by Lauren Rowe
“Oh yeah,” Will says. “Josh Faraday.” He chuckles like he’s remembering something amusing. “I love that guy. He recently did me a huge favor.”
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard someone say Josh Faraday did them a huge favor, I’d have a stack of dollar bills higher than my head.”
“So you’re Josh’s sister?”
“No, his sister-in-law,” I say. “My husband is Josh’s twin brother.” I point at Jonas, who’s standing about fifteen feet away, chatting with Reed. We’re in a special VIP balcony overlooking the noisy club. “That’s my husband right there. Jonas Faraday.” Even after all this time, I still swoon every time I get to use the words “Jonas” and “my husband” in the same sentence.
There’s a pause as Mr. Hip Hop sizes up Jonas and then looks back at me. “He looks a lot like his brother.”
“Yeah, they’re twins—fraternal—but, trust me, their personalities are really different,” I say. There’s a pause in the conversation, during which the full force of this surreal situation slams into me: I’m chatting with the guy on my frickin’ ringtone right now. “You were awesome on Saturday Night Live,” I blurt, unable to contain my excitement any longer. “I love your music.”
“Thank you,” he replies. His mouth stops moving. Conversation has ceased. I feel like throwing my arms around his neck and sobbing, “You’re so awesome!” But I refrain.
Okay. Well. Clearly, his curt reply to my compliment indicates I should move on from flattery, or maybe even shut my mouth altogether and let the poor man move along to grace another fan with his sparkling presence, but my mouth apparently can’t control itself. “‘Crash’ is my ringtone right now,” I blurt, pulling out my phone like I’m poised to prove it. “I absolutely love it. Did you write it?”
“Yeah, I did. Well, with another guy—a friend of mine. We co-wrote it.”
“Wow. That’s so cool. It’s such a great song. So clever. There’s nothing else like it. No wonder it’s a smash hit. I bet you’re gonna win a Grammy. I know all the words by heart.” Oh God, someone put a gag on me. I’m a babbling fool. “They play ‘Crash’ in my spin class all the time,” I continue, probably cementing this poor man’s desire to hurl himself off the balcony. “I lip synch the words as I pedal.” I’m mortified to find myself making a pedaling motion by way of demonstration as I talk about spin class. “I guess you could say I’m a ‘spin-rapper.’” Oh dear God, no. That was just plain stupid. Someone help me. “A world-class spin-rapper,” I continue. Oh jeez. No. It’s time for me to use my seat as a flotation device.
Will leans his ear to my mouth, obviously thinking he misheard me due to the blaring music. “You’re a world-class what? Did you just say you’re a world-class badminton player?”
I burst out laughing. “No, although that would have been a way cooler thing to say. I said I’m a world-class spin-rapper—because I rap all the words to your song during spin-class.” I roll my eyes. “Basically, Will, I’m just a total and complete dork. Ignore me. I fall back on humor when I get excited or nervous—and I’m currently both.”
“Why are you nervous?”
I motion to him, like “duh.”
“Yeah, but I’m as big a dork as you are. Trust me.”
“Impossible.”
“I am. Ask me anything. You’ll see.”
“Really? Anything?”
He nods.
“Well, hmm. Okay. I am curious about something.” I grin. “You’re experiencing astronomical success right now—the kind of success most artists can only dream about. Has the reality of your success measured up to the fantasy of it? I mean, has any part of your success struck you as a surprise or maybe even a disappointment?”
He raises his eyebrows. “So we’re done with flattery and small talk, then?”
“Oh my God.” I wince. “Not what you meant by ‘ask me anything’?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I figured you’d ask me how I come up with my raps or what’s my favorite song on my new album—all the usual bullshit I could answer in my sleep. Little did I know, I sat down next to fucking Oprah.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” I cringe. “I’m so bad at small talk, especially when I’m drunk. Please forgive me. I told you—I’m a dork.” I shake my head like I’m erasing an Etch-A-Sketch board. “Rewind. So, Will, how do you come up with your raps? What’s your favorite song on your new album?”
He laughs again. “No, no. You got me backwards. I hate small talk. I hate it. We’re good.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had to pull out my small talk—not since before I met Jonas. My husband doesn’t do small talk. I guess I’m a little rusty.”
