The Collaboration

Good with it

Two weeks later, Jeff is back in the same room where Harry waits for his update, seated on the same sofa.

"Looks like we may have hit gold here," he opens up with a grin.

"Talk to me," Harry responds, feeling a spark of excitement.

"I need you to be open about it, though. It is a huge opportunity. We can blow the music industry up with this. Great prospect to clear your name and put you back on the charts," Jeff begins enumerating on his fingers, his eyes gleaming. "Most played on Spotify, magazine covers..."

"Jeff!" Harry blurts out, stopping him, his heart pounding. "Who?"

Jeff swallows visibly and braces himself. "Taylor Swift."

Harry's eyes widen in disbelief.

"NO," Harry deadpans again. Jeff is staring at him from his seat as he paces the room, with a hand on his waist, the other one rubbing his forehead.

"I heard it the first four times," Jeff replies, patient. Well aware that Harry is still processing the news, but hopeful he will allow his pragmatic side to see all the benefits of the collaboration, instead of the emotional buts.

"Have you forgotten the effort and time we invested in getting her name untangled from mine? To get the press, media, fans, everyone to forget we ever dated and give up on us as an item?" He stops pacing and looks at Jeff, frustration evident in his eyes. "They grilled me with questions about her for years. In my own solo interviews! The obsession..." Harry gestures wildly.

"Everyone still is," Jeff points out distractedly.

"Still what?" Harry questions him, narrowing his eyes.

"Invested in you both as a thing, a brand thing. See the opportunity, Harry. This has the potential to make everyone forget the past two years. You sing a song with her..." Jeff's voice trails off, hoping Harry will catch on.

"She sings with me," Harry blurts out.

"Potato, potahto," Jeff sighs. "Look, she is playing London tonight. Go see what she is doing now. When was the last time you listened to her music or seen her perform? It is something," Jeff adds.

Harry knows it is "something." Of course, he knows. That is the main reason why he has purposely and masterfully avoided any contact or connection between them over the years. He is well aware of the pull she has on him. But Jeff has a point, and as much as he wants to keep things this way between them, he also wants, really badly, to get his music career back, and she is definitely the name to be linked to.

"Fine," Harry mutters, more to himself than to Jeff. "I'll go. But this doesn't mean I'm agreeing to anything yet."

Jeff smiles, sensing a victory. "That's all I'm asking for. Just go and see. You might be surprised."

*

It turns into a small mission sneaking him into the venue unnoticed.

Luckily, the paparazzi rarely follow him these days. Still, he arrives mid-concert to avoid being spotted at the stadium. With his hoodie up and dark sunglasses on, he follows her security team on what seems like a lot of unnecessary walking in circles and going up and down steps.

They end up in a small VIP box that has been covered with black tarpaulin to avoid anyone peeking in from the neighbouring boxes. It is quite high up, right in front of the stage, so unless someone is looking for him, there is no chance of being seen.

The stadium is sold out. He feels the energy of the audience roar, and the floor vibrates under his feet from the live band sound. He feels a pang of excitement and envy, and he soon finds himself smiling, taking in the stadium atmosphere.

She is about to start another set, and he recognizes the guitar riff as soon as it starts: 1989, "Style."

"Yeah, my timing," he mutters in a sarky tone to himself, unconsciously crossing his arms around his chest as if they could protect him from all the memories and feelings that assault him.

He focuses on the stage, and the screens show a close-up of her. "She looks good," he thinks.

He feels Jeff's hand on one of his shoulders. The audience is dancing and singing out loud with her, buzzing. How old is this song? 11 years? And it sounds brand new.

"It's a classic," he hears Jeff shout in his direction.

The audience's energy takes over him, and for a moment, he forgets why he is there, thoroughly enjoying the performance. He has to admit it: there is no one like her. She has seemingly embedded herself in so many people's lives through her artistry; no one can engage an audience like that.

He has always admired her for that. He has learned from her. He feels proud suddenly, and grateful he has been given the chance to inspire some of her work. Amazed at the intensity of the memory that there was a brief time, long ago, when he had loved her, and she had loved him back.

They stay for two more songs before he decides he has seen enough and turns to leave.

As they walk the long corridors of the venue on their way out, he feels the sudden urge to get out of there as soon as possible, forcing the security team escorting them to speed up to keep up with his pace.

"So, how do you feel about it?" asks Jeff, walking fast, close behind him.

"I am good with it," he replies for him to hear. As Jeff claps in celebration, he adds for his own ears only, "and emotionally fucking bruised."