I woke up the morning of the show feeling good. Everything was within reach, like fifths on the piano. I know “Until You” by heart. Yesterday’s rehearsals went perfectly fine. I don’t have to look at Riley when I play. As long as I’m not messing up the song, it’s fine. I could handle this.
I, Max Harcourt, could play for thousands in Madison Square Garden. Sure, I was somewhat nervous. On the whole, however, I felt good.
Until my mom’s name lit up my phone screen.
I vaguely recognized the link in her message. It was one of those Instagram accounts where people submit photos of spotted celebrities. I honestly didn’t know why my mom knew what it was. It didn’t matter. The photo was unmistakable.
Riley looked stunning. She leaps out of photographs in this way I’ve never understood, like she warps light itself. The laws of physics ceding to her unstoppable presence. Of course, this unique effect wasn’t the reason these photos were on Instagram. I recognized the location—our hotel’s sleek rooftop bar. The face of the man Riley was sitting next to wasn’t visible, but Riley’s was, her smile incandescent while she slid him a drink.
My mom’s message wasn’t idle. Her question after the link was cheerfully straightforward. Why haven’t you asked Riley out if she’s already moved on from her divorce?
I stood, hair mussed from sleep, in my sterile-seeming hotel room for four full minutes, wrestling with how to reply. The rooftop bar hung over me like storm clouds. The sunlight shooting in from the crack in the curtains, which I had found encouraging in its promise of the fresh day when I had woken up, suddenly reminded me of the harsh stage lights I had performed under yesterday.
Finally, I settled for shrugging my mom off with noncommittal nonchalance. I wasn’t lying, either. I’m not here for romantic reasons. I’m here to play music.
Definitely not to get back together with Riley Wynn.
Except the photos gave me no peace for the rest of the morning.
Riley’s smile stuck in my heart while I showered in the modern white stall in my bathroom—lingered with me while I grabbed coffee and breakfast from the crowded bagel shop down the block—followed me the whole trip to the stadium. It turned out the way to take my mind off playing for twenty thousand people was four blurry iPhone photos of Riley sitting with a stranger.
I feel guilty for my exhaustive perusal of the images. Riley has said in interviews that she wishes her love life was under less scrutiny. She finds the pressure exhausting, the feeling of never making private decisions privately, and when she wants her artistry to make her famous, she resents the impression that people value her for relationship gossip instead. It’s part of why she wrote The Breakup Record, she explained—wanting to rub in listeners’ faces their feeling of entitlement to her private life and the hunger of their focus.
These pictures invade her privacy, I know they do. I don’t want to provide them the clicks they’re seeking. I want to resist the compulsion to see every one, to know where she was, who she left with, how she smiled.
I want to. I just . . . can’t. I’m powerless.
Frustrated, I consider finding myself the same kind of diversion. I’m not useless in the flirting department. I play music professionally—for the moment—on the stages of the hottest music tour of the year. I could lose myself in someone else’s arms, someone else’s sheets, while forgetting how Riley makes me feel.
Except I wouldn’t, my discouraging mind points out.
No matter who I went home with, I would know I was running from this.
Now, while I sit in the Garden’s greenroom, the photos stick with me like unwanted guests in my uneasy mind. With the TV on the wall counting down to showtime, I find I’m not nervous—I’m frustrated.
Frustrated because I’m jealous. There’s no denying what this feeling is, however juvenile, however unjustified. If my confident comfort this morning felt like easy chords, this feels like the notes one misses sight-reading something for the first time—the quick wince of unintended discord.
What I know won’t help is seeing Riley. She’s elsewhere for much of the day, handling publicity or other obligations. I wait, my mood souring itself further.
The greenroom is not what I expected. It’s part hotel ballroom, part living room for the tour’s impromptu family. Crewmembers’ jackets rest on the couches. Water bottles litter the tables. Marigold carpet runs from wall to wall, on which framed photos commemorate iconic performances, while one long window overlooks Manhattan.
When Riley finally enters, everything starts for real. Her voice is vibrant when she talks to her dad on the phone and congratulates the band and crew, her movements quick with exuberant impatience when she updates her fans on social media with pre-show photos.
I want to look away. Concentrate on the music, on the performance.
Of course I can’t.
