Preface
The summer sun shone brightly through the curtains. The window was slightly open, and a pleasant, fresh summer air blew through the room, filling it with its coolness.
As soon as the wind touched my cheeks, I woke up and opened my eyes. Pulling myself up on the bed, I quickly stood up and threw on a silk robe. This morning truly was completely different. As soon as my bare feet took a few steps across the floor, I realized how wonderful it was to walk barefoot. For a moment, that special feeling from childhood flashed through me. Walking slowly to the window, I opened the curtains and inhaled the scent of sunshine. And in response, it gently kissed my cheeks. Looking out the window, I saw a magnificent garden with a variety of flowers and trees. And nearby was a swimming pool. I've always dreamed of having a house with a pool and a garden, and now my dream has come true. Turning my back to the window, I looked around my room: next to the large bed was a nightstand with a lamp on it. Next to it were two couches and a coffee table. Against the wall stood a sofa and a dressing table with a large mirror. It was so spacious. Above hung a large, bright lamp, which I had bought myself. There were paintings on the walls. Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my tablet. I had received a notification. I walked to the coffee table and picked it up with some reluctance. I really didn't want to do work this early in the morning. Clicking on "mail," I saw a new message and immediately clicked on it. They had finally sent me photos with the show's advertisement, how it was decorated all over the country on huge billboards. I couldn't believe my eyes. A smile immediately appeared on my face. Wow, it happened. Is it true? I can't believe my eyes. Whoever had said before that this was possible - I simply wouldn't have believed it. It all felt like a dream. Enlarging the photos, I confirmed once again that it wasn't a dream. Huge displays showed my photo and the caption "Ellen and Joe," the best series of the year. For me, it's not just a series, it's my brainchild. My whole life. In the photo, I'm not alone, but next to a young man with brown eyes, black hair, and captivating charisma. And then I heard my door open and He came in.
"Have you seen it yet? Our series is nominated for Best Series."
Instead of answering, I simply placed the tablet on the coffee table and smiled. It all truly felt like a dream. Not even a couple of minutes had passed before I felt someone's hands on my waist. And they were the sweetest, most beautiful hands in the world. Because they were his.
***
If I were to tell you my story, it's best to start from the beginning. Right?
I've always dreamed of becoming a journalist. Since childhood, I've been making up stories and writing them down in my notebooks. Don't even ask me how many I've accumulated. They contain all my dreams and hopes, everything I couldn't tell another living soul. One time, I wrote down in my notebook how I interviewed a live frog that lived in the pond near our house. I described literally everything: what it looked like, its favorite temperature, how it wished it could live on Mars, and how hard it was for me to catch it. It was so slippery that it kept jumping and jumping in front of me. Perhaps now, you might find that interview too childish. Well, what did you expect? I was 12 years old. And I really wanted to learn all the frog's secrets, and even ask it to teach me how to jump. Although, I was doing just fine without her help. After all, at school, I was the best at jumping. From that age, I kept a whole box of these notebooks with my interviews and even poems. Looking through this box at 29, I appreciate it differently. I never became a journalist. And certainly not a poet. I work as a paralegal in a law firm and am constantly buried in all these documents. That's how my days go from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.: home, work, home, and so it goes on and on. I'm 150 cm tall, have light brown hair, and my weight is within the normal range. Some even say I'm still thin. But that's all because of my short stature. People like me are often called Thumbelinas. And it's understandable why: we can hide anywhere. My eyes are gray-blue, I love the color of my eyes. I live in St. Petersburg, Russia. I like living here, even though I still live with my parents. Why don't I rent a place of my own? What's the point of spending the money? And especially since I've been saving for the last two years for my dream trip. I dream of flying somewhere, seeing new countries I've never been to. I just haven't decided where exactly yet. Although, for the last three months, a man I've been texting has been constantly urging me to visit him. I met him on a dating site, and now we often chat on WhatsApp. His name is Michael, he's 34, and he lives somewhere in America. We mostly talk about books, oddly enough. And we have a lot in common. The only thing holding me back at the moment was fear and the unknown. In his photos, Michael looked quite handsome: dark hair, brown eyes, and always posed in expensive, elegant suits. He wrote to me that he was invited to appear in an advertising campaign, and the photos are still there.