“How long you been married?”
“Two years.”
“Still a newlywed.”
I smile broadly. “These two years have flown by. It feels like just yesterday we were saying ‘I do.’”
“So, does the reality of marriage live up to the fantasy of it? Or is there some part that’s struck you as a disappointment?”
I laugh and sip my drink.
“No, I’m actually asking you the question. Straight up. How’s marriage working out for you?”
“Oh, you’re being serious?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were just turning the tables on me—being a smart-ass.”
“Well, yeah. I’m being a smart-ass—that’s what I do when I’m nervous and excited.” He smirks.
I grin at him. There’s no wonder why this man is a star. He’s got charisma oozing out his pores. “Well, sir, that’s an easy question to answer: The reality of being married to the sublimely beautiful Jonas Faraday far exceeds any fantasy of marriage I’ve ever had. There hasn’t been a single disappointment, ever. He’s my perfect match and I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” I lean my drunken head closer to Will’s to make sure he hears me over the music in the club. Oh, he’s wearing a nice cologne. “I’m actually addicted to my hunky-monkey husband, if you wanna know the truth,” I say. I feel my cheeks color with heat for an instant as I think about just how much Jonas turns me on. “That boy is pure magic.”
Will’s face lights up. Clearly, whatever expression I’ve got on my face has just transferred to his. “Wow,” he says.
I nod and sip my drink again. “Yup. Wow. Jonas is my fantasy come to life. True dat.” Oh, God. I cringe at myself.
But Will doesn’t seem fazed by my horrific lack of street cred. “I’ve never heard a woman talk about her man like that before.”
“Never?”
“Not even close.”
“Well, then, I feel sorry for whatever woman you’ve been talking to.”
“Actually, mainly, that woman would be my girlfriend—my ex-girlfriend now—so you should feel sorry for me, not her.” He swigs his drink.
“Oh.” I wince. “Sorry.”
“Eh, no worries. It’s for the best. My schedule can’t fit in a girlfriend now, anyway.” He shrugs and takes another huge gulp of his drink.
“What’s her name?”
“Carmen.” A huge smile breaks out across his handsome face. He motions to me like he’s answering an unspoken question. “Yeah, I’ve always had a thing for the brown girls.”
I blush.
“You are Latina, right?”
“Sí. Colombiana.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve definitely got a type—and you’re it. Just my luck you’re married.” He smiles and swigs his drink yet again.
“Thank you. I’m flattered. But, yes, I’m very, very, very married.”
“Yeah, you’ve made that fact pretty damned clear.” He chuckles.
“If you want me to move so you can talk to someone else—you know, a brown girl who’ll actually sleep with you tonight, I won’t be the least bit offended. I promise.”
He laughs. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good—I’m enjoying talking to Oprah two-point-oh.”
“Ha! You migh
t not feel that way when I ask my next question. I gotta make you cry or the whole interview’s a bust.”
He laughs again. “Shoot. I can take it.”
“What happened with Carmen? Was your relationship a casualty of your astronomical success, you think? Or was it unraveling before then?”
He laughs. “Boom. Ain’t no such thing as small talk with Oprah.”
I shrug. “I warned you. I suck at small talk.”
“Are you gonna ask me about my childhood next?”
I put on my Oprah voice. “Will, what was your most traumatizing childhood experience? And how has it shaped you into the person you are today?”
He pretends to break into a sob and we both laugh.
I clap my hands together like my work here is done.
He takes another swig of his drink. “You really should ask people questions for a living—you’re good at it.”
“I actually just took the bar exam back home in Seattle.”
“An attorney?” He shakes his head. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“I’ve always liked asking questions—you know, investigating things. Trying to figure things out. I’m a curious girl, especially when I’m drunk.” I raise my drink and he clinks it.
“Curious, huh?”
I nod. “Curious.” I can’t suppress my smirk.
Will’s eyes sparkle. “Especially when you’re drunk?”
I nod again. “Especially when I’m drunk. And right now I’m drunky-drunkerton.”
“Well, let’s keep the train rolling down the tracks, then, shall we?” He motions to the cocktail waitress and orders me another glass of champagne, plus a beer and six shots. “I just did your husband a big favor—tell him he can thank me tomorrow.” He winks. “So, tell me more about your mad spin-rapping skills, Oprah. When did you first discover you had the gift?”
