Like a Love Song

by Gabriela Martins

  I cross my arms over my chest, raising an eyebrow.

  “If I’ve learned to pronounce Gwyneth and Sean, and spell Kathryn, Katherine, Catherine, and so on in a thousand different ways, you can learn my name.”

  They look at each other. Perhaps my point wasn’t really made without a visual of the three spelling variations. I shake my head, going back to the presentation and pressing to the next slide. The screen turns white, with a list of six titles.

  After two weeks of intense scrutinizing of my Notes app for lyrics and working on new ones, I’m finally ready. It’s the most I’ve worked in such a short period of time, but I’m proud of the preliminary results. I’m proud of every moment of confession that’s turned into flowing lyrics. I’m excited to hit the studio and give it all the love these new songs deserve.

  “I’ve written them over the past couple weeks. I’m ready to start recording.”

  “Whoa!” Bobbi smiles, then applauds. “This is going to be a great way to start the new year. I’m so proud of you for managing to write so much in such a short time.”

  I run my hand over my curls, taking the deepest breath I’ve taken in the past few weeks. “This has to be now. I even wrote a Christmas song!” I point at track 3: “Natal at Home,” the song I wrote about my family, my insecurities and fears, and as a way of celebrating them, too. “Listen, I know it’s short notice. I know it’s only two weeks until Christmas. And everyone is booked for Christmas events months in advance,” I add, before Bobbi can. She hums in acknowledgment. “But I need you to give me something. Pull your strings, Ashley, I know you have many. You’ve come through for me when everyone was making memes of me, making fun of my breakup with Trent. I need you to come through for me one more time.”

  She stays silent. I’m seconds away from begging.

  “Why now?” Bobbi asks, sounding genuinely curious.

  “Because now I’m ready,” I tell her.

  “This won’t do,” Ashley announces, shaking her head.

  My heart sinks.

  But I made a presentation!

  I need her. I can’t do this alone. Even if Bobbi tries to call every single network and person hosting an event, she won’t have as much reach as she would with Ashley by her side.

  Please.

  She breathes out, sitting back. “ ‘The Death of Natalie’ is a terrible name. What was that even supposed to be? Your new album?” she asks.

  I turn back to the presentation and nod.

  “No, that won’t do. If we’re relaunching your image and making everyone learn to call you by your Brazilian nickname, we’re going to need a much stronger album title. A much stronger concept.”

  I can feel my pulse quickening, this time in anticipation.

  “Does this mean you’re in?”

  Ashley nods. “Yes. Yes, Nati, I am.”

  And she says it right.

  I’ve always loved the elevator to our apartment, because the all-around mirrors make it look like I’m part of a sci-fi movie, ready to save the world. I marvel at my half-curly, half-wavy hair, at how my face looks with a bit of mascara and a soft pink lipstick. I pull my dark hair to the side, exposing my ears and a pearl earring. I like what I see. Lately, I’ve been liking a lot of what I see when I step into this elevator.

  My phone vibrates, and I take it out of my purse. It’s from the girls group chat. They’re sending selfies. I stick out my tongue and send one back.

  I do what I always do when I grab my phone: I go to William’s profiles and accounts. Still nonexistent. Something twists inside of me, but I push it aside.

  As I go back to my feed, sure enough, there are fans speculating about Trentalie being back. It doesn’t make me feel bad anymore. I mostly pity Trent and feel like I wasted eight months of my life doing a lot of mental gymnastics to convince myself he was something he wasn’t.

  But if it hadn’t been for our very public and humiliating breakup, I wouldn’t have been desperate to fix my image. And I wouldn’t have had a soft British boy on my arm.

  I shake that thought away, too.

  “Not the time, not the time,” I say out loud, like a mantra.