In a short silk robe over the white sequined bodysuit she wears under her costumes, the sculpted cut showing an endless stretch of her leg, she sparkles beneath the lights of the room. I can’t stop staring, every detail of her inscribed with diamond precision on my helpless heart.
She’s stunning. Yet how she looks isn’t even what hits me hardest.
It’s the way she luminesces with pride, with the excitement of dreams captured. If she’s gorgeous no matter what, joy makes her radiant.
Which I have no right to notice, I remind myself. Just like I have no right to jealousy. The vinegar filling my heart is entirely unreasonable. Riley’s been dating for ten years without it sending me into this spiral. I’ve been dating without caring who she was with. Now is no different.
Except . . . it is different, sort of. I’m going to be sharing a tour bus with her. Will she bring flirtations back to those close-pressed bunks with her? Would it be worse if she didn’t? Every night she’s not on the bus, I’ll know it’s because she could be with someone else instead. Riley might be the songwriter, but I’ll have no trouble writing wounded vignettes for my petty heart whenever she is.
It’s the final nudge I needed for my mood to collapse from precarious into miserable. Grabbing a drink from the greenroom’s fridge, I head into the corner of the room for what passes here for solitude.
I just need to keep it together for long enough to play my ex’s devastatingly perfect breakup song about me in front of her countless clamoring fans. Easy.
“Max, may I sit with you?”
Surprised to recognize the voice, I look up from my ruminations. Riley’s mom, Carrie, joins me on the couch, her no-nonsense features softened with sympathy. I nod, of course, not sure what’s prompting this. When I dated Riley, I stayed with her parents for one short visit over Christmas. I didn’t really get to know her family since I was so wrapped up in Riley. I remember sneaking away every chance we got for some privacy.
I realize now Carrie certainly knew what we were doing. Regardless, I’ve had few conversations with Riley’s mother.
“I don’t really know what to do with myself here,” she confesses. She doesn’t sound sad—just honest, which, it occurs to me, might be why Riley’s songwriting shares the same quality. “Riley doesn’t need me, and any time I offer to help, I get the sense I’m just getting in the way of a well-oiled machine.”
Managing to pull my gaze from Riley, I look at her mother. “Does Riley need any of us? She could go onstage with nothing but herself and bring the house down.”
Carrie laughs. The sound is quick, real.
“Still,” I continue, “I think she’s glad you’re here.” I remember Riley in her lovely, lonely house. She’s uncomfortable in solitude. When we were in college, we had only been dating a week before she began making excuses for why she needed to sleep over. It took five days for me to tell her she didn’t need an excuse.
I know why she’s restless by herself. She strives to fill the vacuum with sound, with light, with presence. The effort wears on her. Riley finds being on her own like playing for empty stadiums.
“I didn’t know you were still close with my daughter,” Carrie remarks inquisitively.
I shift in my seat, flushing with embarrassment. “Oh,” I fumble to say. “I’m not, really. Just, you know, when I did know her . . .” Carrie is right. It’s presumptuous of me to pretend to know Riley’s feelings. Like it’s presumptuous to be jealous.
“I’m teasing you,” Carrie replies. When her smile catches the glint of having completely gotten me, I’m relieved. “Riley told me how she dropped in on you at the home and how easy it still is to talk to you. I think it’s very mature you two are doing this together as friends. You’ve grown up so much since you were sneaking out of our house to go hook up in Riley’s car,” she says, lightly sarcastic.
I would succumb to embarrassment once more if I weren’t intensely curious instead. Riley mentioned her visit to Harcourt Homes? She said I was easy to talk to? What else did she say? What were her exact words? Could this conversation possibly be transcribed for my review?
I don’t get the chance to ask. I hear Vanessa say Riley’s name, drawing my attention.
“Hey, Riley, is the hottie from last night coming to the show?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vanessa holding up her phone. I know perfectly well what’s on the screen. The first in a series of Instagram stories.
Riley shushes her. “A little louder,” she says. “I’m not sure my mother heard you.”
They laugh together. I’d be impressed how swiftly Riley makes her band her friends and equals if I weren’t utterly engrossed in the subject of their conversation.
“He’s coming,” Riley says, her voice lower. “But we didn’t hook up.”
“Mmm.” Vanessa hums like she’s not convinced.
“Really,” Riley insists. “It wasn’t like that. He’s bringing his fiancée to the show. Eileen set them up with tickets.”
