The crowd calls us back for an encore after the show. "They're a lot louder than usual," Scott tells me. I've gotta admit they are pretty enthusiastic, and they did seem genuinely excited when I showed up. His fans used to despise me and call me a dirty cheating puked-up hairball, but think that started to change when Scott posted the videos of me singing his music. Since then, they've gone from making me the deplorable villain in all their fanfictions back to shipping Scömìche hardcore.
After two more songs, we wrap up the show for real and collapse in Scott's dressing room. I'm dripping with sweat, and he's veritably drowning. I bury my face in a towel to soak up the perspiration, the makeup, and some of the adrenaline that's still radiating from my skin in waves. I wonder if they have showers here. They do sports at the Staples Center, right? Sports mean locker rooms, which mean showers, which mean feeling like a human again.
Esther lets herself in without knocking. She's always been like this, yet somehow she never walks in at a bad moment. It's a sixth sense, or maybe more like a ninth or tenth sense. "You need to go back out," she declares.
"Out where? What?"
"Onstage. The audience isn't leaving. The lights are on and everything, but they aren't going anywhere. Can you hear them?"
I switch off the fan and listen. Esther's right. Of course Esther's right. That's her thing.
"We don't have anything else prepared," Scott's says. He's also right. He could sing something off his last album, though, and I could harmonize.
"Listen closer," Esther smirks.
It's distant, but if I focus, it sounds like maybe, if I'm not deluding myself, they're chanting my name. Mitch. Mitch. Mitch. Mitch. Mitch. I have chills.
"Go perform Keeping for them," she directs me, "before they lose their voices or start a riot."
My makeup is already ruined, not to mention my hair, which I still haven't buzzed. I can't quite bring myself to, not when Scott is so determined to learn to French braid it. "I'm not—"
"Now."
"Yes ma'am."
I hide in the shadows and peer out at the crowd. I've kept them waiting, and their applause is falling into sync. A few are leaving, and some are just sitting down, waiting for the arena to clear. A solid 90%, though, are fully committed. The "encore" we did was planned, on the set list and everything, but they want a real encore. The lights dim. The fans scream. A single spotlight follows me from the moment I step past the curtains. Center stage. All I have to do is get to center stage, and then I can work out what to do next.
Okay. I'm here. Good job, Mitch. Now what? I'm too overwhelmed to speak, much less sing. A fresh wave of screams tells me Scott has come out behind me. He sits at the piano and starts playing. This is happening. What are the lyrics? What are words?
I stumble through verse one and make up for it in the chorus. They seem to like this song. That's good. It's brand new, and I was hoping it'd go over well, but I didn't have time to really worry about it.
"You all are the best," I tell them after the song. "Your fans are the best," I repeat, turning back to Scott.
"My fans? More like your fans! What a bunch of turncoats!"
"Fame is a fickle friend, Mr. Potter." But it stayed with him when I didn't. It's never really left him. On the other hand, it's not actually a friend.
Twitter is already on fire before I make it to the bus. Everyone's mad that they weren't at the show, simultaneously worried I won't sing at any of the other shows and mad that the tour's sold out already in case I do and they miss it. I keep singing, and some people do ask for refunds, but the smart ones resell their tickets at five times the face value.
When Baz's movie comes out, demand climbs even higher. Esther wants to add more shows to the tour, but I have to go to events and promote the film. "You are promoting the film," she says, "just by doing the whole rockstar thing. Get me on the phone with Baz."
An hour later, it's settled. She's persuaded them I'm making a bigger impact for the movie with Scott than I could on the red carpet. All I have to do is give out free tickets to some fans, promote it online, and do a few Skype interviews. I don't even have to fly to New York or L.A. for the premier.
Unfortunately, since I don't have to be at opening night, it's actually a few weeks before I get a chance to watch it. Scott and I disguise ourselves as much as we can without looking like total weirdos and go to a matinee. The kid who sells us tickets recognizes me despite my glasses. He gets free tickets as a theater employee, he informs us, and he's seen my movie fourteen times. He knows the script better than I do at this point. He says its amazing.
And he's right. Baz outdid himself, and that's saying something. "You're gonna win an Oscar," Scott whispers to me at least three times during the screening. He wants to stay behind at the end, sit through all the ads, and watch the whole thing all over again.
"Are you kidding? Do you realize they clean between shows? And what about my box office numbers, huh? You're rich. Go buy us more tickets."
"Good point. Be right back." He actually does it, the sap. I thought our relationship would be the same as before but with kissing, but the dynamic is actually really different. We've become disgustingly romantic, finishing each other's sentences, making heart eyes all the time, getting each other coffee, complimenting each other out of the blue, and flirting incessantly. We don't pick on each other the same way anymore, even if it's only in jest. Tour is stressful for both of us, and we're both irritable, but we don't take it out on each other. I walk up behind him and massage his shoulders when he seems tense. He plays with my hair and hums. It's a little easier each day to forget we were ever apart.
This is why Alex left me. Maybe he thought it would be someone else, or maybe he always knew that it would end up being Scott, but he told me he wanted me to have someone who could make me happy. Someone whose very existence makes me smile. Someone I can't help but love. I thought he was naïve, but he was right. He'd experienced a kind of love I didn't even want to believe in, and even though he knew he was enough for me, he wanted me to have more. He could have kept me. I begged him to. But he didn't, and as much as it still aches, I'm grateful.