  But I keep scrolling through my feed, and eventually the hashtag I was really searching for appears: #WhereIsNati? I grin at that and click it. In it, fans and haters alike speculate on everything from my possible death and the existence of doppelgängers to a theory closer to the truth: that I’m going to drop a new album without any previous promo. My rebranding involved deleting all pictures from Instagram, all tweets from Twitter. My only hint is my profile picture, a purple background with the word nati on it.

  Bobbi believes the new album is going to do fine, that the lack of promo will be offset by the buildup from disappearing for a few weeks. I’ve already got the fanbase I need to make my album a chart-topping success. Beyoncé does it all the time.

  Anyway, I’m not that focused on the sales. The fact that the fans have shifted from Natalie to Nati as soon as I changed my social media handles and names is enough for now.

  The doors slide open, and I start toward my apartment.

  My key’s halfway in the door when Mom opens it. “I thought I heard something!” She pulls me into a hug, so tight and sudden, that I’m perplexed, still holding the keys in one hand, my purse in the other.

  My face squished against the crook of her neck, I say, “Good afternoon to you, too?”

  Still holding me, she allows me some breathing room. She’s smiling wide, beaming with pride, and I think I know what this is about. I smile, too.

  “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” she teases.

  I shrug. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Eu dei a luz pra você, filha! Você não tem o direito de me esconder nada não.” Her tone is still teasing. I know filha is “daughter.” I know some of the verbs she used, but—“I said you have no right to hide anything from me, because I birthed you.”

  I make a face. “Okay?”

  Mom motions me inside. “Bobbi called to say that they’d be ready for you if you wanted to start rehearsal today. I said that you’ve already been rehearsing day and night, and she told me that it’s important you’re at the top of your game in order to headline the Netflix Christmas special!”

  She makes a face like she’s going to burst.

  “Yes!” I say, grinning. “Their headliner dropped out, and Bobbi managed to persuade them to make me the top performer!”

  She takes me in her arms for a big bear hug again. I hug her back this time.

  Mom pulls away, kisses both my cheeks, and holds my face. “I’m so proud of you, filha. This is so great. I can hardly believe it. I’ve already called Vovó, by the way. All the family is going to be watching you from Brazil as well.”

  “No pressure,” I add, still smiling.

  She tells me she’ll bake some pão de queijo to celebrate, and I go to my room for a bit. I grab my guitar, scribble a few lyrics to look at later, but my mind keeps racing. I love this new era—just like I liked my old music, starstruck and innocent, and my most recent music, more independent and sure of myself. But this is different. More vulnerable, more open, ready to expose myself for the sake of a good song. I smile to myself and write down that thought as well. Not in lyric format yet, but I’m getting inundated by a flow of words lately.

  I set the guitar and notebook aside on my bed, and take my phone. Then I scroll down for Vovó’s number and call her. She picks up on the second ring. “Vovó? Oi, é a Nati. I wanted to know if…the invitation—convite! O convite pra passar o Natal com vocês. Is that still up? I mean, can I still come over for Christmas?”

  * * *

  Both Padma and Brenda are already at the café when I get there. I stand by the door for a second, taking them in. They look beautiful like this: Padma�
��s arm draped over Brenda’s shoulders, studying the menu as if she’s about to make a life-changing decision.

  If people knew the way they are with each other, they wouldn’t waste their time getting invested in my relationships. They’d look at them instead.

  Which makes me think…I miss William.

  Not the status that would come with being his girlfriend. I miss his loud laughter and his mood-ring green eyes. I miss his sideway grin and weird socks.

  I close the door behind me and make my way to the girls. When I drop my purse on the other side of the booth, Brenda jumps to greet me with a smile and a hug, and Padma reaches out her arms from where she’s sitting.

  “Too cold outside?” Padma asks, dropping her arms.

  “LA cold.” I shrug. Still, I take off my jacket. “Have you guys ordered anything?”

  “Waiting for you,” Brenda says. “But hot chocolate for all, right?”

  “Right!” Padma and I say in unison, then laugh.

  Brenda gets up. “I’ll get it, then. My treat.”

