December 15
Was she in the middle of a makeover montage?
Since arriving back at the Applause Network offices bright and early Friday morning, Melody had been trapped in a whirlwind of grooming tools, hair products, self-tanning paraphernalia, and sequins. So many sequins. Initially, she’d been asked by the various aestheticians and hair gurus about her typical routines, but when she couldn’t provide them with anything resembling a satisfactory answer, they stopped talking and quite simply began tearing strips of hair off every inch of her body, shaping her bangs, buffing and polishing her nails and never once offering her any more beignets.
Of course, Beat was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t need to undergo a transformation to be camera ready—he’d been born that way. All he had to do to prepare for tonight’s gala was don a suit and spritz on a little cologne and he’d have everyone’s panties around their ankles. Probably even hers.
Fine. Definitely hers.
Come to think of it, she was kind of grateful to the woman currently lecturing her about the importance of wearing the correct bra size. At least it was distracting Melody from the butterflies in her stomach that had been circling madly since Wednesday’s confessional taping.
There isn’t a single thing that could make you look bad.
Beat had said those words to her. Meant them.
And then there was the fact that she’d be dropping in unexpectedly on her mother. Did she have an undiscovered sadistic streak? Because the simple act of imagining the shock on Trina’s face was enough to make Melody breathless. Not once in her life had she managed to render Trina speechless. Or any form of surprised, really.
During those February visits, Melody usually spent most of the time nodding along to Trina’s stories and rants. What if signing on to this reunion show and putting herself out in front of the world made her mother see her differently? Maybe Trina would recognize something of herself in Melody and want to explore their commonalities? It was a lot, maybe too much, to hope for. But their relationship couldn’t remain status quo.
Whatever happened over the next nine days . . . something was happening. Either she was kicking the beehive of their mother-daughter relationship, hoping to change it. Or she was finally taking steps toward cutting the purse strings.
Right now, in this moment, anything happening felt like enough. She’d swung the bat instead of hoping to get walked to first base. She was participating in her own life, instead of trying to blend into the wallpaper.
“You are only filling out half this bra, my friend.” A woman named Lola with swooping eyebrows and black lip liner was dangling Melody’s most basic of beige bras in front of her face. “Typically, women wear bras that are too small and put themselves in a whole double boob situation, but not you. This thing reaches all the way up to your freaking collarbone. It might as well be a turtleneck.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“Comfortable!” The woman’s nostrils flared to the size of quarters. “Who said wearing a bra is supposed to be comfortable?”
“Maybe someone should have said that?”
Melody was whisked out of the chair and pulled across the carpeted wardrobe space to stand in front of a full-length mirror. Lola unbelted the silk robe Melody was wearing and pushed it dramatically to the ground.
“Hey!” Melody squeaked, wrapped her arms around her chest.
Lola shooed them away. “Look! Look at those cute little boobies. Let’s give them a proper home.”
“My God. They’re breasts, not rescue pets.”
“Aren’t they, though?”
“I see you’ve met Lola,” Danielle drawled from the entrance. “She’ll be packing you a wardrobe for the next nine days to make sure you look your best.” She held up a hand to someone in the hallway behind her. “No filming. She’s getting dressed.” Danielle made a wrap it up gesture to Lola. “Can you . . . ?”
“Working on it, boss. She’s not the easiest client.” Melody sputtered while watching Lola rummage through a plastic crate full of undergarments until she finally selected a bra, holding it up like it was baby Simba. “This will work with the gown I have in mind.”
Before Melody could say a word, Lola had circled around behind her and hooked the bra into place, twisted it around her waist, and jerked it up to cover her boobs. Lola wiggled it higher and then Melody was looking at herself in the mirror in nothing but a strapless bra and thong underwear.
Instinct screamed at Melody to cover herself. No one had seen her in this state of undress in quite a while. Even the times she’d been intimate with a man, she’d wrestled with going completely naked, struggling with those leftover body insecurities she’d developed as a teen. Hard not to develop a few of those suckers when tabloids were zooming in on her thigh dimples and circling them in bright yellow, right?
Instead of lunging for the silk robe, though, she forced herself to stand still and wait for Lola to carry over the sepia-colored gown. The whole situation seemed run-of-the-mill to the other two women in the room. Maybe it was. Melody has seen behind-the-scenes footage of her mother doing costume changes during concerts while forty crew members stood by. Was this a miniature version of what Trina felt in those moments? Self-conscious and exposed?
No. Definitely not.
Trina would request less clothing. She’d throw her arms up over her head and dance.