I laugh. “It’s hardly a gift. I’m only a world-class spin-rapper when it comes to ‘Crash.’ I just love it. I listen to it constantly. It’s catchy as hell and really clever. The musical arrangement is really different—groundbreaking, even. Unexpected instrumentation—unexpected rhythms. And it’s funny. I can’t resist funny.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Thank you for a frickin’ awesome song. It’s destined to be a real classic, Will. Mark my words. Right up there with the greats.”
He gulps down the last of his drink. “So, enough with the flattery. On to more important topics. What’s your rapper name? We gotta make sure it’s something tight.”
I glance over at Jonas again. Reed’s talking to him—and by the look on Jonas’ gorgeous face, Reed must be saying something particularly interesting. I’m just about to look away when Jonas glances over and beams a heart-stopping smolder at me. God, this man makes my heart skip a beat—and my panties turn soaking wet. “Huh?” I say, returning my attention back to Will.
“A world-class spin-rapper can’t go by ‘Sarah Faraday.’ You need something with some attitude.”
“Oh, yes. My rapper name.” I shift in my seat. If I’m not mistaken, my husband just gave me his I-want-to-swallow-you-whole look. “Hmm. I don’t know.”
“M.C. Oprah?”
“I’d get a cease and desist letter from Oprah’s legal team before I could say ‘Wave your hands in the air.’”
He laughs. “Spoken like a true attorney. M.C. Big Talk?”
“Jeez.” I shake my head. “That makes me sound like a total blowhard. Why don’t we just call me M.C. Blowhard?”
He laughs.
“Oh my God,” I say, putting my hand over my mouth. “Am I a total blowhard? I am, aren’t I?”
He bursts out laughing. “No, not at all. Not even the slightest bit.”
“Oh, thank God. You’d tell me, right?”
“Of course, I would. That’s what friends are for. You’d tell me, too, right?”
“Hellz yeah. That’s what besties do for each other, Will.”
“Good. ’Cause we world-class rappers gotta stick together,” he says.
I giggle.
We clink glasses again.
A guy approaches Will, obviously a fan, and Will graciously shakes his hand and leans in for a selfie on the guy’s phone. I suddenly feel like a third-wheel. I glance at Jonas, but he’s thoroughly engrossed in his conversation with Reed. Should I get up and stand next to Jonas—let this guy have some time with Mr. Superstar?
“Thanks, man,” Will says. “No problem. But I’m kinda in the middle of something important right now.” He gestures to me, like I’m the something important he’s in the middle of, and my cheeks flush. The guy on my ringtone wants this guy to leave so he can continue talking to me? I can barely keep myself from squealing.
The minute the guy leaves, Will exchanges a look with a huge black guy standing on the other side of the large balcony. Holy Large Black Man, Batman. Next to that guy, my ripped husband looks like a frickin’ child.
The guy nods and moves closer to us, but still far enough away to allow us complete privacy.
“Okay, Oprah,” Will says. “Back to your rapper name.”
“Oh. Hmm.”
“Tread carefully. This is a very serious decision.”
“Maybe the most important decision of my life.”
We both tap our temples for a moment, thinking carefully about this important decision.
“It’s got to be good. You’re world-class. It can’t be fucking bush league.”
“Dude, I know. Trust me, I know. But I’m drawing a blank. Hey, you’re the fancy rapper with the number one hit on iTunes that’s the odds-on favorite to win a Grammy—you’re the one who’s supposed to have all the freaking genius ideas. Come on.”
“Fuck that. You’re the one who just graduated fucking law school. It’s your job to come up with the ‘freaking genius ideas’ and let me steal all the glory from you. That’s how the music biz works, Oprah.”
I laugh. “Actually, that reminds me of another question.”
“Oh God, no. No more questions that are gonna make me cry.” He laughs. “But I promise you this: When I have my total fucking meltdown, which I predict will happen within the next year or so, give or take, I’ll give you the exclusive interview. Okay?”
“Deal.”
We share a smile.
“Oh, hey,” he says, “I think I have a ‘freaking genius idea.’ Faraday’s your married name, right?”
