Smitten

I’m shocked at the suggestion. Especially considering it’s coming from a dude who once told me to drop out of my band because, among other things, I wasn’t “charismatic” enough for the big leagues. But, as shocked as I am, I’m also thrilled to join Alessandra’s coming out party, to support her in any way I can, with whatever clout or buzz I can bring. “Sure,” I say. “Count me in.”

Alessandra fidgets next to me. “What will Fish and I have to do for this ‘cute little love story?’”

“Don’t worry, Ally,” Maddy interjects, leaning across Reed to be heard over the din of the crowded restaurant. “You’ll be the performer onstage at the coffeehouse, as we discussed, and Fish will play the shaggy barista across the room. All you two will have to do is make googly eyes at each other, from afar, like you’re totally smitten with each other.”

Smitten. The word strikes me like a thunderbolt. It’s the perfect word for how I feel when I’m with Alessandra. Yeah, I’m in love with her. Obviously. Yes, I’m in lust with her, shamelessly. But I’m also feeling a certain kind of giddiness that’s like a kid on Christmas. A feeling of total infatuation that feels like the best possible drug. I look at Alessandra, even though I’m replying to Maddy’s comment and say, “Well, speaking for myself, that shouldn’t be hard to do.”

Alessandra winks at me. “Yeah. I think I could manage that.”

Reed addresses Georgina next to him, his countenance becoming businesslike and determined. “Georgie, you’re going to star in this thing, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You and Laila are going to be in a campy love triangle with Keane.”

He explains the two storylines cooked up by him and Maddy—and everyone on our end of the table expresses resounding enthusiasm. “Wait till you hear this next thing,” Reed says, looking at Alessandra. He motions to the dizzying array of top-tier artists seated at the far end of our table. “See all those rock stars down there?” He juts his chin. “They’ve all agreed to stop by the coffeehouse tomorrow to shoot quick cameos for the video.”

“Whaaaat?” Alessandra blurts, making everyone on our end of the table guffaw.

“You’ve hit the jackpot, Alessandra Tennison,” Reed says, laughing. “Having all these superstars in your debut video—plus, having Laila, Keane, and Fish in starring roles alongside you—is going to give you so much street cred, it’s ridiculous. Without a doubt, all this star power is going to make this video go viral. Which, in turn, my dear, is going to rocket your song to the top of the charts.”

Alessandra is quite obviously flabbergasted. She looks at me, her blue eyes wide, and I nod, letting her know I wholeheartedly agree with Reed’s assessment. Indeed, with a launch like this for her little song, I can’t imagine it not becoming a monster hit. Top 20, at the very least, by the time it peaks.

The group on our end of the table peppers Reed and Maddy with questions about the video concept, and they describe their ideas in further detail, the gist of which is that Alessandra and I will be unrequited lovers at the coffeehouse. Alessandra, the shy performer onstage. And me, the shy barista behind a counter who watches his crush from across the room while writing secret love notes to her. Notes, by the way, the barista never gives to her, but, instead, always throws into the bin.

Keane, for his part, will play a douchebag customer who finds my discarded love notes and uses them to seduce and two-time the waitresses of the coffeehouse—Laila and Georgina. Neither of whom knows the other is being romanced by Keane.

“All those famous faces down there will make cameos as customers of the coffeehouse,” Maddy explains. “They’ve all agreed to drop by tomorrow, whenever they can, to shoot their cameos.”

Alessandra looks a bit overwhelmed. “Can I ask a question?” she asks timidly. “I’m not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth here. I can’t believe how lucky I am. But why are all these famous artists willing to make cameos in some nobody’s video?”

Reed shrugs. “Every last one of them owes me a favor. But also, and this is the truth, Alessandra, none of them would do this if they didn’t genuinely like you and believe in your song.”

“Oh my gosh,” Alessandra whispers, squeezing my hand. “Thank you so much, Reed. I’m going to hop up and thank each artist around the table, individually!”

“No, no,” Reed says, laughing. “Thank them tomorrow if they actually show up. Also, there’s no need to thank me. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I didn’t think I’d make my money back, and then some.”

Alessandra looks at me, her eyebrow cocked at Reed’s last comment. She’s told me before she thinks Reed wouldn’t have signed her, if not for his love for Georgina. And I’ve told her in reply, “It doesn’t matter how you got there, sweetheart—it’s what you do with the opportunity.” But even as I’ve said those words to her, I’ve understood her self-doubt, since I’ve experienced similar doubts over the years about myself, and how I came to be where I am in life.