Page 138 of Stolen Hearts
And to be honest. I’m glad dad and I are back to talking again. I couldn’t imagine being at the Grammy’s tomorrow and not having him here, considering he was the one who got me into music. He was the one who bought me my first guitar and droveme to all the open mic nights as a child. He’d calm me down when my nerves got to be too much and prevented me from performing, like right now, as I think about tomorrow’s performance.
“You’ve got to eat something, you’re wasting away.” My mom’s hand pulls at my T-shirt from across the table.
“I am.” I shake her hand off me and push the chicken enchiladas Valentina cooked around on my plate.
My mom’s jaw clenches.
I’d hardly say I’m wasting away, but T-shirts like this, which used to hug my muscles, now hang loosely on my body. My motivation to train intensely, now that there’s no tour to constantly be building stamina for or a film to stay in shape for, is all but gone.
That, and my need to use the gym to distract my mind from intrusive thoughts or channel my anger has subsided. Instead, I feel like I have a healthier relationship with my body and therefore with working out.
“Is it because you’re nervous about tomorrow?” My dad reaches over the table for more hot sauce. He’s always been the more perceptive of the two. Maybe because he has the same fears deep down from when he used to perform as a teenager.
My mom’s constant worrying causes her to be mind-blind, and she doesn’t see what the underlying reason could be.
“What if I fuck up on TV again? What will everyone be saying about me then?”
The fear is never far from my mind.
He’s a fuck up.
A has been.
A junkie, an addict, and a loser.
“Oh son.” My mom gets up and walks round the table, pulling my head into her chest. “You’ve been working so hard this week. In rehearsals, on yourself. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, look how far you’ve come these past few months. You’ve finally got rid of Paul. You’re working with Lee to processthrough everything that happened. Even me and your mom are getting on better since we filed for divorce.” My dad reaches for my hand as my parents share a smile. “And you’ve got Harrison and Christopher here with you, so you’re not always on your own in this big old house.”
Christopher nods in agreement, finishing the last mouthful of his food.
“What’s that about me?” Harrison lifts his head from his phone, blissfully unaware of anything other than what’s in his handset.
“Nothing.” I shake my head as he returns to his phone.
I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten repetitive strain injury from the number of right swipes he’s made while trying to match with women here in Los Angeles. I’m grateful that using dating apps like Hinge or Raya to meet someone is one thing I don’t have to worry about.
Maybe they are all right.
Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about after all.
Sunday
I let myself savor the fantasy for a moment longer and look at the Billboard Music Awards in the award cabinet here in my office, wondering what it would be like to add a Grammy Award.
A warm feeling rises inside and my cheeks lift.
The moment I’ve dreamed of for years is now mere hours away.
Yes, to be nominated is an honor, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted to win, that all us artists do. We all want, need, the validation of others. To reaffirm we are good enough. That we are loveable.
The Grammy invites stare back at me on the oak wooden desk. The first time I’ve been officially invited to the show in ten years since breaking out. Finally deemed cool enough to beallowed in. Yet at the eleventh hour I’m still deliberating who to sit next to. Christopher, John, my mom, my dad, or Freddy?
Freddy makes sense as he helped coproduceMy Anchor. My mom gave birth to me, though she’ll be insufferable all evening, going up to all the artists in between breaks and embarrassing me. My dad gave me my first guitar, which gave birth to this career of mine, but it still feels like early days in the repair of our relationship. I could choose John, because most other people have their managers sit with them. But I want Christopher next to me, to share this night.
But I still don’t know if having him next to me is worth all the attention.
It might be better just to keep my private life exactly that: private.
