We ended the night with a duet inspired by Moulin Rouge’s “Elephant Love Medley,” and when your dad sang about how he was made for loving me, I could see how true he believed it was. And that was how I felt, too. We were made for this. We were made for each other. We were made to be together, up on stage, sharing a dream, sharing a future. In that moment, his dream became my dream, became our dream. The medley ended with a kiss, and the crowd’s cheers were so loud they made my ears ring.

Afterward, we were surfing on the high of it. We drank free cocktails and champagne, we shared a joint someone offered us, we accepted compliments from fans who wanted to know when our album was coming out.

“Soon,” your dad said. “Soon.”

“Really?” I whispered, when we had a short second to ourselves. If we could spend our lives like this, performing, being adored, creating music, loving each other—I didn’t even want to think about it because it seemed so wonderful, so perfect, so ideal.

“Really,” he answered, kissing me hard.

We were college sweethearts who could bring down the house. We were young and happy and talented as all get-out. He was more talented than I was, more charismatic, too. I couldn’t command the stage like he did, but I could keep up. And because we knew each other so well, we jelled up there. The connection between us did something special to the crowd.

There was a green room that we eventually made our way to when it was so late it was early. The minute we got there, the minute we closed the doors, his hands were on my hips and mine were on his. Soon we were fumbling with buttons and zippers, my shoes kicked off into a corner, leather pants peeled off my legs, exposing lace underneath.

I don’t remember all that much, to be honest. The drinks, the drugs, the experience, the adoration, the love—it had all gone to my head. Even now, the night comes back to me in pieces, like a shattered mirror, a dream. I was straddling him on the couch, I was on my back on the floor, on a table, against the wall. I was abandoning myself to him. I felt like starlight, like moonbeams, like a crystal queen.

12

“I heard him on the radio last week,” Emily said to Arielle as they sat on the couch dipping monkey bread into sauce.

“Him him?” Ari asked.

Emily nodded. “He’s going by a different name, but I’m sure it’s him.”