Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I scoffed, shook my head. Oh, he knew I’d think about it all right. Extra dates and a fucking talk show? He knew damn well I’d think about it constantly, over and over. He knew that I’d lie awake conjuring potential questions that might escape the pre-agreed list, rehearse answers and then convince myself I sounded like a fool. He knew that I’d obsess over how many members of the public they’d allow into the audience, whether they’d be interested in me, whether they’d be waiting outside and want photos, hugs, or signatures. He knew that I’d drive myself fucking insane.
I’d given all the coping strategies and techniques a shot over the years. I’d done the deep breathing and the mindfulness sessions. I’d snapped elastic bands on my wrists, fingered fidget cubes and spinners, repeated affirmations, downloaded all the calming apps. I’d found most of them to be bullshit. It didn’t help that I was a cynical son of a bitch by nature, I guess. Also, most strategies and interventions needed implementing before the anxiety reached a point of no return. I was nearly always too late, never recognised the anxiety building until it had incapacitated me. My body had its own ways of soothing itself, but I often wished it would forget what they were. Rocking from side-to-side, bouncing my leg, or scratching my palms might well have brought my heart rate down and made my vision less cloudy, but I was certain I looked like a fucking nut to those around me when it happened.
In the end, I decided to ignore the topic of tour dates and interviews, which was usually my default response in these situations and probably the reason I kept finding myself in them. Still, I found it difficult to look at Drew, or anyone, and kept my focus on the table when the waiter returned. “I’ll take the maple gla-”
“Glazed bacon burger with sweet potato fries,” Drew finished for me, winking. “See? I know you, Hugo. You got this.”
I got a fucking headache is what I got.
Five
Hugo
California had trees. Other states had trees. Countries all over the world had trees. But no other place offered the same landscape as England. A forgotten fondness surged as I rested my head against the window of the plane, getting closer and closer to the country that had raised me. It looked beautiful, so fresh and clean, full of wonder and survival. I knew, of course, the reality was very different. That beyond the lush fields and thickets of trees were dense cities rife with the same troubled souls and shattered lives as back in LA. Still, I’d enjoy the illusion until I landed.
Getting through the airport was relatively easy for someone like me. I didn’t need to worry about bags or queues or any of the mundane shit that made trips laborious. People did that for me. I could never quite avoid the lines of photographers and screaming fans waiting for me to emerge through customs, though. I’d discovered a long time ago that publicists, people who fucking worked for me, were the ones responsible for leaking my whereabouts. I still didn’t understand their reasons, no matter how many times Drew had tried to explain it. I hated it.
“Hugo! Hugo, over here!” yelled a voice amongst a hundred clicks. I smiled and nodded, channeling professional Hugo the way I’d taught myself over the years. In the beginning, I’d put my head down, quietly terrified. I still hated it. My pulse still raced and my stomach still flipped, but I could pretend now, that was the difference.
Teenage girls swamped the arrivals lounge. Paparazzi lined the exits. There was no escape.
“Oh my God, Hugo!”
“This way, Hugo! Give us a pose, Hugo!”
“Did you have a good flight?”
“When’s the new single dropping?”
“Over here, Hugo! Daily Sun! Can we have a smile?”
“Are you looking forward to the tour?”
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Hugo, we love you!”
“Is it true you’re dating Amber Key?”
“I’m coming to see you perform! Please notice me! Hugo please!”
“Can you just look this way, Hugo? Come on, Hugo! One photo?”
My lungs started to struggle, my breaths coming too quickly. I should’ve put my earbuds in. Dammit. They were too loud. Too many of them. I scratched at my palms. They were clammy, making my nails slip. I needed friction. I needed out of that fucking place.
A small body appeared in front of me, making me stumble back a step. “Hugo, please, I love-”
“Move back,” Ezra ordered, wedging one of his giant arms between my chest and the overzealous teenage girl. She was tiny, no older than fourteen, yet big enough to make my heart stop when she almost grabbed my arm. Where were her fucking parents?
After all these years, I still felt ridiculous referring to Ezra as my bodyguard, though I knew I’d be lost without him. He was on call whenever I needed him but, really, I thought his presence was only necessary at public events, tours, high-profile places, that kinda thing. Unfortunately, Drew thought differently. That wasn’t a dig at Ezra. I’d never told him, but I considered him one of the most important people in my life. A friend. Family. I felt extremely grateful when he’d agreed to leave my old label and join my inner circle independently, because I couldn’t imagine forming a bond like I had with him with anyone else. Nevertheless, his constant shadow never quite let me forget that I wasn’t a regular person anymore.