This is probably a mistake, but I act without thinking, pulling it out of the back pocket of my jeans and holding it out to her.
Taking it, she types in the pin to unlock it—probably shouldn’t have giventhatto her—and taps the screen a couple of times. My stomach curdles as the sound of a beeping, digital ring fills the atmosphere of my small bedroom, and then my blood pressure all but bottoms out whenthat voicecomes over the line.
“Ava Herald,” Lucky says with a teasing tone. “Are you calling because youstillhaven’t—”
“Hey, hot piano guy,” Zoey cuts him off, holding the phone at the level of her face. “This is Ava’s assistant.”
Lucky’s rich chuckle spills from the small speaker, and I drop onto the opposite side of the bed. Then I chug my wine for good measure.
“Hey, I know you,” Lucky says. “You’re the friend that was with her at the Austin show. What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Zoey Campos,” she replies without missing a beat. “And I’m just calling to let you know that Avaisaccepting your very generous invitation to come visit your fancy-ass musician mansion.”
“Excellent. I’m gonna give you to my manager, Meyer Lowenstein.” A sharp, high-pitched whistle pierces the air. “Meyer. Come here real quick.”
I lean over my lap and clutch my forehead.
“This is Zoey Campos,” Lucky goes on. “She’s Ava Herald’sassistant, and you two are gonna coordinate all the logistics for gettingMizzHerald out here to the Big Easy.”
“Hi, Meyer,” Zoey states in a no-nonsense tone. “I’m going to give you my email address and phone number as well as Ava’s. Send the info to both of us. You know. So I can make sure she doesn’tmissany of it.” She pauses mischievously. “She has a tendency to…you know…forgetthings. Like, when she’s a little nervous.”
Lucky chuckles again, but now he sounds a little farther away, and then another guy with a New Yorker inflection, who I assume is Meyer, starts speaking.
“Totally understandable,” Meyer says. “I got a pen, and I’m ready for the info whenever you are.”
Zoey rattles off the information, and they’veclearlygot all this under control, so I stand up and leave the room. I hear them chatting a little longer while I pull the bottle of white wine out of the fridge and refill my glass.
Another couple of moments later, Zoey emerges from the short hallway and tosses my phone on the kitchen counter. “Your flight to New Orleans is for Monday. You’ll be returning on the following Sunday.” She grins widely and crinkles her nose. “He’s flying you first class.”
I look at her in disbelief and tilt my head to one side. “First class?” I shake my head. “Doesn’t any of this strike you as a little too good to be true?”
“No.” She taps my nose with her index finger. “You’re just used to being disappointed. You’ve been taught byeveryonethat you don’t deserve to have and do cool shit like this. They all conditioned you to believe you’re not special, when youare, and that you don’t have the ability to do something crazy and awesome with your life. All of that has made you deathly afraid of anything that’s not smack in the center of your comfort zone.”
Picking up the wine glass, I swirl it around at the level of my shoulder. “So you’re my psychologist now in addition to being myassistant?”
“It doesn’t take a psychologist to see that your parents and that worthless ex-boyfriend of yours basically conditioned you to be scared of everything that you’re not familiar with.”
“Ohplease.” I step around her and slink over to the sofa to sit down. “They weren’t that bad, and that was almost ten years ago. It doesn’t exactly have much to do with my life now.”
“Yes, it does.” Zoey marches into the living room and stands in front of the coffee table facing me. “What kind of parents say something like, ‘I know your dream is to do X-Y-Z, but you’re not good enough, you’re not smart enough, you never will be, so don’t even try so you can avoid disappointment,’? And what kind of boyfriendagreeswith them?”
I scoff. “Do you see me at work? They weren’t wrong.”
“No, theywerewrong.” She raises her eyebrows and sets her jaw. “And you’ve been operating under the belief that they were right during your formative years, and that’s why you’re that way at work. You’re actually really smart, Ava. You could’ve gotten into Stanford if you applied. You would’ve excelled, and then you’d have found a career that you’re actually passionate about. But because you were surrounded by a hater brigade, you went the safe route, stayed here in Austin, and settled for a steady job that pays the bills, even though you hate it.”
Even now, there’s a small pang in my chest recalling the conversations that led to me giving up my lifelong, lofty childhood dream of pursuing a career as a producer for TV or movies or plays orsomethinglike that. But I quickly get myself in check, because itwasa completelyabsurdaspiration.
“I don’t hate it,” I insist.
“Yeah, you do.” She sticks out her chin at me. “Yourobsessionwith this Lucky guy and his over-the-top shows is you living vicariously through him. It's a total cry for help.”
At that, I can’t help laughing. “Okay, Zoey.”
“I’m right.” She salutes me with her glass as she offers a wide grin. “And you’re going to New Orleans next week.”
The reality of it starts to settle in, and I can’t deny the small tickle of excitement that unfurls in my chest—even though the idea still kind of terrifies me.
I give her a wincing, but hopeful smile. “Are you coming with me?”
