Page 22 of One More Made Up Love Song
It’s her turn to roll her eyes. Wren is only a year or two older than I am, but she has a strong big sister vibe, and she often treats me and Freddie like we’re younger siblings she has to keep in line. Having lost Daphne, it’s nice to feel like someone is looking out for me. Especially when we’re touring. But I don’t like the way she’s looking at me right now, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like she can tell that for the five minutes I spent cataloging Freddie’s tattoos, I completely forgot she was even in the room. My vision narrowed to him and only him.
“Don’t even try to pretend like you inspecting Freddie’s body wasn’t significant. I could feel the tension buzzing between you two, and I was on the other side of the room.”
“It wasn’t tension,” I say with a dismissive wave. “It was just a conversation, and it had everything to do with this fan we met at the meet-and-greet who’s trying to copy all of Freddie’s tattoos. I swear that’s all it was.”
She shrugs. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it,” she says, but I don’t miss her smirk when I finally leave the dressing room and head backstage.
It’s concerning that Wren picked up on something. I’m usually so careful, but I’ve been soft the last few days, first pretending to kiss Freddie in the drugstore, then letting him crawl into my bunk like it wasn’t monumentally significant to be so close to him.
I can justify my actions. Say the drugstore thing was necessary to protect Freddie, and the bunk—it’s not like he gave me a choice in the matter. But I won’t lie to myself and say I didn’t love every second of being so close to him.
The first year I worked for Freddie, I was in so far over my head, I didn’t have time to form a crush. I was learning everything I possibly could about the industry, and he was right in the middle of an international tour. My to-do list far outpaced my abilities and know-how, so I was too focused on my survival to notice Freddie’s charm or his good looks.
But then I learned. I figured stuff out. Got better at my job. And I started to recognize things about my boss that made him different.
Despite having to grow up in the midst of his fame—he was only fifteen when Midnight Rush made it big—Freddie is surprisingly decent. He’s loyal and generous. He doesn’t drink or party. He has an insatiable curiosity, and he generally starts every day believing that he’s going to be surprised or impressed by something. It gives him this unfailing optimism that I can’t help but admire.
At the end of his last tour, he gave every single person on his payroll—from caterers to truck drivers to stagehands—an enormous bonus check and wrote handwritten thank you cards, delivering each one in person. It took him days, but he was unflagging in his determination to shake hands with everyone who’d made even the smallest contribution to his success.
That might have been when things started to shift for me. I was the one who coordinated his efforts, made each individual connection possible.
How could I not develop feelings, helping with something like that? It started as admiration and respect, but we just spent so much time together. And let’s be honest. Freddie Ridgefield has a very handsome face.
I tried to fight it. Ihadto fight it. And I mostly did. Imostlyhave.What Freddie has in optimism, I have in determination. I made a promise to myself that my feelings would never keep me from doing my job. And they haven’t.
But I must be slacking because this is the first time anyone has ever picked up on them. Even Seth, who spends more time with me and Freddie than anyone else, has never picked up on anything.
All the more reason for me to find a new place to live as soon as possible.
Despite what my mother might think, I really don’t want to be an assistant forever. Except—if I’m honest with myself, that isn’t what this is really about. Freddie would give me a different job title if I asked for it, one more reflective of everything I do.
But moving out is a logical first step in the gradual unweaving of myself from Freddie’s life.
That’s what this is really about—preparing myself to move on.
I can’t love Freddie forever. Not if I want to find someone who will love me in return.
But as long as I work for him, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.
I find Seth and Charlie standing side by side backstage, their postures similar as they watch Freddie performing “Give Me More.” It’s one of the few Midnight Rush songs he includes in his setlist because it’s such a fan favorite. Most of the chorus, the fans will do the singing for him.
I have no idea how Freddie shifts into performance mode so fast, but after so many shows with the same set list, he could probably perform this concert in his sleep. He sounds great—his tone rich and clear, perfectly on pitch. Sureenough, when he reaches the chorus, he points at the fans, and they sing the next few lines of the song.
Freddie presses a hand over his heart, a gesture of gratitude that makes his fans cheer even louder, then he launches into the next verse of the song.
“He’s really on tonight,” Seth says, “Better than he has been.” He looks down at me. “Did you say something to him?”
“Me? What wouldIsay?” I shrug, hoping it’s dark enough for Seth not to notice the heat climbing my cheeks. “Probably just good crowd energy.”
I turn and walk toward the staging area at the back of the stadium, hidden by enormous black drapes hanging down from the ceiling, mostly so Seth and Charlie won’t ask me any more questions. Usually, this area is full of stagehands waiting for the wash, rinse, repeat of taking down what theyjustset up this morning. But since tonight is the first of two shows in Chicago, they won’t have anything to take down tonight. They’re probably all out, enjoying a much-deserved night off.
I make my way over to one of the huge storage crates that houses Freddie’s set when it’s disassembled and climb on top, resting my back against the bigger crate directly behind me. I pull out my phone and spend a few minutes scrolling through apartment listings, but I don’t see anything new. I have three places bookmarked, but for all I know, by the time I’m in town to check the places out in person, they won’t be available anymore, and I’ll have to start all over again.
I close out the listings and pull up the text thread with my sister, sending yet another message checking in. She stillhasn’t responded to the one I sent earlier, but it can’t hurt to try again.
Ivy
Hey! Everything okay? Not trying to hound you. But if you want to give me a thumbs up so I know you’re alive and well, that would be amazing.
