Page 23 of The Comedown

They know who I am but didn’t want my autograph or a photo with me. I should be grateful, seriously, but the sting of rejection still lands and makes my lips flatten.

“We’re performing together tonight.”

The awe in Julian’s voice has me whipping around to see if his facial expression matches, and oddly, it does.

“No shit? Will you play that hot song you two made?”

I answer, “No,” the same time Julian says, “Yes,” confusing me further. Call me jaded, but the “has-been” talk really had me convinced this was a pairing he wasn’t fully on board with. It’d make sense for us to perform together, but when I didn’t see our song on tonight’s set list, I assumed it was his way of giving his label the middle finger for trying to put us together in the first place.

I offer to take some pictures for the guys and they each hand me their phones. Julian does his usual pose throughout every one, never once breaking character, and when I look down at the final image, I notice his expression onscreen looks just as forced as it does in real life.

The group leaves us alone and Julian comes over to my side of the table, putting his back to me.

“Can I touch you yet?” he asks over his shoulder, and I wrap my arms around his neck, telling him, “No,” before letting him carry me back to the McLaren. He gives his head a subtle shake, but I can tell he’s smiling by the way his cheek expands.

“Our song isn’t on the set list for tonight.”

“When did you see it last?”

“This morning.” I went over it while my nails were drying.

“Check again, Poohbear.”

“What’s with the nickname?”

When we make it to the driver’s side, Julian bends back, helping me down, then he turns around to face me, leaning in like he’s going to tell me a secret.

“Back up.”

“Why? I ain’t—”

“Because it looks bad.” We had a few minutes of privacy, but now every phone here is pointed our way. A piggyback ride is bad enough. Him looking like he’s about to kiss me, even if he isn’t, is even harder to explain away.

Straightening, he pops a shoulder, saying, “Poohbear suits you,” and I frown.

“It does not,” I say, pushing him away from me, making him clutch his chest with laughter.

“Yeah. It does, Poohbear.”

Collette

Thanks to the McLaren’s 710 horsepower, I manage to get us back in time to squeeze in one last interview before we’re whisked over to the photo shoot. Unfortunately, the interview went pretty much the same as the one we walked out on did, and Julian’s mood hasn’t improved since returning to work. He’s like one of those traditional balance scales—one wrong move and he tips all the way to one side.

Julian and I both did our own individual promo shots for the tour announcement last year, so now they want to get updated ones with the two of us together. His sour attitude is making what already feels like a chore even more difficult.

“Put your hand on him,” the photographer tells me, and I wrap my right hand over Julian’s shoulder, arching my fingers so it looks like my nails are digging into his skin, then smize into the camera.

Every few clicks, I angle my head and body differently, alternating between my top go-to poses. Even if Julian wasn’t in the middle of a tantrum, or whatever this is, it’s clear he’s not as experienced in this part of the job, and every so often I give him my own instructions on how to pose to try and complement what I’m doing. He barely acknowledges me though as he moves his body in the most robotic ways possible.

Forget lethargic, he’s downright catatonic right now.

I just want to shake him and scream, “Wake up!” Where is he? Better yet, who is he?

“All right, time to lose the clothes,” the photographer says, then yells out behind him, “Where’s the sock?”

The infamous cock sock. It’s basically fabric in the shape of a sock that goes over a man’s bare penis to give him…modesty, I guess. I mean, we can all make out the size and shape even through the fabric, but if it makes them feel more comfortable, I’m all for it. It’s essentially the male form of nipple pasties.

“I can use my hands,” Julian slurs, his eyes glossed over.