  She winks on her way out, and I turn to her girlfriend. “What’s up with her?”

  Padma tilts her head at Brenda’s abandoned phone on the table. “Guess who got accepted to Berkeley.”

  My jaw drops. I swallow down a scream of excitement, and when Brenda comes back, I play-slap her on the arm. “You’re going to college! Oh my God! You’re in!”

  She laughs and nods, almost shy.

  I’ve never seen Brenda look so timid before in my life.

  “Congratulations, damn!” I slap the table, too, because I’m excited and full of feelings and I don’t know how to speak without hurting people or things, apparently. “I mean, obviously I knew you’d get accepted anywhere you wanted—”

  “Not true, I’m a very average student,” Brenda interrupts, but I choose to ignore her.

  “But still, getting that confirmation, gah!” I gesture like I’m going to grab her, then sit back on my side of the booth. “I’m really happy for you, B. You deserve this.”

  Padma slides her arm over Brenda’s shoulders again, a proud smirk on her face.

  “Yeah. She does.”

  I rest my chin on my hands, looking at them with a smile of my own.

  “I just found out,” Brenda takes her phone. “I was reading through some majors and stuff. I still don’t know exactly what I’m going to major in, but that’s—that’s a thought for later, right?” she asks, scrolling down her phone attentively. “Here.” She turns the phone to my face.

  I can’t really read the email because her hand is bouncing around, but the word accepted is in bold. I take her hand in mine. I don’t know how to say it. We usually don’t. She knows I’m there for her. I know she’s there for me.

  But this feels like one of those moments where you have to say something.

  Brenda smiles back at me. “I know, Nati.”

  “I know you know. You’re going to listen to it anyway, okay?” She’s beaming. “I love you, Brenda.” I grab Padma’s hand even though she playfully tries to yank it away. “And I love you, too, Padma.”

  “We love you back,” Padma replies, without an ounce of irony.

  If the waiter hadn’t come with our hot chocolates, I would have cried. Maybe.

  But as he sets the drinks in front of each of us, we’re still beaming. I take a sip of my hot chocolate to hide behind the large mug.

  Padma says, “So I’ve seen Trent on my timeline, interacting with your fans.”

  I roll my eyes, putting the mug down. “Yeah, I saw that, too. He’s making it sound like he knows what’s going on, and is trying to get Trentalie fans to believe that we’re back together. It’s beyond pathetic. He’s going to keep milking that cow until she runs dry. Still using me for fame even months after we’ve broken up.”

  “Are you the cow?” Brenda asks.

  I flip her off with a smile.

  Padma clears her throat awkwardly. I frown at her. “What?”

  “How’s that going, anyway?” she asks.

  “How’s what going?” But I know what she means.

  Brenda takes a deep breath. “What’s up with you and William?” Then she brings the drink to her lips, as if she’s hiding behind it.

  My eyes go down to my mug. I watch the warmth rise in a thin cloud. I press my palms against the glass.

  “Nothing’s up,” I answer.

  Padma snorts. “C’mon, Nati.”

  I shrug. “His social media is still dead. I guess there’s nothing left to do. He chose not to be with someone like me and my fifty million followers.”

  “Show-off.” Padma chuckles.

  “I’m saying that it’s overwhelming and smothering to have so many people flooding his social media saying that they either hate or love him with me, or talking about how much money he has, or I have,” I say. “He never wanted that level of fame. He wants to do good movies he believes in. He wants…he wants to be an actor, but not to be super-famous. And you know what? I’m grateful for my fans, I really am. But it’s not only them. It’s the media. It’s the tabloids. That’s all…They’re all valid reasons why he doesn’t want me.”

  Padma’s smile falters. She tries speaking, then stops. On the second try, she says, “You’re an amazing girl. If he doesn’t want you for any reason at all, that’s his loss. Plus it’s not like you can do anything about it. You live in an aquarium. People watch you. It’s part of the package.”

