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“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not bailing. And I don’t like public appearances, but I’m not that bad.”
My brother gave me a skeptical look.
“What?” I asked.
“Finn, you never leave this house. You don’t answer the phone. Since Dad died, the only being you see every day is Gary. You don’t even have friends.”
“I have friends,” I protested.
“Name one.”
“Travis.” Travis White was a fellow musician who had risen to fame at the same time as me. The difference was that Travis and his band, Seven Dog Down, had become one of the world’s biggest musical successes, topping the charts and selling out tours. Travis and I had kept in touch, even as I sank and he took off.
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Travis lives in L.A. Also, he’s a dumpster fire.”
“Dumpster fires are people, too.” Travis had stayed with me for a month last year after Seven Dog Down broke up in spectacular fashion. He’d claimed that the isolation and country air were exactly what he needed; then, in Travis style, he’d gotten bored and driven off in his vintage Camaro, pedal to the metal.
“Not counting Travis, then. Do you know what I saw when I googled you this morning?”
I shook my head. “You know you shouldn’t do that.”
“I can’t help it if my brother is famous. I want to know what people are saying.” Before I could protest, he waved me silent and kept talking. “Someone asked about you on a ‘Where are they now’ subreddit. One reply said you were in Montana, another said you joined a religious cult. The final reply said, ‘I thought Finn Wiley was dead.’”
I scowled. “That’s just rude.”
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing for you to be seen,” he argued. “You know—alive.”
After the night I met Juliet Barstow, my life had continued its nosedive. The tour had flopped. There were no more setups with model girlfriends. I was exhausted. I started having relentless headaches and stomach problems. The money began to shrink with alarming speed. I could see my future withering away before my eyes. I could feel the cracks in myself, almost like they were physical things. I could imagine my limbs detaching, my chest creaking open like an old vault. I was coming apart, disintegrating.
So I had done something everyone said was crazy: I had quit.
I had sold the big house, fired everyone, shut it all down. There were no more PR people or managers or stylists. I had cut ties with my record company, who wanted nothing more to do with me anyway. I didn’t go to the Grammys anymore, I didn’t write music, and I didn’t get photographed. I simply…stopped.
It took a long time to shut down a career like mine, even one that was failing. One day I had been in New York, going from meeting to meeting about finances and contracts. When I got back to my hotel, I had found Alistair sitting in the lobby, sprawled easily in a chair, a backpack at his feet as he waited for me.
I had stopped in front of him, surprised. “What are you doing here?” I asked him.
My brother, who I barely knew anymore, had looked up at me and shrugged. “I figured I would come and keep you company. Is there a sofa in your room?”
I had put my hands in my pockets. The headache that had kept its grip on my skull all day loosened a little. “No, but there are two beds.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t want to sleep with you,” he said. “Let’s go get drunk.” He picked up his bag and stood.
“Aren’t you mad about the house?” I asked. When I sold the big house, he had had to move out. He hadn’t argued about it, but I figured it must have made him angry to be homeless.
Alistair pressed his lips together briefly. “I miss the pool,” he confessed. “It was a fucking nice pool. But that house was too big. And I needed a kick in the ass.”
So he’d stayed in my hotel room, and we had indeed gone out in New York and gotten drunk. It wasn’t all bad, not being famous anymore. It gave me my brother back, and we’d been close ever since.
“You’re not completely forgotten, dumbass,” Alistair said to me now as he opened my fridge and stared into it, scoping out my food. “I get asked about you all the time. Everyone I meet wants to know about you, especially the women.”
“Do not set me up,” I nearly barked.
“I know, I know,” Alistair said. “I wouldn’t be tempted if you would start dating.”
“I don’t want to date.”
“You can’t live like a monk forever. Your virginity has practically regenerated at this point.”
