Like a Love Song

by Gabriela Martins

  I refuse to cry in public again.

  Sitting down in a café, I focus on people-watching, which is the only thing that makes me feel a little less unmoored, a little less like my mind’s going around and around without reaching a destination.

  I lower my head, taking a sip of my cappuccino, and unlock my phone. I made him my lock screen. Shouldn’t that mean something?

  I open the Notes app and start drafting something. Not quite a song, I don’t think. But maybe the seeds of one. I pour out my frustration and my loneliness, and the feeling that I have to constantly prove myself to belong. Prove that I deserve to be here, deserve to be heard. I pour out my feelings for William, and falling for his kindness and gentleness, and being on alert mode for signs of Trent in him, even though that never came.

  It’s the last few months in lyric format.

  When I’m done with the brainstorm of too many words and no melody, I read through it. The person I want to send it to is William. But I can’t call and I can’t text, so I open Instagram instead.

  His account…is no longer active.

  This has to be a mistake.

  I open Twitter. No longer active.

  “No, no, no,” I whisper.

  A woman in a business suit is sitting at the next table. She adjusts her laptop and glares at me. I glare back. C’mon, lady. I’m not even being loud. Just let me sit in despair by myself. Or…maybe I don’t have to?

  I call Mom. She answers on the first ring.

  “Filha? Everything okay?”

  I breathe out as long and loud as I can. Not to upset the lady who’s already upset. Because I have to. “So far from okay. I…I don’t know what to do, Mom. William left. He’s going back to London. And I can’t make him stay. And Trent came here and kissed me, which, gross. But that’s what triggered it for William, I think. He’s not upset with me, he’s…I think he’s upset with everything around us. And I don’t know how to make that stop, Mom. I don’t know how to make him know that it’s okay and there’s no my world and his world. I don’t know what to do.”

  She doesn’t ask when William started to matter so much. She doesn’t ask about Trent. She doesn’t ask anything.

  She listens, and then sighs.

  When she speaks, her voice is quiet and loving and feels like a hug, even if it stings. “If he wants to go, there’s nothing you can do, filha. You have to let him go.”

  With my free hand, I grip my cappuccino.

  “But—”

  I don’t have any real arguments. I know she’s right.

  She’s Mom.

  Brazilian moms are always right.

  I look down at my drink, my other hand pressing the phone so hard against my ear that it hurts. I try to breathe out this frustration, this…

  “Natalia,” Mom starts, then pauses for a second. “You can come home, too.”

  There’s this knot in my throat. It’s always there. I’ve learned to ignore it over the years, but at times like this, it becomes impossible. I shift in my seat, looking down, suddenly feeling like there’s an anvil on my chest.

  “I know you don’t miss him…,” I start, then clear my throat so my voice doesn’t sound as strangled. “I’m sorry, you don’t know what I’m talking about—I mean my father. I know you don’t miss him. I don’t miss him, either. I mean, what would I miss?” I snort. She’s quiet on the other end. “But I miss the idea of a dad, I guess? Do you ever get angry at him for leaving?”

  Mom sighs softly. “Sometimes. Mostly because of you.” I can hear the loving smile in her voice. “He didn’t deserve you—”

  “I do get angry.” I cut her off, and she lets me get away with it for once. “I don’t want you to think that it’s…a thing. It’s not. I don’t think about him. But every now and then, I remember I know what it’s like to be abandoned, and I really hate Dad for showing me what that’s like.”

  “Meu amor,” she says. I hear moving, and then she says, “It’s his loss. I am so proud of the woman you’re becoming. I am so happy that I got to live through all your birthdays and Christmas Eves, every time you had a sore throat or a cold, and when you learned to speak and read and sing.”

  I chuckle lowly, feeling the need to lighten the mood. “It’s funny that you didn’t mention my world tours or awards.”

  “Is it really? You know me better than that.”

