Gina’s natu- ral curls are longer than they were in the spring, when she’d had a short Afro while filming, and she’s working with a new stylist: bright, bold colors, shades that wouldn’t work on her pasty-white ex-bandmates.įormer bandmates, Eva means. She continues to scroll through one of the tabloid articles, each additional photo accompanied by some new tidbit: attendance numbers at Celeste’s latest concert, the expected release month of Gina’s new Netflix series, what they’re both wearing. “ Work isn’t the same,” says Eva, keeping her voice harsh so it doesn’t wobble. With Hayley Kiyoko and Ariana Grande featured on separate Silhouette songs, it wasn’t like Celeste was hurting for collaborators. She assured Eva this was all her idea, all the label’s idea, nothing to do with Celeste. To her credit, the rep called back the next day and left Eva a second awkward voice mail, this one apologizing for intruding. Celeste’s second album turned into the probably-going-platinum Silhouette, no thanks to Eva. She knows why Eva didn’t bother to return the call from Celeste’s label-their old label- asking if Eva would write a song for what she, along with the rest of the fandom, was still thinking of as CR2. To reconnect.īut her mom also knows why Eva wouldn’t contribute to the soundtrack for one of Gina’s movies. “Evie, you’ve had other opportunities too,” her mom chides gently.

Maybe Celeste and Gina have stayed friends, quietly, without her. They all still change phone numbers a lot-even Steph-and keeping the current number in the chat is all the direct contact they’ve had after those final meetings, a year and a half ago.Īt least, that’s what Eva thought.

We have a freaking group chat, technically.” Thanks.” If hurt is sadness overlaid with anger, Eva bumps the anger way up. Sometimes Eva tries to pretend she regrets Moonlight Over- throw. “I wanted to make sure that you didn’t find out from Twitter.” Sometimes Eva regrets teaching her mom about Twitter. “Eva?” her mom says again, more worried than the first time. She wants to dive into it, insert herself into the picture, be laughing and close, for the world to see. (Without Steph, either, for that matter.)Įva wants to throw the tablet across the room. Another photo, another, each a discordant note because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Her other hand rests, shaking, on her tablet. “Eva,” her mom says, still in her ear, because she’s still clutching her phone.Įva tries to reply, but sound is beyond her. The kind of shock where you can’t even breathe. Seeing the pictures is like someone pouring a bucket of ice water over her head.

It goes like this miel moreland