But, you know what they say: sometimes you sit on the couch and think to yourself: why not? You only live once. Sometimes you have to take risks.
With that, I bought a plane ticket to Los Angeles with a layover in Istanbul. And immediately texted my "Michael":
Hi. How are you? I bought the tickets! I'm flying to you. I can't even believe it!
I received a reply within literally two minutes. I wonder if he was waiting for my message? Or maybe I should stop and abandon this crazy idea?
- Hi, darling. That's great. I'll definitely meet you. When are you arriving?
- I'm flying out in four days. I wanted to arrive as soon as possible. I can't wait to see you.
- That's great news. I'll be waiting for you.
- Will you book me a hotel room? I'm flying in for six days. I don't want to have to run around looking for it later.
- Yes, of course. I'll book the Hotel Bel-Air right now and send you the coordinates. And of course, I'll meet you at the airport.
You'll probably think I'm stupid and naive, right? Rest assured, that's not true at all. I've always had a plan B. Besides, I'm not a child and I've heard countless stories about long-distance love. This is Los Angeles, after all, and there's so much to see there. Let me spend everything I've saved on America. I don't mind. After all, that's exactly what my soul desires: to go on a real adventure.
A few days later. Flight day.
I woke up early as always, quickly got dressed, washed, combed my hair, and had breakfast. Then I went to my blue suitcase and looked it over from all sides. It's a good thing I packed it yesterday. Now all I have to do is pack my bag to take on the plane. The flight was almost here, and my heart was already pounding. I texted Michael on WhatsApp that I was ready and would book a taxi to the airport in an hour. He sent me a kissy face in response. Isn't that sweet? Smiling at his message, I looked at myself in the mirror and decided that my morning outfit was completely unsuitable for the trip. I needed to try something different for the trip, as I was wearing a regular gray tracksuit. I couldn't possibly go to the airport in that. After these words, I quickly put on blue jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and small pumps. I put on long Victorian-style earrings in the shape of a crescent moon and teardrops. I simply adore these earrings. I decided not to wear a necklace or chains, but my hair... Yes, it needed to be styled. Or curled nicely? While I was debating this with myself, 20 minutes flew by.After that, I decided to just style my hair to the side and do a little makeup. Well, sort of. I think I'm all set. Getting up from the chair, I took one last look at the mirror and my room. I'll miss it. Sleeping in another country is one thing, but in my own warm bed with pink pillows is something completely different. My room wasn't furnished with the latest fashion. It didn't have any really expensive things. But it was always cozy. Just look at my favorite vinyl record player. I grew up when my parents played me audio stories on it before bed. And my favorite story was the one about the blue puppy. Now, of course, I turn on the player less often, since work takes up all my time. I took time off for the trip, and my boss didn't object. She wished me a safe journey and a good rest. Glancing at the table where my laptop was, I decided to unplug all the cords, just in case. It might seem funny to some, but my friend's laptop once burned out like that. And I'm leaving for six days. After double-checking that I had all my things packed, I called a taxi and waited. My hands were sweating from the wait. This anticipation filled my heart with the feeling that something exciting and interesting awaited me in America. This was only my second time flying on a plane, and that made me even more nervous, checking my phone screen to track the taxi's location.
Before getting into the taxi, I sent Michael a message: "I'm leaving. Wish me luck. We'll see each other soon."
I didn't receive a reply. And I didn't pay any attention to it. And perhaps that was my first mistake. Having flown to Turkey, to Istanbul, I boarded a plane to Los Angeles and sent another message to Michael: "I've already boarded the plane. It's so great here. I honestly feel like a fish in the ocean, swimming toward something unknown."
