“Come on, dear. Let’s go sit down somewhere where we can talk. Have you had lunch?” my mom says.
I shake my head and lead them to the casino’s Mexican restaurant where I discovered yesterday that they have the best jicama and mango salad on earth. I order it again—using the notepad of course—and sip my lemonade.
“Hugh tells us you’re having a bit of a meltdown,” my dad says.
I cock my brows. No, I write. I fired Hugh. He got us nine hundred thousand dollars in debt to the mob.
“The debt isn’t Hugh’s fault. Your album didn’t perform as well as projected. No one can help that.”
I tap my nails on the table. I don’t really want to go into all the reasons I disagree, starting with the fact that Hugh forced that lame regurgitated pop album out of me when I had zero inspiration, to it being his idea to leave our major record label and self-produce, to him thinking he had the chops to produce and publicize an album with no prior experience. And that’s ignoring my first point, which I think is reason enough—he borrowed money from the mob.
And then there’s how happy and free I’ve felt since I cut him loose. How happy the band and Izzy are for me.
There are many, many reasons, I write instead. Bottom line—I’m done with him.
“Well, that’s impossible, Pepper,” my dad says. “We have a contract with him and it’s not so simple as firing at will.”
We’ll get a lawyer. Make that I’ll get a lawyer. I make a mental note to ask Tony for a recommendation. And to get copies of the contracts. Fuck. I’ve been way too passive in my career. I trusted the people around me, and I’m no longer sure they know better than I do.
My dad starts lecturing about all the things I don’t understand, and how Hugh has handled them all, and what a disaster my career will be without Hugh.
He and Hugh go way back to the days when my dad was in his twenties and played in a band that Hugh managed. He quit the band when my mom got pregnant and they never got bigger than a self-produced album and playing small gigs across the west coast. He could’ve gone back and resurrected his own career, but instead, he dumped his energy into me. Teaching me everything he knew about music. Getting me on stage at a young age. Pitching my talent to Hugh.
I eat my salad and pretend I’m listening, grateful once more for my inability to hold a conversation. In my head, I’m composing lyrics to a new song. One I started the day I fired Hugh.
“… and what’s this I hear about you dating one of the mobsters?” my dad breaks into my thought process.
I set my jaw. I’m sure Hugh told them all the same things he told me about Tony and his criminal record. I don’t give a shit. I’m not saying I think we can have a long-term relationship, but my life thawed out when I met him. Blossomed, even. I refuse to hear any crap about him from anyone in my life.
I shove a whisper of fear to the back of my mind: what happens when you leave? I’m not ready to look at that question yet. Is it too much to just enjoy the moment for once in my life?
“We’re going to stay here and get this figured out,” my dad said. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to tour with you, but we can definitely stay until your obligations here are through and we get the Hugh situation sorted out.”
I suppress an eye roll. I want to tell them it’s not necessary. Actually—that I don’t want them here, but I don’t want to be rude. It seems wrong considering how much I missed them these last couple of years.
I bob my head instead, and tell them I’ll catch up with them later.
“Wait, where are you going?” my mom asks.
I have plans, is all I write. Plans with Tony, my sexy tour guide.
Anton trails behind me and I run into Izzy in the lobby. Seems like that’s where all the action is today. She looks like her usual sullen self, her earbuds in her ears, a scowl on her face, but when she sees me, she makes a beeline over. “I saw your parents.”
I make a face of acknowledgement.
“Tell me they’re not here to change your mind about Hugh.”
I fish out my notepad. They are.
Izzy looks away at nothing, stewing on something that’s unclear to me. “Pepper, you can’t.”
I shrug and nod. I agree. I’m figuring it out. Not really your business.
“I’m serious. He’s a shit bag.” Her forehead’s furrowed like there’s something really eating at her, but whatever it is, she decides to swallow it. “Promise me you won’t hire him back.”