“Don’t forget the mic,” Danielle said briskly.
“Forget the wire and battery pack that ruins the perfect lines of my dress? Never.” Ignoring Danielle’s snort, Lola attached a small black box to the rear waistband of Melody’s thong, circling around with a wire and clipping a tiny microphone to the cup of her strapless bra. “They don’t want me telling you this,” Lola whispered, “but if you need to turn off the mic, like maybe you want some privacy in the bathroom, there is a button on the top of the pack. Just reach back and squeeze the box through the dress—you’ll feel it.”
“Thank you,” Melody said, but the stylist was already halfway across the room.
“Incoming,” Lola sang a moment later, holding the gown over Melody’s head and letting it tumble down her body in a shimmering wave. “Oh, this color is incredible on you.”
“First nice thing you’ve said to me all day.”
“That’s how you know I really mean it.”
Laughing under her breath, Melody shifted her body around. “Actually, it’s pretty comfortable—”
“Stop using the ‘C’ word in my presence.”
“Lola hates the ‘C’ word,” Danielle interjected, while looking down at her phone.
“It is, though—”
Lola drew the back of the gown together and zipped it up. In an instant, the bodice went from loose to skintight. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Lola grabbed Melody by the shoulders. “Look at yourself. Look.”
Danielle came up beside her, no longer distracted by her phone. “Wow.” She inspected her, head to toe. “Melody, you were beautiful before. You didn’t need a makeover. No one does—”
Lola snorted.
“But damn.” Danielle’s reflection winked at Melody in the mirror. “A little extra effort looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Melody murmured, because that single word was all she could muster.
This was far from the first time she’d worn a dress. Growing up, she’d attended countless honors ceremonies, awards shows, and festive parties at the penthouses of music producers. In fact, those events were the main reason Trina landed briefly in New York, before taking off again, leaving Melody with a rotating staff of nannies. The longer Steel Birds remained broken up, the more those events thinned out. Since turning eighteen and living on her own, it never occurred to her to make more than a cursory effort with her appearance, because when she’d done so in the past, it was usually met with criticism from the press. Or she’d open People magazine and see cringeworthy pictures of herself wide-eyed and shiny-faced coming or going from a restaurant. Was it any wonder she’d selected clothing that kept her the most well hidden?
This woman in the mirror, though . . . she was a far cry from the teenager who couldn’t seem to find a single piece of flattering clothing. The dress hugged her breasts and hips, accentuated her waist. Her skin was clear of the acne that had plagued her growing up. The hairdresser had trimmed her hair and left it falling softly around her neck, not a frizzy flyaway wisp to be seen. Who was this person?
“Oh.” Lola couldn’t hide her smug expression. “She’s speechless. This is satisfying.”
Danielle high-fived her. “You did good.”
A quick sniff. “Yes, I did.”
The phone buzzed in the producer’s hand and she checked the screen. “Beat is en route.” She took a few steps backward and craned her neck to address someone in the hallway. “He’s already mic’d?”
“Yes, the PA met us downstairs and wired him for sound,” came the deep-voiced, muffled reply. “Bases are covered, Dani.”
“Great.” Danielle looked momentarily thrown by the shortening of her name, but she beamed a smile at Lola. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”
“My work is done!” Lola sang on her way out the door. “I’m getting a drink.”
“Thank you,” Melody called after her, still observing herself in the mirror and feeling a little stunned. For the first time in her life, she could actually see the tiniest resemblance to Trina. “We’re going straight to the gala when Beat gets here?” she asked Danielle.
“Yes. We’re already broadcasting live, if you can believe it. Beat gave a confessional on the drive over. This is a good opportunity to bank one for you, too.”
“Confessional. Right.” Melody turned from the mirror to face Danielle. “You’re going to be asking me the questions this time?”
“Yes. Are you comfortable with Joseph entering the room?”
Melody nodded. “Sure.”
“Great.” Danielle leaned into the hallway and waved the cameraman forward. “Let’s do this standing so we don’t wrinkle your gown.”
The camera’s red light winked at Melody, her face staring back from the lens.
Live. This was live.
“H-how many people are watching this?”
“Right now? It’s in the low thousands, but we’ve only just started. It’s going to grow.”
Melody absorbed that. Low thousands. Okay, she could deal with that. Odds were, she’d never meet these faceless viewers in real life. She was nothing more than internet noise among louder internet noise that would eventually swallow her whole. They’d watch for a few minutes from their desks in Milwaukee or Bakersfield, then move on to something and someone more interesting, like a baby giraffe being born at the Bronx Zoo. No big deal.
