“I’m so sorry,” I croak, voice barely holding steady as I turn to Ty.
“It’s okay,” he says again, but I shake my head, hating that defeated look on his face.
“It’snot.” I cup his face,dyingto smooth out the worry lines. “I didn’t—the label said this duet was only for the tour. I had no idea they were going to use it in the video.” I glance helplessly at Jodie. “I mean... Can they do this? Are they evenallowed?”
She shakes her head before nodding it as well. “No—I mean yes. You signed off on it. It’s in the stipulations. You agreed they could use any footage from the tour. And, you know…” Her voice trails off, but we all know what it means.
Since it happenedon tour, and we signed the waiver, they’re free to use whatever the fuck they want.
I stumble to my feet, shaking my head. “I need to call my dad,” I mutter, raking my free hand through my mess of a hair as I take my phone out of my pocket and flinch when I see he already tried to call me three times. “Shit,” I breathe, then pressCall Backwith trembling fingers.
Ty follows me up and puts a steadying hand on my back as I put it on speaker, hoping for the first time in forever that the bastard actually picks up. Sure, we’ve been more in contact since last winter, when he helped me fix the mess with my former band member. Somehow—even after their fucking guitarist stabbed me “by accident” because he’s a raging homophobe—they still thought it was justified to sue me for the rights tomymusic.
Thank fuck Daddy Dearest is amazing at what he does. And for once, he actually did something useful for his son instead of pretending I didn’t exist. All it took was a lawsuit for the lawyer to notice his own flesh and blood and keep in touch. You can’t beat the damn irony there.
When he picks up with a “Jace?” I close my eyes, still bracing for the usual: a reprimand, a bored sigh, maybe a clippedI’m busy, Jace. Go ask Julita for whatever it is you want.The fucking soundtrack of my childhood.
But again, the rejection doesn’t come, just like the last six months. It’s still weird.
When I don’t answer right away, he jumps in again. “Jace? Are you okay? Did you receive the letter?”
Is that… actualconcernin his voice? We definitely talk more, but yes, I rarely call him unless there’s something I need to know about contracts and shit.
“Did you see the video?” I finally say as a greeting, skipping straight to it. “Can they do that without our consent? Is that why you called?” He still handles some legal stuff for us from the Netherlands, even though he and Jodie also liaise with a local legal rep here in the States.
“Your first music video, you mean? I saw an email about it but haven’t opened it yet. Did they breach a clause in your agreement? Which section?”
Ah, there he is, switching to pro-mode in an instant.
I sigh, rubbing my head. “No. I don’t think so. It doesn’t look like they breached anything. They just... insinuated that I’m in a relationship with Mick, and—” I cut myself off, frown, wait… “What did you mean, did I get the letter?”
There’s a beat of silence as I turn to my rock, my Tyler, staring at his chest, his hand still on my back. And I don’t know if the dread slithering into my gut is about the video… or what’s coming next.
“I tried to call you today,” he says, voice even now. “Because, as your lawyer, I was contacted by USCIS. They couldn’t reach you by letter.”
My gaze snaps up to meet Ty’s.
“They’re revoking your visa.”
TEN
Whentheinitialshockof that first call with my dad died down, after he explained that mystudentstatus had been officially revoked, but that I wasn’t getting kicked out right the fuck now, it became clear it was more of a formal warning. Ahey, get your shit together before we make this a problemkind of thing.
We barely had time to breathe before Dad called again, wanting to go over some forms. I spent the rest of the evening going back and forth with him, Jodie, and the label about the fact that I might still get deported because those shitfaces at the label fucked up.
I don’t even grasp the exact specifics, but the label, as my official employer, was supposed to submit a whole stack of documentation for my artist status, and they… didn’t. At least not the right way.
Dad says he’s on it now. That we should calm down. That it’s probably just some dumbass technicality. He’s already refiled everything, is in full-on lawyer mode, bitching at the label in conference calls in between drafting documents, and according to him, it’ll take months before we get a definitive answer.
In the meantime, I’m in my grace period. Technically still allowed to stay. And since I’m working under the newly filed application, I can keep performing. Thank fuck he fixed that part right away.
Just chill, Dad said.Enjoy your tour. It’ll work itself out. Blah blah blah.
So yes, I’m trying to do exactly that. Get it out of my head. Let the whole messed-up situation with Mick the Dick rest as well. There’s nothing I can do about any of it right now anyway—not without it seriously fucking up my career. And by extension, the careers of my bandmates. I’m not going to let that happen.
So yeah, that's why we’re running this morning. Letting the tension out the way we always do: exercise. Outside of the bedroom this time. We're on this beautiful trail a couple of miles out from Soldier Field, the enormous stadium we’re performing in tonight.
Ty keeps telling me he’s fine, that it’ll work out, that we should trust my dad. But I can tell it’s eating at him. I can feel it in the way he pushes harder with every step, how I’m actually struggling for the first time to keep up with him, our feet a steadythump thump thumpagainst the ground.