I nod.
“What’s your maiden name?”
“Cruz.”
“Boom. Now that’s a sick brown-girl name. I can work with that. Cruz. That’s just pure Latina-badass right there. How ’bout you just do the one-word thing? Eminem. Usher. Kanye. Jay-Z. Cruz.”
“2Real,” I say, reminding him of his own place in current pop culture.
He smirks.
“Oh, wait,” I say. “By George, I’ve got it. How about ‘O-A-P Cruz’?”
“OAP Cruz? What’s O-A-P?”
“Oh, it’s just this thing. Never mind what it is. Just trust me, it’s perfect—totes gangsta.”
“Just a tip: ‘totes’ and ‘gangsta’ don’t really go together if you actually wanna be gangsta.”
“Super dorky?”
“Super dorky.”
I shrug. “Shoot. Story of my life.”
He laughs.
“I really think that’s it, though, Will. ‘OAP Cruz.’ I’ve already got an ‘OAP’ tattoo. I just need to get the ‘Cruz’ tattoo and I’ll be totes gangsta.” I do a sudden freakazoid thing with my hands which I’m intending as a flashing-my-gang-sign thing, but which comes out more like jazz hands.
He laughs. “Wow. Now that was ‘totes gangsta.’”
I laugh.
“So, come on, what’s OAP?”
“I’m not telling.” I swig my drink.
“But you’ve got a tattoo that says ‘O-A-P’?”
I nod.
He blatantly looks me over. “Where is it?”
“In
a place only my husband’s ever gonna see.” I wink.
His face lights up. “Oh, man. Something tells me your husband’s a lucky motherfucker.”
“He is.”
He smirks. “Come on. You gotta tell me what O-A-P means.”
I shake my head.
“If you got it inked on you, it must stand for something pretty important.”
“It does.”
“Oh, see. Now you got my full attention.”
I wave my hands like it’s not important.
“Oh no. You don’t get to wave me off. You gotta tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone. We’re friends, remember?”
I shake my head and sip my champagne.
“Aw, come on, Cruz. One world-class rapper to another.”
“It’s too personal.”
“Oh, fuck. Now you got me crazy-curious, Cruz. Don’t do me like that.”
I shake my head again.
He rolls up his sleeve like a man on a mission. “Check this out. You see this here?” He points to a tattoo of an elaborate flower on his arm. “That’s my mom’s favorite flower. I got it there so I can always bring my momma flowers no matter where or when I see her.” He rolls up the sleeve on his other arm. “See this?” He points to a dragon with a huge heart. “I got matching hearts with my girl back in high school. I thought we’d last forever.” He grins. “But then she slept with my best friend so that was that—so I added the dragon to camouflage it.” He laughs. “You want more?” He starts unbuttoning his shirt, apparently to show me something on his chest.
“No. Stop. No disrobing necessary.”
He flashes me an adorable look. “I’ll show you the tattoo on my ass if it’ll convince you to tell me what I wanna know.”
“No, please. I wouldn’t be able to explain you dropping your drawers to my husband.” I laugh.
He exhales. “Shit. Fine. I’ll answer your question then. Will that convince you?”
I shrug, unsure what he’s talking about.
He crosses his legs and postures himself like he’s on a talk show. “Well, Oprah, the reality of my success has been fucking spectacular, thank you for asking,” he says. “There’s money, women, fame, travel, and as much weed as a man could ever want.” He grins. “Fucking awesome. And yet, honestly, it’s been soul-crushing and lonely as fuck, too, if you really wanna know. I cheated on my girl and lost her—and rightly so. I couldn’t withstand the temptation all around me, and now I’m kicking myself every single fucking day. I lost a really special girl—a girl who totally understood me and stood by me. I just totally fucked up, but there’s nothing I can do about it.” He takes a long swig of his drink. “The other thing that sucks is that all my conversations with strangers these days, other than this awesome conversation with you, Oprah, are about nothing but small talk and ass-kissing and people wanting to take selfies to post on fucking Instagram—and that gets really old really fast, trust me.” He takes another large gulp of his drink. “Okay, so there you go. I’ve poured my heart out to you. I’ve laid my soul bare. Now it’s your turn—what the fuck does O-A-P stand for?”