This was no big deal.
Melody focused on Danielle and did her best to pretend the camera was invisible. “I’m ready when you are.”
Danielle shifted side to side and lifted her chin, giving Melody the impression that she was delivering her own mental pep talk. “We’ve been running your confessional with Beat for the last forty-eight hours and there is significantly more interest now. Our main request on the message boards has been for information about you.”
“About . . . me? The questions are normally about Steel Birds or Trina,” she muttered, smoothing the front of her dress unnecessarily. “I’m . . . well. I live in Brooklyn and I work in book restoration. Try not to die from excitement. I’m basically a shut-in, but once a week I play in a bocce league. I use the term ‘play’ loosely. It’s more like throwing the ball with my eyes closed and praying I don’t knock anyone unconscious. Um. I date myself. Is that . . . should I talk about that?”
Danielle nodded vigorously.
“Okay. I take myself on dates once a week. Sometimes thrifting, if there are no good movies playing and I’m feeling adventurous. But always to a new restaurant. It’s kind of a game where I never go to the same place twice. Has our viewer count dropped into the hundreds yet?”
The producer checked her phone but didn’t answer Melody’s question directly. “You have a partner in crime on this mission to reunite Steel Birds. Do you and Beat have a game plan?”
Hot sand filtered down from the top of Melody’s head to the soles of her feet, the pulse fluttering in the smalls of her wrists. At the mention of his name. Pathetic. “Yes.” Speak up. You sound breathless. “We’re going to gently approach our mothers about a reunion and probably have ourselves written out of their wills.”
The cameraman’s chest rumbled with mirth.
“How well do you know Beat?” Danielle asked, after a brief glance at Joseph.
“Not well. Not well at all.” Danielle didn’t ask a follow-up question and the silence stretched out so long that Melody felt compelled to fill it. “I-I mean, I feel like I know him. That doesn’t mean anything, does it? A lot of people probably feel like they know Beat, because he’s so personable. When he looks at you, everything just kind of fades away and . . .”
Danielle gave her a signal to keep going.
Going where, though? Melody hadn’t intended to say any of this out loud.
Not in her lifetime.
But the red light was blinking. People were watching, waiting for her to continue. “Yeah, everything just kind of fades away when he’s around, I guess. He’s kind and thoughtful and you’ve seen him. He’s . . . beautiful.” Her palms were beginning to sweat, head feeling light. “Is it possible to take a quick bathroom break—”
Beat rounded the corner into the room.
Joseph’s camera remained pointed at Melody—and she wished it wasn’t, because it captured the exact moment she saw Beat in a tuxedo for the first time. Somehow, the sight was superior even to sweaty shorts and a bare torso. Her brain sort of blubbered around for a few seconds, then slid out of her ear in a soupy substance. Had the tuxedo been constructed around his every muscle?
Yes, dum-dum. That’s called tailoring.
Briefly, she flashed back to the first afternoon they met, when he’d blown in out of the rain and charged the atmosphere with electricity. He still had that ability in spades, especially in that custom tuxedo, but it was subtler now. Like his spectacular energy had been depleted by his surroundings. Perhaps by whatever had caused him to need this show.
He needed this show.
It was even more obvious today, thanks to the dark circles under his eyes.
Okay. She would tap-dance in front of the camera, if necessary.
Mel, he mouthed. Then, out loud, “Mel?”
“I’m sorry. Do you see this dress?” She pursed her lips. “I only respond to my name if it’s pronounced with a French accent now.”
His blue eyes dropped to her toes and slowly raked upward. That ribbon of something potent, something she couldn’t name, took a staycation before he managed to hide it. Wow. Was it possible he found her attractive? Today, she could sort of believe it, thanks to the makeover, but that didn’t explain the other times she’d caught him staring.
In the interest of making good television, she threw her arms out wide and dove straight into some unpracticed jazz hands—as if to say ta-da!—but Beat must have misinterpreted the action as her asking for a hug, because he took two lunging steps in her direction and locked her in a tight embrace. “Oh,” she breathed, her arms turning to thousand-pound weights and hanging there, her heart firing up into her mouth. “Hi.”
“Hey, Peach.” He dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of Melody’s neck and oh God, she could actually feel her pupils dilating. A tidal wave of blood traveled south, heating along the way and her pulse skip, skip, skipped before settling into a sprint. “You still smell like gingerbread. At least they didn’t fuck with that.”
“I love a seasonal scent,” she responded dully, her eyelids drooping involuntarily.
