Some Kind of Magic

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  For the rest of the morning, I buried myself in my work. I only checked my phone every thirty or forty seconds. Before noon, he texted me. Something urgent came up. I had to head back into the city. Keep Sunday free?

  Disappointed in my failed lunch plans, I threw myself into work to shut out the voice insisting I’d managed to sign up for the exact kind of boyfriend I’d always avoided—distant and inaccessible. A traveling salesman.

  A quieter voice fought back, defending Adam, saying, It’s not his fault. And when he was with me, he was truly with me. And he was worlds better than Mom’s gynecologist.

  Once I got home, I looked around for the scant traces of Adam’s existence—the dishes drying by the sink, the unmade bed. I grabbed a pillow and breathed in the smell of him for a few minutes. Aside from Stacy seeing him in the flesh, nobody would likely believe me if I told them he’d been there. The air did not in fact spark with latent electricity.

  I flopped down on the sofa with my laptop. My Twitter app was still up, and I checked the notifications. My gloom lifted when I saw Adam had followed me back. Out of curiosity, I went to see who else he was following and hugged myself when I discovered he only followed about one hundred other people.

  The gloom completely dissipated when I scrolled his feed and found a tweet from earlier in the day that read, Spent the night discovering some beautiful parts of New Jersey.

  Oh, my God. I loved him.

  Wait, stop the presses. What?

  That wasn’t possible. I’d known him less than a week. I’d only seen him two times.

  I shook it off. I couldn’t love him. It was just an expression. I loved that he tweeted about me. That was all.

  But what did I feel for him exactly? Lust for sure. There was no denying our physical chemistry. That went way beyond mere attraction.

  Aside from the sex, I really liked him. We got along easily. Maybe we’d discover some irreconcilable difference in time. For now, at least when he was with me, I felt more relaxed than I’d ever been with any other guy.

  The responses to his cryptic tweet had me cracking up. Hundreds of people sent him pictures of New Jersey, insisting he come visit their neck of the woods. Others wanted to know what he was doing in Jersey. So many people asked him to follow back, or begged him to tweet at them, or told him weird and random things, saying the same thing over and over in different words: Notice me. I’d be shocked if he ever read any of it.

  It was impossible for me to judge them, though. I wanted him to notice me, too. In fact, I ached for him, and that worried me. Insecurity and jealousy came calling as soon as I found myself alone, and I couldn’t tell whether I was jealous by nature or if the circumstances were playing with my head. We each had our own cross to bear.

  I’d never know for sure how much that damn perfume had factored into his feelings for me. And he’d never know for sure how little his fame factored into my feelings for him.

  Chapter 9

  My lesson about Adam being a regular guy clearly didn’t sink in because the next morning, before work, Stacy called me, gushing. “Your boyfriend’s about to be on the TODAY show!”

  I grabbed the remote and started scrolling through the DVR guide. “Oh, that’s right. He said he had an interview today.”

  Stacy coughed. “An interview? The TODAY fucking show! His band is going to perform. Are you going to record it?”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay. I won’t bother then. Can I come over after work?”

  When I got home, I set up the recording and waited until Stacy showed up with two fast food salads. She glowed. “This is so exciting! I’ve never known someone on TV!”

  We snuggled up with our salads as the show started. After the first fifteen minutes, my salad was gone, and they’d only talked about some lady whose cat had saved her life. My brain hurt. “Is he on at the end of the three hours, or whatever?”

  She poked at the last bits of lettuce, pushing the cherry tomatoes uneaten from side to side. “Can you fast forward? What if we miss teasers?”

  I pressed the double arrows until I saw Adam sitting in a chair and then, over Stacy’s freak out, backed it up to the commercial.

  Carson Daly started talking. I was baffled. “Since when is Carson Daly on the TODAY show?”

  “Shut up!” Stacy leaned forward, listening close to every syllable.

  “Jesus. It’s not like Carson is going to—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  “—band The Walking Disaster hit #1—”

  I snickered, “The Walking Disaster.”