The entire plane ride, I stared out the window, took photos, read a book, or watched a funny TV show on my phone. I felt very comfortable sitting in that snow-white seat and enjoying the flight. I even chatted with my seatmates a few times: a sweet couple from Russia, traveling to America on their honeymoon. They told me a fascinating story about how they met: they met at the theater. And each of them had received tickets from their best friends, who couldn't go to the performance. If it weren't for their friends and those tickets, they would never have met and wouldn't have had the courage to argue at the end of the performance. This story warmed my heart; I love hearing stories about how people met. You never know where you'll meet your soulmate. It was at that moment that I first asked myself: is Michael really my destiny?
But I decided to push these thoughts away and just admire the views from the plane window. As I was approaching Los Angeles, I suddenly received a message from Michael on WhatsApp: “Sorry. I can’t meet you. Take a taxi and come straight to the hotel.” To say that this message upset me is an understatement. But there was nothing I could do. After getting off the plane, I asked the couple sitting next to me for help. I asked them to call me a taxi and tell the driver the address. It’s a good thing they didn’t refuse to help me and put me right in the taxi. They spoke English so well that for a moment I even felt a little uneasy. My English isn’t that good. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here? No, there’s no need for such thoughts. I’m brave, after all, and now I’m 9,000 km from home. I can’t believe my eyes. When I landed on the plane and got into a taxi, it was somewhere around 5 pm local time. It was already starting to get dark and the first streetlights were coming on. They were so bright that they illuminated the entire road and the trees. The sky was dark blue with hints of blue. The tall, vibrant green trees swayed slowly in a warm July breeze. I wasn't cold at all, so I didn't bother putting on a jacket—especially since I had to take a taxi to the hotel. Just in case, I counted my dollar bills in my wallet. I listened to music and admired the beautiful views of the city the entire way to the hotel. About 30 minutes later, the taxi stopped, and I realized we'd arrived. The driver helped me out and take my suitcase out of the trunk. Then he quickly drove away. I stood by the road, gazing at the bright sign that read "Hotel Bel-Air." The hotel building was like a work of art in itself. It was a snow-white ten-story building with modern windows. I honestly don't have enough words to describe all the beauty I saw. My mouth just dropped open in amazement. The building was designed in a modern style, with sloping roofs in some places to add elegance. The windows were covered in different colored shutters. Apparently, this was the architect's idea. Opposite the hotel was a huge swimming pool, several angel statues, and large palm trees flanking it. The hotel building was also adorned with numerous bright lanterns. Nearby, I saw a parking lot with several cars already parked there. Judging by the look of things, the cars seemed quite expensive. For a moment, I even doubted whether I was in the right place. I decided to call Michael on WhatsApp, but he didn't answer. I really didn't like that, and I started to get nervous. Had he lied to me? Now I felt cold, and my arms were covered in goosebumps. A chilly wind was already blowing in from the ocean, making me want to put something on. I took my jacket out of my suitcase, put it on, and headed toward the hotel. Night would soon fall, after all, and I couldn't spend the night on the street.
I'd have to go in there and at least find out how much a room was at this hotel.
As soon as I walked through the revolving doors, noticing the mirrored ceiling, stylish velvet curtains, red carpet on the floor, and the crowd of people, I just wanted to turn around for a minute and leave. Judging by the outside, it was very expensive. Sofas and armchairs like I'd only seen in movies. And those crystal chandeliers, it was as if I'd entered a fairytale castle. My intuition was right; when I approached the receptionist, I immediately saw the price board. What was this? With these thoughts, I left. No, this is too expensive. One day here will cost exactly half of what I brought with me. And I have six days to stay here. After leaving the hotel, I tried calling Michael again. It was no longer funny and even a little scary. I decided to do a little googling and found an inexpensive hotel not far from me. It's so good that you can find everything online now. While I was walking to the new hotel, suitcase in hand, I bought myself a hot dog. It was so hot I almost dropped it. But it was so delicious. I was so lost in my thoughts and my food that I didn't even notice how quickly I reached the hotel. The building was a bit more modest, but since it was getting dark, I was eager to get in. I saw the receptionist at the reception. She was a young woman, dressed in a dark blue suit, and no more than 165 cm tall. She had blue eyes and bright red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked about the same age as me, no more than 30. I typed in the price of a six-day room into an online translator and showed it to her. The receptionist smiled at me and replied in Russian: "Good evening! Are you from Russia? You can speak to me in Russian. I'm the only one here who speaks Russian."