Beat’s laugh sounded almost pained as he stepped back, his attention lingering and sharpening on her breasts, before he dragged a hand down his face and turned away.
“Um.” Melody tucked some of her freshly glossed hair behind her ear. “How did your mother react to the whole live stream thing?”
He sighed. “She’d already heard about Wreck the Halls, thanks to her manager—and she was definitely surprised I’d signed on. We tend to be very private, so live streaming isn’t exactly my style. But if my mother loves one thing, it’s the spotlight. She agreed to sign the release form and appear on camera tonight.” He performed an absent adjustment of his bow tie. “The calls for a reunion have been increasing for months and she’s going to use the opportunity to shut the idea down once and for all.”
Danielle slumped. “Excellent.”
“You can’t say we didn’t warn you,” Beat said. “I’ve asked the venue manager to have guests sign a release form when they arrive, so we’re clear to film inside the party, but we’ll have to find an opportune moment for a quiet meeting between Octavia, Melody, and myself.”
“During which we attempt to convince her of the impossible,” Melody tacked on.
“Correct.” A furrow appeared on Beat’s brow. “Is there no way the meeting between Octavia and Melody can be private? No camera? My mother is a very patient and generous person, but she tends to quietly cut people off at the knees when she’s backed into a corner. I don’t want her to feel like she’s being ambushed, and I don’t want to subject Mel to a verbal sucker punch.”
Danielle made a weak sound. “Those are the moments we really want to see.”
Beat closed his eyes and nodded once, holding his hand out for Melody to take. “Time to face the music, I guess.”
Mel threaded her fingers through Beat’s. Did she imagine the way his breathing pattern changed. “Are we done shooting the confessional?” she asked Danielle, her voice embarrassingly husky. “Or were there more questions?”
“We’re good for now. Let’s head out.”
Beat and Melody left the room hand in hand, walking side by side down the brightly lit hallway, her gait feeling slightly unnatural in the elevated shoes. Beat asked, “So what did you confess?”
Nothing.
But I’m pretty sure I made it obvious to the world that I’ve had a lifelong crush on you.
Hopefully nobody had been watching by that point.
“Oh, you know . . .” Waxing poetic about you. “Basic stuff. Name, age. Can you sing like your mother—the usual flimflam.” She glanced over at his profile, noting the furrow between his brows. “What about you? Did you tell them your deepest, darkest secrets?”
Something like alarm flared in his features. “No. I managed to hold back.” He opened his mouth and closed it. “They’re focusing on our personal lives more than I expected. I thought it would be a lot of questions about Octavia and Trina, but they asked me what a day in my life is like. How I felt about turning thirty. How my friends feel about my ‘peripheral fame.’” He rolled a shoulder. “It was unexpected.”
“I’ll try not to be offended they didn’t ask if I had any friends. They were more interested in my self-dating habits.”
“Your what?”
“Self-dates. Once a week, I wine and dine myself and I really enjoy it. Except when the hostess sits me two inches from a couple on a real date and I make them uncomfortable, because it seems like I’m listening. Which I am.”
Beat hit the button for the elevator and the doors flew open, already waiting for the prince to require its use. They stepped in with Joseph and remained in silence for ten full seconds, before Beat asked gruffly, “Do you ever go on dates with other people?”
“Mmm. I have.” His fingers jolted around hers. Did he have a fear of elevators? She’d talk him through it. “I even had a four-month relationship once. But my mother was coming to town for my birthday, and I started to see my boyfriend through her eyes, wondering what she would think when she arrived. That’s when I realized it wasn’t working. We weren’t compatible and I just needed to step back and look to see it. Or admit it, I guess.” Beat still looked tense, so Melody sucked in a deep breath and kept going. “Have you been in many relationships?”
“No.” He gave her a tight smile that never reached his eyes. “None.”
“None?” She could even sense Joseph’s bafflement from the other side of the elevator. If Beat was a workaholic bachelor type with a personality defect, she could see him remaining relationship free, simply hooking up when the mood struck him. But Beat was sensitive, a good listener, gorgeous. If he crossed paths with a woman worth her salt, which he must have done hundreds of times, he would consider her, not disregard her. How was this possible? “But you have so many boyfriendly qualities.”
His laughter was brief. “I like being single, Mel.”
The elevator doors opened and Melody faced forward quickly. Did she secretly, deep down enjoy knowing that Beat had never been in a serious relationship?
Maybe. Just a little. But not enough to keep her from wondering—and worrying—what might have prevented it.
