“About last night,” I say quietly, and Tarek’s eyes slide closed. “Does he know?”
His eyes open again, flashing in the low light. The question seems to have taken him aback. “Know what?”
It is telling that he already seems to know the he I’m referring to.
“How you feel about him?”
There is utter silence. Not even the sound of breathing is audible — it’s as though both of us have stopped completely.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he finally answers, broken.
And then Tarek sighs and slips his hand into the pocket of his robe. He pulls out a piece of paper that looks as though it’s been scrunched and flattened half a hundred times. He hands it to me. I stare at it, frowning.
“What’s this?”
“It was under the door,” Tarek says cagily. “Addressed to me — and you.”
I take it from his fingers, though at first they resist, as though he can’t bear to let go.
The note is short. On the front, it says “T & K” in a fancy slanting handwriting that I’m amazed came from anyone in this century. Underneath the fold, it reads:
I’m sorry.
-A
My mouth parts from the unexpectedness of it. I glance up at Tarek, whose gaze has become distant. “From Adam?” I ask, to double-check.
Tarek nods. “It’s his writing.”
There is a hollowness, a sense of anticlimax, to an apology pushed under a door at some obscure hour past midnight. I feel remarkably unaffected by the perfect calligraphy, as though it could have come from a stranger.
I read the note again and again, wanting more text to magically appear before me, to justify the amount of thoughts I’ve spent — wasted — on Adam. An explanation, at the very least. “You believe him?”
At that, Tarek pauses. “For whatever reason, he apologized to me and you. That’s shit for everyone else whose lives he’s ruined.”
There is so much bitterness in Tarek’s voice that it makes me upset to hear it. I rest my head down on his thigh, staring up at him.
“And it’s not just Conor, Seth, and Leon,” Tarek adds, fingers toying with my hair, “but the whole team behind us. People who never get the credit they deserve. Roadies, bodyguards, stylists, choreographers, chaperones... Our families. He’s fucked all them over, too. Is he sorry to them? No.”
I’d never thought how extensive Royal Element’s reach was, but of course it would take a village to create a brand as popular and polished as them. Years of work gone to waste, all for one megalomaniac.
Suddenly, it seems completely obvious. It feels like being struck by lightning. “Then don’t let him do this,” I say, my breathless words out before I realize it.
Tarek looks at me curiously. “What do you mean, Princess?”
I frown, trying to explain myself, the flutters in my stomach almost overwhelming... “Who said you should give up? Continue without him. Royal Element 2.0.”
But Tarek shakes his head. “They’ve copyrighted our brand to the hilt. We don’t even own ourselves anymore.”
I sigh, agitated. It figures. But then I reason, “Why don’t you... start your own band, then? They never let you use your own songs. You always had to sing over-processed pop stuff you hated, stuff written by a committee of fifty people. And you can play music.”
There must be a fervor in my voice, because the others begin to stir from their sleep. I’ve never been so certain of anything as I am right now, though Tarek still looks doubtful.
“What’s going on?” Leon yawns. He looks down, taking in his lack of clothing, and his eyebrows raise. “Oh, wow. So I didn’t just dream that...”
Seth, sleepy, turns to face Tarek and me. “What are you two talking about?”
“Your future,” I tell him, trying to keep my excitement under control.
“Apparently we’re starting a new band,” Tarek says, his voice level.
“Think about it,” I tell them. “This is your chance to do anything you want. This isn’t some huge tragedy, it’s a liberation. Sure, things will change — but you can make it change for the better.”
They’re all staring at me like I’ve gone absolutely bananas.
“At this point, we’re supposed to fight to become solo artists,” Leon says carefully, as though he’s studied the Boy Band Manual from cover to cover. “Only one can be on top.”
“The others develop a debilitating drug habit and end up on reality TV,” Conor adds with a wry twist to his lips.
“Yeah, the whole regroup thing after a member leaves... It doesn’t work out well.”
“But I’m not saying regroup,” I insist, pacing like a madwoman, “I’m saying rebirth.”
Still they look skeptical, but Seth — beautiful, openminded Seth — leans back with ease and shrugs. “Might as well. What else have we got going on?”
“And you don’t even need anyone else.” I go over to each of them. “Conor, you can play the drums like a maniac. Seth, I’ve seen you ace bass. Leon, you play the guitar unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
A miserable-sounding voice comes from behind me. “And me? What can I do to instruments other than smash them to pieces?”
I laugh at the notion Tarek’s mentally checked himself out of this due to lack of options. “Sing. Sing, you asshole! You’re hot as fuck — you’re our frontman.”
And suddenly there’s a gleam in Tarek’s eyes.
“Frontman,” he repeats, as though he likes the sound of it.
Leon rolls his eyes.
“I’m not saying everything will be rosy, but at least you won’t have to deal with MCM. You’ll have the freedom to do your own thing. And sure, there might be backlash, but you’re talented. You can survive anything.”
In a quiet voice, Seth says, “Adam...”
“He’s the creative one, the writer,” Tarek adds in a wistful tone.
“We don’t need him.” Conor frowns, looking frustrated. “He wasn’t the only one who wrote music. Leon’s used up entire books of sheet music that Adam’s probably copied from. He practically wrote ‘Sunshine Girls’. And I wrote some stuff, too.”
Leon colors. “I can’t guarantee mine’s any good. But it’s mine, not MCM’s.” He looks at me with a serious expression. “If we’re doing this, we need you.” He turns to the rest of the guys and adds, “I think it’s fair to say we all want you.” He coughs slightly. “Not just... you know, after last night. But in general. You could help us, guide us.”
“Manage us,” Seth says quietly, like it’s an invitation.
I stare at him.
Manage?
I can barely manage my own hair never mind the future prospects of an internationally renowned boy band. Are they out of their freaking minds?
But they’re looking at me intently, as though they don’t grasp the absurdity of their suggestion. I don’t know what to say.
Thankfully, Seth says it for me.
“Think about it. No pressure, but obviously we’d love to have you. And I think, if you’re willing, this could make an even better story for a documentary than the one you were told to make.”