I wonder what the chances of meeting a Russian-speaking receptionist in America are? Or am I just lucky? Although, it's only my first day here. As it turned out, the receptionist's name was Vanessa. She had studied in Russia as an exchange student for several years, and although she's originally from California, she now lives here with her beloved corgi. She kindly helped me book a room and even showed me to it. She also said I could always call on her.
My room was dark blue. There was a double bed in the middle, flanked by two nightstands. There was also a wardrobe with a mirror, two chairs, a table, and an electric kettle with mugs. A little later, I also noticed a microwave in the room. The only thing missing was a refrigerator, but as Vanessa said, a room with a refrigerator would cost $10 more. And I was already on a tight budget. I paid for the room for all the days at once and made a strict commitment to spending sparingly. Breakfast was free and included in the price. I decided to have lunch at the cafe, and I could pay extra for dinner at the hotel. Yes, that's it.I like to calculate everything, especially everything related to money. But it didn't work out that way with a man. I clearly miscalculated there. But where? Michael seemed so sweet to me in text messages. Glancing at my phone screen, tears welled up in my eyes. Now that Vanessa had left me alone in the room, I could relax and let my feelings flow. I lay there crying on the bed for about ten minutes, and then noticed that my tears had soaked my entire T-shirt. I quickly took it off, put on my robe, and wrapped myself in it. It was plush, a soft white. How glad I was that I'd brought it from home. Just remembering home, I heard my phone ringing. It was my parents calling. I needed to tell them I'd arrived and that I was okay. The conversation with them lasted almost ten minutes.
After talking with my parents, I decided to go down to the foyer to buy myself some tea. I really wanted to drink some local hot tea. They say it's calming. As I went down to the first floor, I suddenly heard beautiful music somewhere to the right, and my feet instantly turned toward the music. Had I heard that voice before? I was sure it was worth it, and I needed to walk those few meters across the snow-white floor.
Slowly walking toward the music, I suddenly felt so intrigued and curious. Music has always captivated me, drawing me in. But this time, it was more than curiosity. Approaching the door, I slightly opened it, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the colorful lanterns and garlands. Closing my eyes, I noticed a crowd of people dancing with their arms raised. Everyone was dressed like they belonged in a magazine. Up ahead, I saw a stage, and there stood a young man holding a guitar. He was singing and playing. I didn't even understand the meaning of his song, but I wanted to stay there and listen. Holding my breath, I walked along the wall where the chairs were, looking back and forth between the stage and the dancers. For a moment, I even forgot I was wearing jeans and a white hotel robe, and that I'd been going downstairs for tea, and instead, I'd ended up here. The hotel had become the only place where I could walk peacefully and take my mind off everything that had happened to me earlier. Looking up at the ceiling of this large hall, I saw a beautiful cube-shaped chandelier and stared at it for a long moment. The song the singer was singing was so sweet that I even forgot where exactly I was and that I was wearing ordinary white slippers. Suddenly, the song ended, and someone grabbed my arm from behind and started saying something in English. I looked around, confused. And then I noticed cameras from all directions, and a little further away, the director. "Oh, I think I'm in trouble," I thought to myself, taking a step back. Security quickly escorted me out of the room, making it clear that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was a music video shoot, but I thought it was a concert. Sigh... When I approached the hotel receptionist, I learned that they were filming a video for a popular