asian pop vibe. Even in my pain, Leticia and I managed to laugh at that like mean girls. We said it would fail. I hoped it would fail and felt bad for doing it. I didn’t even know the girl. Still, Leticia said I had every right to hate her. Sometimes, that’s what best friends are for.

After a few shots at the hotel bar, I got up enough nerve to take a cab to the studio that Megatron had been texting me from all afternoon.

“Thought I lost you to the beach,” he said when I walked in. The “studio” was actually a converted pool house in the back of an oceanside megamansion that belonged to one of the VPs at the label. “Remember—we work now and play later.”

I nodded and took a drink from one of the women who’d welcomed me into the home. There were a couple of guys I recognized from Columbia chilling in the pool and too many beautiful girls for there not to be trouble. Still, in the pool house, Megatron was at work and focused—in Hawaiian shorts and Timberland boots.

“I was tired,” I said, taking a seat beside him behind the board.

“Come on, Miss. Let’s try it again,” he said loudly to the empty recording booth on the opposite side of the glass in front of the music board. Quickly, Pilar popped up behind the microphone.

“Sorry. I dropped my phone,” she said. “Oh, hey, Sunny!” Her voice was so kind and sweet as if we were friends. “Didn’t know you were here yet!”

“You ready?” Megatron asked her with his hand on the switch to start the track again.

“I’m nervous now that my wonderful writer is here,” she squeaked like a shy girl.

I smiled reticently.

“I hope I don’t let you down,” she said, putting her headset on. “I’ll do my best.”

Another fake smile was earned.

Megatron ran the track and, with her eyes closed, Pilar sang the song about the girl with wings.

During the three or four times my father took me to church when I was a kid and I got to hear the women in the gospel choir belt the words to “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” or “Amazing Grace,” I really got to understand the power of an innocent cry in a woman’s voice. My reaction was always knots in my stomach, as if I was sitting in the front car of a roller coaster that was about to drop down wooden tracks. I’d tense up the entire time they sang and relax only when the last note was uttered.

That’s what happened to me when I heard Pilar’s voice on my song. Megatron had her on a clear microphone with no echo or support, but she sounded like an example of notes to sing. Like a finely tuned piano being played by a master. It was as if the song had been written just for her to sing it right then. Her voice gave my words meaning, and I knew instantly that if she recorded those words, even without Megatron’s track, and it was released, the song would go down in history as a classic. And that was rare to know at that point, but I felt it all in me. I was confident that the entire world outside the pool house studio was listening hand in hand outside. And if I turned around, they’d be lined up outside the door in tears.

“Was that okay?” Pilar asked meekly, crinkling her face when she was done. She was looking at me through the glass as if she was at an audition.

“I—I—” The knots surprisingly still in my stomach interrupted the flow between my thoughts and words.

“Oh, wait,” Pilar yelped, pulling out her chirping cell phone. “One sec.” She answered the call and turned her back to the booth, laughing into the phone.

Megatron was grinning. “I told you,” he said to me. “She’s the truth. You’d never think it, right? Thought she was all face and no talent?” He laughed, but then looked concerned. “Why you look like that, Sunny? You alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” I managed, though most of what Megatron was saying became a cloudy commotion in my mind.

“Don’t get nervous on me now,” he said. “You’re about to be a rich woman. And you have her to thank for it.” He pointed to Pilar, who was still on the phone. “Well, her and your talent.”

“Okay! So, how was it?” Pilar turned, seeking my commentary again.

“You were great,” I admitted evenly and I could actually see Pilar’s shoulders slump lower at my lack of hype.

“Maybe if I do it again,” she said, hinting she could be better.

Megatron looked at me and put his finger on the button to start the track again. “Run it,” he said.

Pilar put her headset on and lit into the track a second time.

I got up from my seat, my stomach still in knots.

“Bathroom’s in the house,” Megatron offered in assumption, still working the board. “Don’t take too long. Think we’ll try that ballad you wrote next. Okay?”

“Sure.”

I exited the studio into a blaring sunlight that could not have been more unwelcoming. The very thing that was supposed to make a paradise of my surroundings felt like an interrogating spotlight.

The small mixer by the pool had grown into something akin to a hip-hop music video set. I padded past industry insiders and execs I recognized from Kimya’s label on the way to the house. One of the marketing assistants I’d worked with cornered me, blabbering about how her flight had been rerouted and was late because of some storm in New York, but she was so glad to have made it to the
New Sound
show.