The relief I feel crushes me. While I know the reaction should make me guilty, I’m no longer sure I care. Riley has me celebrating victories in wars with myself I shouldn’t wage. I find myself smiling down at my shoes until I feel Carrie’s stare on me. She doesn’t say anything. Even so, I know she saw me eavesdropping, and worse, saw my reaction to learning Riley didn’t hook up with anyone last night.
I wrestle with the silence. I don’t know if I should say something or if it would just be more incriminating to downplay what I was caught in.
Ultimately, it isn’t me who ends the silence. Instead, a moment later, Riley approaches. Carrie gives me a conspiratorial smile before looking up at her daughter. “Mom, it’s probably time for you to get to your seat,” Riley says with unhidden eagerness.
Carrie stands. She hugs Riley, then faces us. “Break a leg,” she says. “You two are going to be great.” With the pointed glance she shoots me, I hear her double meaning.
When she follows a crew member out, I’m left with Riley in the crowded green room. Alone-ish, separate yet surrounded.
“Thanks for hanging out with my mom,” Riley says.
“Oh, no need to thank me,” I reply honestly. “It was . . . enlightening.”
“Uh-oh.” Riley’s voice is playful, her expression unperturbed. “What did she say about me?”
“You? Not so much,” I say, stretching the moment, daring to match her joking flair. “How much have you said about me, however?”
Riley’s grin widens, which I didn’t expect. I should have, I realize. “Oh, lots,” she says cheerfully. “That can’t surprise you, Max. You were my first love. I wrote a whole song about you. Of course you’ve come up in conversation with my mom.”
“Right,” I say. “But, like, recently?”
She pauses. Or falters. It’s striking, the combination of her incredible poise colliding with her caught-off-guard stillness. Her hair is dyed freshly blond, her makeup dramatic. Still, I notice pink stealing into her cheeks. “Is Riley Wynn blushing?” I ask.
Riley laughs like she’s amused by her own emotion. The setting sun sinks into the window’s view, letting vermilion rays into the room. The effect is stunning, like the skyline is laughing with her.
“Wow, I am,” she says.
I find her eyes. “Now,” I pry, “what could you have said to make you blush? Did you tell her I’m easy to talk to?”
“Sounds right,” she replies.
The little half shrug she gives emboldens me. I’m enjoying this conversation, this off-the-cuff exchange with the girl I remember playing piano for in my dorm room. For once on this tour, I feel like I’m in the right place. Riley might be made for stages—I might be made for greenrooms.
“What about that it was good to see me again?” I ask, drawing out the question.
Riley lifts her chin just slightly. Confrontation meeting invitation. “Most likely,” she says.
I lean a little closer, my quiet way of showing her this conversation is only for us despite the hectic room. I chase the little voice in me demanding I keep this up—prove to myself, to her, to every random guy she might meet, that I can still flirt with her, even if it’s just for fun. I can still strike the chords we learned from each other when we first met.
“How about,” I say leadingly, “that I’m even more handsome than I was ten years ago?”
“I’m pretty sure it came up, yes.” Riley looks me right in the eye.
Even with the charge mounting in this exchange, I’m lightly surprised. I find I’ve entirely forgotten we’re about to go onstage. “Did it really?” I ask.
Riley rolls her eyes. The sheepish flicker in her expression is desperately charming. “The years have been very kind to you, Max,” she informs me. “You look good. I’m not embarrassed to say so. Admitting it isn’t some huge declaration of love.”
The lights flash, signaling the show is going to start. My bravado fades, our flirtation smothered by the promise of stage lights. “I know it isn’t,” I say, hearing how my voice sounds—like myself, my usual self. “But still, thanks. You look good, too.”
Good? I chasten myself for my insipid word choice. Even if I’m echoing Riley, the understatement feels criminal. You look like harmony in human form, I could say. Instead, I settled for the confines she drew. You look good.
Around us, the room is swept up in sudden urgency. While Riley looks eagerly at everyone, like some primal force is drawing her to join them, she pauses. She pulls her eyes to me. “Max—” she starts.
I wait, wondering what she wants to add. The moment is over, the reminder of the expectant audience separating us.
“Have fun up there,” she concludes stiffly. It’s obviously not what she wanted to say.
I nod, disappointed. She walks into the center of the room to address the band.
I wrench my gaze from her while I still can, stuck with the feeling our duets only sound like harmony when no one else is listening.