singer there. And that I shouldn't go into that room again. I wonder who that singer was? I don't remember hearing him, or maybe I heard him and forgot? Because of all the lights and spotlights, I could barely make him out. I only remember his silhouette and dark hair. I wanted to ask the receptionist for more details, but I changed my mind and went to my room. I need to freshen up and change. My flight home is in exactly six days, and I need to take advantage of it and at least explore the city. Although, I don't know anyone here except for a good receptionist named Vanessa. And that's because she knows Russian and understood my situation perfectly. I'm still scared to think that I'm alone here in this unfamiliar country. At least I have a phone, a GPS, and an online translator. Having climbed up to the second floor, where my room was, I took a deep breath and looked at the painting on the dark blue wall. It depicted a black horse with a beautiful, lush mane. I noticed that horse paintings were everywhere on the second floor. Apparently, that was the style of this floor. Even the lighting here was not too bright and fit perfectly with the overall decor. Having reached my room, I swiped the hotel map to open the door and went inside. My sweet single room. Small, modest. But at least there was a bathtub instead of a shower. My sweet home for the time being in this country. Looking at myself in the mirror, I took off my cotton robe and put on a T-shirt. I should try calling him again. Although, is there any point? He won't answer anyway. I fell for another guy's scam and came to a country where no one was waiting for me. This is all nonsense, not long-distance love. I picked up my phone and stared at it for a long time, wondering what to do. But I still decided against calling. All my friends and my parents think I'm here on vacation, so let them keep thinking that. I need to be strong. Yes, at first I'll feel like a butterfly in this city among so many people and houses. I know absolutely nothing here, and people speak different languages.
Glancing at my phone screen, I noticed I hadn't set the time to local time. Outside, it had long been night and the stars were shining. Who would have thought I'd end up in Los Angeles, America itself? I opened the search engine on my phone, immediately changed the time, and started looking up the sights in this city. Isn't the famous "Charmed" house and the famous bridge here? I definitely need to visit somewhere and make a list. Plus, I need to check how much money I have on me. And it's one thing when you're traveling with someone, and quite another when you're alone, and when
your English is, to put it mildly, far from fluent. Of course, I understand some things, thanks to my school and college.
About 30 minutes later, we turned into a huge exhibition center, where a lot of people were standing at the entrance. They were all dressed in business suits and were clearly waiting for someone. Imagine my surprise when the taxi driver stopped right in front of them and said, "We've arrived."
It didn't look like a park at all. And strangely, these people in suits bustled about and formed a line right next to the taxi. As soon as I started walking out, people started taking flash photos of me and clapping. What about me? I got out and started clapping and saying thank you. A few minutes later, everyone fell silent and started looking at each other in confusion. Clearly, they weren't waiting for me. I was about to get back in the taxi when I suddenly saw the car had already driven away, and the people in suits quickly began to distance themselves from me. So what next? Looking around, I noticed I was standing in front of a two-story white marble building. It was modern in style, with huge panoramic windows. From the sign next to it, I realized they were hosting exhibitions. Taking my phone out of my bag, I Googled the place and decided: why not? I'll go there while I'm here. Especially since there's an exhibition of Victorian sculptures going on right now. Interesting. And then I can take the tram to the park. It's a 10-minute ride away.