  “I do,” I admit. “And I’m proud of you, too, Mom. I love you so much. Te amo.”

  We’re quiet for another moment. I don’t know what’s on her mind, but I know I’m letting it all sink in. Because it is my father’s loss. And I meant it when I said I don’t think about him much at all.

  My father is a dick. I don’t think I’d want him in my life either way.

  William isn’t. And I very much do want him in my life.

  “I’m at the airport,” I say, starting over. “I was waiting for William, but he isn’t coming. He deleted all his social media.”

  Mom doesn’t have social media, so I hardly expect her to understand what it means to go MIA like this. For me, I’d be making a pretty big statement by saying nothing. It would mean disappearing.

  But she knows me well enough to predict what’s going on in my mind.

  “He’s not you,” she tells me. “Maybe he needs a break from living under a microscope.”

  I bite the insides of my mouth. I stare down at the table as if it were the most amazing piece of art I’ve ever seen.

  “That’s worse. Because then it means he’ll never want to be with me.”

  Mom doesn’t immediately respond. “William’s an artist, too, isn’t he? I didn’t say he’d never want to join you again under the microscope.”

  I force myself to relax. It doesn’t work very well—my shoulders are still stiff—but at least it doesn’t feel like I can only speak through a clenched jaw anymore.

  “But not like me,” I say. “Everyone’s always speculating about what I’m doing. Everyone’s always posting pictures. Everyone’s always watching me. Wherever I go, I just…” I trail off, looking to the side. As if on cue, two girls holding hands take the table where the woman was sitting before. They’re both gawking at me. “What if he tried the spotlight long enough for fake that he realized he doesn’t want it for real?”

  “Oh, baby,” she states matter-of-factly, as if that’s it. That’s the answer. But the real answer takes another moment. She says it lovingly, which makes it sting all the more. “Then you’ll really have to let him go.”

  I can feel all the breath leaving my lungs in one big whoosh, like a balloon deflating.

  “Maybe he needs a moment to figure out where he stands, and figure out his own feelings. Weren’t you under contract until a hot minute ago?” she asks.

  “We still are, technically.” The idea of making him come back rises and then dies in its absurdity a second later. I groan and try to see a way out, but I don’t know what else to say, either.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to fight for him. Fight for us to go from fake to real. I was supposed to rush to the airport and announce that he was wrong and I was right. That we…that we belong together. Win him back.

  Weird socks and all.

  Instead he’s on a train, and I’m in this café, saying goodbye to Mom and thanking her for listening, because there’s still a part of me who wants to believe all her advice means nothing. That I won’t have to let him go.

  I finish my cappuccino. I ask for another. I hold the cup with both hands to warm my palms and wonder if there’s any use going over my feeds, reading the conspiracy theories about why William deleted his social media. But there’d probably be too much of Trent in those, and if I never see his face again, it’ll be too soon.

  I run my hands over my hair, and it’s a strange reminder that it’s curly, n
ot straight. I had forgotten. I’m not wearing any makeup, either. Has someone taken a picture? Has someone already uploaded it and called my natural hair a natural disaster? That I’ve lost both boys the internet shipped me with, and thus I’m sporting a new, hopeless look?

  The thought makes me snort. I let my eyes roam, and they find the girls who walked in during my phone call. They’re still watching me, but this time, when I glance their way, they look at each other, alarmed, as if they’d been caught doing something terrible.

  They’re younger than me. Probably fourteen? I remember that acne stage way too well. I was already performing, which means I had to get very comfortable with lots of concealer.

  I glance their way again.

  One of them is brown, with round eyes and braids. The other is white, with thin blond hair and a T-shirt that says girls like girls. They don’t have any luggage with them.

  They notice my gaze, and after a whispered conversation, they reluctantly come my way. They stand before me, holding hands, like a barrier of excited fan love.

  What a ridiculous thought. Why would they feel this powerful finding me in shreds in an airport? They don’t even have their phones in hand.