  “SHHH!”

  “—charts this week with their song ‘Expulsion.’ This is their third Top Forty song. They’ve been selling out concert arenas worldwide. And they were nominated for a VMA earlier this year. Stick around for their performance a little later in the hour, but right now we’re pleased to welcome Adam Copeland, songwriter and lead singer for the band to our program.”

  The camera panned out to show Adam had been sitting in a chair to Carson’s right the entire time. He swiveled slightly in the chair and smiled his practiced endearing smile. It was uncanny to see him being treated like any other celebrity. He was dressed in black jeans and a Supertramp T-shirt with the Breakfast in America album cover on it. I recognized the album because Micah played it to death for months when we were in high school. I recognized those jeans because they’d been on my floor the day before.

  Stacy sighed. “God, he looks great. I can’t believe he was right here two days ago.”

  “Yesterday,” I whispered.

  Carson asked, “Adam, your latest single is sitting at number one. How do you feel about that?”

  I groaned. “What a stupid question.”

  Stacy grabbed the remote and hit Pause. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  She started it again as I mumbled, “But it’s my apartment.”

  “Carson, it’s an incredible feeling when your song connects with people.” He looked at the camera. “When I perform that song and see someone singing along with me, it gives me such a charge.”

  “Is he smoldering?” I was cracking up, thinking about that ride in his car.

  “HUSH!”

  A woman broke in. I had to ask, “Who’s she?”

  Stacy snapped, “Natalie. Be quiet.”

  “I’ve always wondered how you came up with the name of your band.”

  Adam licked his lips and hit her with those eyes, and Natalie absently adjusted the hem of her skirt. “It was my mom’s nickname for me growing up. She always said I was a ‘walking disaster. ’”

  “Well, I’m sure she’s proud of you now.”

  “Yeah, she is. Hi, Mom!”

  Natalie and Carson exchanged a glance. Natalie said, “How sweet,” then changed her line of questioning. “Now Adam, I understand you’re no longer eligible. There’s a rumor circulating you were recently engaged to pop sensation Adrianna LaRue. Is there any truth to that?”

  I nearly burst out laughing.

  Stacy hit Pause. “Did you know about that?”

  “He told me about the engagement, but it’s just a farce. A trick played on the tabloid media.” I clapped my hands to my mouth. “You can’t tell anyone that. I promised to keep it a secret.”

  Stacy giggled. “Looks like the joke has taken root.” She hit Play.

  Adam smiled, coy. “I’m not prepared to make a statement on that right now.”

  Natalie continued. “And you were seen last night leaving a restaurant with Adrianna—”

  I stopped laughing.

  Adam cut her off. “Yes, well.”

  Natalie changed the subject. I was only half listening to his trivial commentary about his fashion sense and plans for touring. He was supposed to be going to see a band play last night, but he was out with Adrianna?

  I willed myself not to cry.

  When the interview ended, Stacy asked, “What’s the deal with Adrianna LaRue anyway? Why’s he going out with her
if it’s just a joke? After that video she put out, I always thought she favored women.”

  “He told me they’re friends.” I took a huge breath. “He told me not to trust what I see in the news. I should ask him.”

  “So ask him. It’s probably nothing.” She tilted her head. “Eden?”

  I waved away her concern but sat dazed while Stacy forwarded to his band’s performance.

  I kept myself calm, but as soon as Stacy left, I opened my laptop and found the story. He had in fact been out with Adrianna. There were photos of them on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Just like when he took me out, he was wearing those black jeans and a button-up shirt. I shook my head. He wore jeans out with her while she was dressed to the nines.

  Before I knew it, I was watching her videos and falling more and more into misery. Even in the controversial video, where she’d dressed like a man in a full tuxedo, at least where her body parts were covered, she was air-brushed perfection with exotic features and hair as blond as mine was black. Her body could pose on a pedestal at the Louvre. She was talented, glamorous, rich, and famous. And fascinating. What was I?