  “It’s a lot to ask someone, to want in on the aquarium,” I say, more to myself than her.

  Padma doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

  Brenda asks, “But he hasn’t answered any of your texts? Total radio silence?”

  “No, that’d be rude, wouldn’t it?” Not that it really matters, because although our contract hasn’t officially ended yet, we’ve pretty much agreed to end it. William owes me nothing, not even kindness. “He…he’s not rude. He’s answered, yeah. Said he was with his family, that they were all right. Even sent me a picture of his nephew playing. And on Hanukkah he sent me pictures of his sisters.”

  “Oh?” Brenda asks. “That…that may mean he still has feelings for you.”

  “He does,” I answer, without skipping a beat. Then I add, “I…think. I hope. But whenever I write about him coming back, he stops replying. He’s not ready for this. And I can’t blame him.” I shrug again.

  There’s a moment of silence. Not awkward, but punctuating the end of this talk. Maybe punctuating the end of all William-related talk? I know I don’t want to talk about him. There’s no point. It only hurts more.

  “But I do have other news,” I tell them. Brenda points at the spot over her upper lip, and I look down, sticking out my lip until I can see a bit of chocolate. I lick it, and Padma lets out a disgusted noise. “Anyway, as I was saying, news!”

  “Do tell,” Brenda encourages.

  “So, the Netflix special is in four days, but after that…” I trail off, trying to build on the suspense, and the two stare at me blankly. “I’m going to Brazil! I’m spending Christmas with my family. For the first time in years.”

  “Wow!” Brenda gasps, then covers her mouth.

  Padma chuckles, nodding. “Nice, nice. Are you nervous?”

  “Terrified,” I admit. “But I have a good feeling about this, too.”

  After six hours of intense recording, my producer looks like she might pass out. I, on the other hand, am ready to go all night. Which isn’t mutually exclusive, since I assume I look just as rough.

  Aline says, “Let’s try it with a B minor,” and her fingers slide across the keyboard as I hum the melody. We stare at each other. “No, that isn’t it yet, is it?”

  I fall on the couch of the small studio, putting my hands on my head. “I think we need a break.”

  Aline i
s wearing pink sneakers, Adidas sweatpants, and a T-shirt that says everything is bigger in texas. A lot less glamorous than her outfit at the premiere afterparty. Her hair is up in a bun as messy as mine, and she seems just as sleep-deprived. But it’s the last song of the EP, and we both want it to be perfect.

  She takes her glasses she’d forgotten on top of the keyboard and puts them back on. “All right. Let’s go have some coffee in the reception. My treat,” she jokes, and gives me a hand to help me up. We both know the coffee and snacks are free.

  I offer her an apologetic smile. “You go ahead. I’m going to try to figure this out for a bit.”

  Aline rolls her eyes. “You said we need a break. Not that I need a break.”

  I try to come up with an excuse, but she holds up a hand to stop me with a hint of a smile.

  “You know what? I was going to fake-pay for your coffee, but now I’m not in the mood anymore,” she jokes. “When you decide to glow up, I’ll be in the reception.”

  She waves goodbye and I’m left in the studio alone.

  Fake-pay. Ha. Fake is a funny word.

  …not ha-ha funny, exactly.

  But no, I’m not going there. Right now, my focus is on my new album and this Netflix special, because after that, I’m announcing my South American tour and I need to be on top of my game.

  And before that, before any of that, there’s Christmas…which I will spend at home in Brazil, like the song says. At least that song’s fully produced for the show in a few days.

  Pulling my legs up, I straighten my purple-plaid T-shirt and baggy jeans, reading through what we’ve written so far. I make a face and grab the guitar, trying different combinations of the chords as I hum slowly. Have I found something? I try to sing along, but the lyrics don’t match.

  Head down, I’m focused on my work, but I hear the door open. Aline’s already back, probably to bother me about taking a break. I’m still trying to make these strings sound the way it sounds in my head, so I don’t look up.