  Not here for a selfie, then.

  “I’m Carla, and this is Betina,” the girl with braids says. “And you’re Natalie.”

  Her accent is thickly Brazilian. The way she says my name, Americanized, I hate it.

  It makes me want to cry.

  “I…am?” I offer, trying to smile.

  Betina says, “We are your biggest fans! We can’t wait for you to perform in Brazil!” She chuckles, looking at Carla, and their shoulders go up in a shrug at the same time, in a cute and ridiculously synced moment. “We live in Ceará, but we’d totally travel to São Paulo or Rio for you. You know, if you come.”

  The other girl, Carla, talks to her in Portuguese, “Cuida o que você fala! Vai parecer que tá exigindo. Ela pode ficar chateada.”

  I get enough of that to know that (a) Carla is worried Betina will come off as demanding, and I’ll be upset about that, and (b) neither of them has any idea that I have any clue about Portuguese.

  I shrink in my seat.

  “Thanks for following me, girls. Your support means a lot to me.” I smile.

  It’s a genuine smile. A sad one, but genuine. I feel like I owe them this much.

  They stand before me for a moment longer, as if they’re practicing what to say in their heads. Then Carla says, “We don’t want to bother you. We really don’t. And we know that you, as an international artist, would never do a tour around Brazil or anything; we wouldn’t expect someone as awesome and popular as you to spend more than a few days, but we really would go to the biggest cities for you. It would mean so much for us to see you sing.”

  She’s tearing up.

  Oh God.

  I’ve made a girl cry.

  My eyes widen and I start to stand up, then sit back down. She picks up on my panic, because she wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. “It’s okay! I’m just emotional.”

  I press my lips together.

  I feel ashamed that I didn’t want to return home for the holidays. I feel ashamed that I haven’t returned in years. My stomach sinks.

  “I sang your song ‘From the Beginning, It Was You’ to her when I asked her to be my girlfriend.” Betina grins from ear to ear. I bring my hands to my chest, truly touched by that. I wrote “From The Beginning, It Was You” in the beginning of my career. I wanted to fall in love. I wanted connection. Most of all, I wanted to be singing this to someone who’d make me feel larger than life. Someone who’d make me feel invincible. But the chance never came.

  “Basically, we love you!” Betina continues. “And it means so much to us to have you out there, kicking ass, getting all the awards….”

  Carla sniffs. “They don’t see a lot of value in us. Europeans. Americans.” She shrugs, a shadow passing her face. “We’re more fortunate than most; we get to travel sometimes with Betina’s mom, because she’s a flight attendant. And then be treated poorly in many, many languages…”

  I notice Betina squeeze her hand.

  There’s a knot in my throat.

  “But you are changing the game,” Betina says. “My sister talks all the time about how she’d never thought she’d see a Brazilian praised worldwide. Here you are, living your truth, and making sure everyone knows how great you are.”

  My eyes blur.

  The thing that’s beaming from them? That’s pride. They’re proud of me.

  I study these two girls. Their brightness. Their strength.

  “Thank you,” I tell them. “You are really great, and I’m so proud of you for living your truth…it’s inspiring. You have inspired me. That’s what I wanted to say.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, I…I’ll do a Brazilian tour. I have to talk to my agent about the details, but—but I’ll do it. I really, really want to.”

  Their expressions change. They look at each other as if they’ve been given a precious gift. It makes me want to cry all over again, watching them like this.

  I mean it, about the tour. I will make it happen.

  “That would mean so much,” Betina says, choked up.

  I’m choked up, too. I only nod in appreciation.

  They say goodbye, smiling from ear to ear. They leave the café without having ordered anything.

  I swallow the knot in my throat.

  I leave some extra euros of tip on top of the table and grab my bag. I can’t be late; I have a flight to catch, and I still have to buy the ticket. On my way there, I type a message to William.

  NATALIE:

  i guess sometimes it takes time. when you’re ready, i’m here.