  I went to bed that night playing out every scenario, but the one that hurt the most was the one that liked to come around with the most frequency. He was fucking around with me, but courting someone else. How could I compete with a superstar?

  I tossed and turned, debating my options, assuming I ever saw him again.

  Option one: I could do nothing and pretend I hadn’t seen anything, just let it go. This seemed like the best, most mature plan at present. It would eat me up inside, and maybe one day in the distant future, we’d be walking across a parking lot after a lovely date, and, without warning, I’d scream, “Why’d you lie to me!” Still, bottling it up seemed like the most adult way to behave.

  Option two: I could passive-aggressively text him to tell him I saw him on the TODAY show and leave it at that. That way I could look like an adult, and the ball would be in his court to give me some kind of explanation. It was an appealing option. But if I let it go so easily, he might read that as implicit permission to keep two-timing me. Not that we had an agreement, but still. He should’ve known it wasn’t cool, and if he didn’t know that, then we had bigger problems.

  Option three: I could hit it head-on and ask him. On paper, this was a responsible, brave, and grown-up way to approach the issue. And he’d invited me to ask him about anything I saw in the press. Surely there was some explanation. But if I nagged him about every interview, I’d come across as a harpy. If I wanted to drive him away, that would be a great way to do it.

  I picked up my phone and scrolled to Adam’s number on my contact list. I stared at it, wanting to call even if it was just an excuse to hear his voice. Instead, I tossed it on the table and buried my head under my pillow.

  The phone rang an hour later—Micah paying me back for disturbing his sleep the weekend before.

  “Hey, lil’ Sis! Guess where I’m going?”

  “Micah, what time is it?”

  “Oh, shit. Sorry. But guess where I’m going?”

  I sighed and sat up. “Disney World?”

  “Better! Adam called me last night and asked me over to his rehearsal. He’s formally invited my band to come on tour with him to Europe!”

  “Wow! Congratulations!” I meant it, even if I yawned while I said it.

  “You should’ve been there. Oh! And he invited me to ride with them in the tour bus for the next few days!”

  I could picture that. A bunch of rowdy guys partying in a rolling vehicle. “You’ll have a great time.”

  “You should take off work and go with us!”

  “No, you’re their guest. But I expect you to tell me all about it. Will you be at Mom’s on Sunday?”

  “Maybe.” I could tell he wasn’t even thinking about his answer. He was too excited about his good fortune. “What if he lets me get onstage and perform with them?”

  As I listened to him dream about the next adventure in his career, I wanted to feel nothing but pure happiness and pride for him. He’d worked long years and developed a talent and a fan base of his own. He deserved to be recognized and find a smidgen of the success Adam enjoyed. In any other circumstance, my feelings would’ve been unadulterated, and I hated myself a little for the twinge of jealousy that played along the edge of my joy.

  And what was I jealous of? It wasn’t like Adam would’ve invited me on the tour bus if he hadn’t invited Micah. And if Micah hadn’t introduced me to Adam, I wouldn’t even be in the situation to feel jealous. I owed him for that. And he didn’t even know it. I wasn’t sure how I was going to tell him. But not tonight.

  Maybe I was slightly jealous Micah’s gamble was paying off. His career would become ever more exciting as mine remained always the same. Safe, but boring.

  After Micah had told me his itinerary, he wound down. I took advantage of a lull in his gushing. “Promise me you’ll take pictures. And please, try to make it to Mom’s on Sunday. I seriously will want a full recap.”

  He let me go, and I sat in bed, dissatisfied with the prospect of the next three days, trying to imagine what those boys were up to. I picked up my phone and pulled up Google, hoping that, if there was a God in heaven and He loved me, I might discover Adam Copeland had posed for an underwear commercial.

  * * *

  One advantage to dating a rock star is that you’re never quite alone in your stalking. Thursday after work, I created an account on that site where Pumpkin39 held sway. My username was Alice2. Alice because I felt like I had fallen through a rabbit hole. And 2 because some other Alice had beaten me to the registration.

