Page 42 of Once Upon a Boyband
I lean back, letting my head drop against the house, a familiar tightness forming low in my gut. I don’t usually talkabout this. I am much better at leaving the past in the past, at letting those very messy years stay buried in the back of my mind where they belong. But for the first time in I don’t know how long—maybe ever—Iwantto talk about it. I want Laney to understand.
“At the end of Midnight Rush’s last tour,” I begin, “the band still had one more album on contract with our record label. But then I quit. The group had the option of replacing me or doing an album without me, but they all refused. I think they hoped I might eventually change my mind, but…I’d just lost my mom, and I wasn’t in a great place mentally, so they stalled as long as they could. Eventually, the label got tired of waiting, so the rest of the guys decided that what they collectively wanted was to move on, focus on their solo careers. In order to appease New Groove, Freddie negotiated a new deal, putting himself on the line if they would release Midnight Rush from the last album on the contract.”
She frowns. “I don’t understand why that was doing youa favor. Clearly, it worked out well for Freddie.”
“On the surface, yeah. But the label required that the terms of the contract stay the same—identical to what we signed when the group was formed. By that point, Freddie had enough star power he should have been able to get a much better deal. Signing another three-sixty was not in his best interest.”
“A three-sixty?”
I give her a thirty-second explanation of what a three-sixty deal entails, and she nods along.
“So the label just gets a much larger piece of the pie.”
“Right. Exactly.”
“What would have happened if Freddie hadn’t signed?” she asks. “If Midnight Rush had just not made the album?”
“The label would have defaulted on our royalties, possibly sued us for breach of contract. Leo and Jace were trying to get their solo careers started too, and that kind of legal battle would have been bad for everyone.”
“But if the other guy wanted to go solo too, why was Freddie the one who renegotiated with the label?”
“Because he was the only one who could. In the months while all of this was happening behind the scenes, he was already making music online, growing his following, writing songs and playing them on TikTok to millions of fans. When he finally dropped an album, everyone in the industry knew it would be a guaranteed success. That made him a safer bet for the label than Leo or Jace. Freddie had the star power. And he used it to benefit the rest of us. Me, most of all. I had Sarah to take care of, no parents, and no safety net. I couldn’t afford to lose royalties. Freddie is the only one who has any kind of leverage when it comes to convincing me. And I know better than to think he won’t use it.”
“So Freddie signed the crappy deal so no one else would have to.”
“Right. And the other guys signed better deals with different labels.”
She’s quiet for a beat, like she’s letting it all sink in. Then she asks, “Adam, why did you quit?” She moves her hands up and down her bare arms like she’s rubbing out the chill. It’s still September, so it’s plenty hot during the day, but this high in the mountains, it drops down into the sixties, even the upper fifties at night. “Is that too personal a question?”
I shrug off the flannel I’m wearing on top of my t-shirt and drape it over her shoulders. The act of doing something distracts me from the growing discomfort in my chest—the tiny pinpricks of pain that still shoot through me whenever Ithink about the last few months before I quit. Whenever I think of all those phone calls from my mom, from Sarah, begging me to just come home.
But our European tour was almost over—only a few shows left—and Kevin kept insisting that if I just hung on a little bit longer, I could take a break after the tour andreallyfocus on my family.
But then Mom died, and it was too late.
Laney tugs the shirt around her shoulders and smiles. “Thanks,” she says. “And for real, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“It was just complicated,” I say. “With my mom and wanting to be there for Sarah—” My words cut off, and I lift a hand to my chest, rubbing against the tightness spreading across my ribs.
“It was around the same time?” she says. “That your mom died?”
I nod and clear my throat, then blow out a breath like I can somehow dislodge the building discomfort inside me by sheer force of will.
Laney shifts on the bench beside me, turning sideways, one knee pulled under her so she can face me. She reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine, squeezing it gently. “I’m really sorry about your mom, Adam. With everything you were dealing with, the travel, the fame and attention, the pressure—to have to deal with that kind of loss when you’re so young is really unfair.”
Most of the time, people assume that because of the money that comes with it, fame makes things easier. But I was just a kid, trying to juggle the expectations of so many people, and the adults I had giving me advice, talking to me about my career, my choices, werealladults who werefinancially invested in our success. Itwasn’tfair. I didn’t see it then as much as I see it now, and it feels good to have Laney acknowledge it.
“I was planning on telling you tomorrow night,” I say.
“About Midnight Rush?”
I nod. “I had it all planned out. I was going to bring—oh, actually—” I reach over and pull out a photo from the front pocket of my shirt and hand it to her. “I was going to bring you this. I had Sarah dig it out of her stuff this morning and bring it to me. I worried you might need convincing since I look so different.”
The picture is of me and Sarah and the rest of Midnight Rush, the one time she left Mom and came to Nashville to see us in concert.
Laney shakes her head as her eyes linger on the photo. “This is still really hard for me to believe.”
“I’m sure.”