  I stare at the message for a long moment. Something in my chest tightens, and I go to the phone settings. Once I’m there, I change the last letter in my name, from Natalie to Natalia.

  From something I’m not to something I’ve always been.

  “I think both of you know why I’m standing here in front of you,” I tell Bobbi and Ashley with an ear-to-ear grin.

  We’re not in Bobbi’s office. We’re in her conference room, in front of the PowerPoint screen. The room is so much bigger and brighter—almost a surgery room. Which is fitting enough. We’re about to perform a serious operation.

  Ashley studies me with her best poker face. Bobbi, though, I can tell that she’s puzzled.

  “I was hoping you’d start by explaining that, after all, it’s been quiet on your end,” Bobbi starts, then turns to Ashley. “Where’s Ainsley?”

  “London, apparently,” Ashley replies, frowning slightly. “But I will contact his manager. We can stage a PR outing that will be—”

  I interrupt them both, clearing my throat loudly. “I—that won’t be necessary. Um.” Take a deep breath in, a long breath out. I got this. “Well, first, I’d like to politely decline the invitation to buy a pre-written album.” I scan the room for reactions, but their faces stay the same. “And…I made a PowerPoint presentation in case you weren’t following social media.” I turn on the projector and off the lights.

  While I’m busy doing that, Ashley announces, “It’s borderline offensive that you accuse a PR specialist of not following social media. Of course I’ve been following social media. Closely. For all of my clients. And I follow you closely enough to know that you haven’t been posting anything for two weeks, since the Faro festival with DJ Lotus and William Ainsley. Nada. It’s like you—”

  She stops herself, but I know what she wants to say: It’s like you want to be forgotten.

  I clear my throat and point at the dark screen in front of us.

  “Are you ready for my presentation?”

  Each of them stares. Ashley with that unblinking expression of hers, Bobbi with a rather concerned look.r />
  I put on my brightest smile and click next on the projector controller. An all-black screen with the text the death of natalie appears. I don’t focus on their reactions, but instead start talking. “I want to rebrand.” I pace the room with the controller in hand. “You may have noticed that my hair isn’t straightened. These curls? Natural. The makeup I’m wearing? Minimal—”

  Bobbi cuts me off. “Do you really want to send the message to your fans that girls can’t wear makeup? Femininity can be empowering.”

  Ashley cocks an eyebrow. “Makeup isn’t exclusively feminine. And femininity is just one way of empowerment, not by any means the only.”

  I clear my throat, impressed by Ashley. “I’m not going to tell anyone not to wear makeup. Anyone who wants to do it should do it. I’m doing it. But I don’t want to go through so much to look perfect. If I have a zit, I’m going to show up with a zit.”

  Bobbi tsks. “Surely not if you’re performing?”

  I open and close my mouth. Then I nod. “I guess, if I’m performing, I need enough makeup so the lights won’t make me look dead.” Bobbi nods back at me, still a little concerned.

  “This is me as a kid.” I press next, and pictures of me after I came to the United States pop up on the screen. In one picture, I’m on the couch, sticking out my tongue, with a Brazilian flag wrapped around me like a blanket.

  “I realized I lost someone very, very dear to me.” I turn to the screen again. “I lost her. But with your help, I can get her back.”

  “What do you think?” Bobbi asks Ashley. “Could you revamp her image to something closer to this more natural Natalie? Maybe next year?”

  Ashley’s about to respond when I step into the conversation, shaking my head, a little knot in my throat. “No, no, no. First, this has to be now. I’m ready. And second…it’s not Natalie anymore. It’s Nati.”

  “Nati?” Ashley repeats, with a strong T.

  I shake my head again. “Nah-tchy.”

  She narrows her eyes. “People are going to have trouble pronouncing it. They’ll miswrite it. They’ll hear you on the radio, then want to stream your albums and not find you because they can’t get your name right.”