  I found an “Introduce Yourself” thread and posted, Hello. I’m Alice. I’m a new fan of the band. I’ve only recently discovered this forum. I’m hoping to find some concert video.

  The other members greeted me with friendly excitement. They seemed to enjoy bringing a new fan, or “walker,” up to date. They competed with each other, linking me to songs, music videos, and concert bootleg they all loved.

  I’d seen rock shows before, so I watched the live performances with a preconceived notion of what they’d entail. I expected to see a band of four or five guys on a stage with some smoke and lights for atmosphere. And that’s exactly what I encountered. However, I wasn’t prepared for how sexy Adam would be when he performed. He held his microphone so intimately, it bordered on obscene, and I grew a bit jealous of an inanimate object. Those leather pants might’ve made me swoon had I not seen them hanging in his parents’ bedroom closet.

  If he’d ever sucked at performing, as he claimed, that must’ve been a very long time ago. He had rock god pretty much nailed.

  Some simpering fan girls pointed me to their treasure trove of collected photos and, oh, my, they did not disappoint. I admit I saved a few to my computer. No underwear ads, but the fans had captured images from a music video in which he appeared briefly without a shirt. When I hit Save As . . . I noticed the file was called “My Imaginary Boyfriend.jpg.” I laughed but slowly backed out of that thread and went looking for the music discussions.

  In the topics about Adam’s discography, not every fan welcomed me with enthusiasm. Some fans had been following the band for several years and seemed perplexed by the rise in their success. They were happy to have their own fandom vindicated, but the influx of new fans both thrilled them and pissed them off. They argued over whether or not the latest hit song was too commercial. Had the band sold out?

  A user called Janeway invited me to a chat room. I wanted to see just how far this rabbit hole went, so I took the red pill and followed her link.

  Once I entered the chat, another user, Copelandia, asked if I knew about the “cellcerts.” He—or she—explained that someone at a show would hold a phone up to capture the performances while others conferenced in to the call and listened to a free show from the comfort of their own living room. A few people involved promised it would sound more like aliens having sex wi
th broken violins than recognizable music. I had nothing better to do, so I poured myself a beer and dialed in.

  As I listened to the Atlanta show, or more accurately, as I listened to the distortion of the Atlanta show with a dozen other fans, I would’ve loved to know what Micah was up to. I hoped he was living the dream and wished I could be there to watch for him onstage. I asked the chat room what the odds were some video would turn up online from this show.

  Stick around, Alice2, posted Pumpkin39, who’d graced the chat room with her illustrious presence. We WD fans supply the crack.

  When the concert ended, I temporarily forgot I was mad at Adam because of his interview and texted him. Guess what? I listened to your show over someone’s cell phone! Is that too weird?

  He texted back. It’s better if you’re in the same room with the band.

  This was followed directly with, Or alone with the lead singer.

  The entire experience left me with a sense of vertigo. One minute gushing with fans over this unreachable celebrity. The next flirting with him via text. I fell asleep with a Cheshire grin, but I felt about as sane as the Mad Hatter.

  Friday morning, as I got ready for work, I thought back on my foray into the fan forum. It was fun, but I wouldn’t make that a habit. It confused me way too much, like trying to make sense of a fun-house mirror.

  There were two distinct Adams in my life: the one the world saw and the one I knew. It was taking some time to reconcile them, but if I concentrated, I could make my mind go back to our first night together, before I knew who he was. That Adam would’ve been enough for me.

  I chided myself that after all this time I would’ve been happier with a poor, struggling musician than with this insanity. It would mean he was mine, here, now—instead of theirs, out there, away from me.

  My daily work routine had become exceedingly boring over the past week. I kept trying to steal time to check my phone for texts or to go online and watch videos. I wished I could hang out with Adam all day instead of staring at a timer, waiting for the centrifuge to finish.