I was lucky and was able to buy a ticket and enter the exhibition. There weren't many people around, so there was plenty to see. It didn't last long, though, and I quickly got tired of pacing around. Suddenly, I saw these guys in suits, animatedly talking to someone. And suddenly I saw him, the singer from the hotel. Was that him? After taking a couple of steps, I accidentally bumped into the security guard and stepped on his foot. Lucky, really lucky. I should have been more careful. But everyone immediately noticed me, which made me feel uneasy and I decided to quickly leave the building. So he came here too? Why? Although, perhaps that would be a strange question. Only, he saw me literally crash into that security guard, and that's not cute at all. The guard almost jumped in pain, as if I'd broken his entire pinky. And why am I so unlucky? On the way out, I decided to buy some ice cream and collect my thoughts a bit. Well, where next? And then I
saw him in the taxi window and decided I had the strength to run out and catch up with him. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Maybe I watched too many movies and just wanted to get out of there, who knows. As soon as I got into the taxi with my ice cream, HE got in from the other side! What the hell is going on! Is he following me or something? My ice cream instantly fell out of fear onto his lap, or rather, onto his jeans. He just sat down next to me so abruptly that I genuinely thought he was some kind of maniac. Some will say I dropped my ice cream on him on purpose. Others will say it was just from fear. But the next few minutes were truly strange. He started saying something to me quickly in English, and I sat there in silence. I didn't understand a thing. My knowledge of English instantly vanished. The only thing I could say was the address of my hotel. Then this singer said something to the taxi driver and we drove off.
He's handsome, with short black hair and brown eyes. He's short. His muscles are visible. So he goes to the gym, that's good. And his whole physique is quite nice. He's sitting next to me, trying to remove a stain from his jeans with his handkerchief, but it's not working very well. The stain only got bigger and his hands became sticky. He said something to the driver, who gave him some wet wipes. I wonder if he sees me looking at him? Oh, I shouldn't have thought that. It was as if he read my thoughts and looked me in the eyes. How handsome he is, just like from the cover of a magazine. Crowds must be chasing him, especially his brown eyes. My cheeks started to flush at these thoughts, and I immediately turned away and opened the window a little. I needed to breathe a little and calm my thoughts. And also stop breathing so actively, I needed to normalize my breathing. And urgently. After a while, we stopped at the hotel, I got out, but he didn't. He immediately left with the taxi driver. Of course. He wouldn't go to the hotel looking like that, where a crowd of fans would be attacking him. Just when I thought about it, I saw them right outside the hotel. Holding posters with his photos. They said "Joe." So that's his name? Apparently, these fans found out they were filming a video with him here and decided to spy on him. God, how stupid. Where's the artist, and where are you? All these singers are selfish, they only think about themselves, and the only thing that matters to them is money. And the more they have, the better off they'll be. After all, they buy whatever they want with that money. But why did Joe take a taxi? Now that's more interesting. And why didn't he come out with me? Was he afraid the fans would see him with me or his stain on his jeans? Under which are his toned legs. He tones his legs, too, right? Okay, stop! What was I talking about? That's it. I need to stop thinking about him. With these thoughts in mind, I decided not to go to the hotel but to go for a walk and take some photos. That's the kind of romantic I am; I love nature and photography. While I was walking, people sometimes looked at me, but I didn’t pay attention to them.
At this time of day, there were indeed a lot of people, and everyone was in a hurry. That's what the hustle and bustle of the city means. And I was just walking, the soles of my sneakers touching the gray asphalt, smiling to myself. The only thing I regretted at that moment was not bringing a hat. It made my head feel like I was stepping into a real oven. And it wasn't exactly a pleasant sensation. Approaching a tall palm tree with tall green leaves, I decided to stand in its shade for a while and watch the local low fountain across the road. Suddenly, a butterfly, a soft blue hue, flew right in front of my nose. I was about to take my phone out of my purse when it quickly rose into the air and disappeared into the sunlight, preventing me from taking a photo.
The butterfly flew forward, near the highway, not paying any attention to the people or houses. It was as if something was beckoning it to fly straight ahead, straight ahead. Flap your wings as fast as you can. If I'd only known where this wondrous creature landed, I probably would have said it was fate. The butterfly landed on the windowsill of a low, one-story wooden house, where the singer, Joe, was standing outside. Of course, he didn't notice the butterfly, as he was in the recording studio, surrounded by numerous instruments and equipment. Next to him at that moment was his old acquaintance, Chris. He was about 40 years old and one of America's most respected sound engineers. He sat in front of the equipment, checking that everything was in order, ensuring that the recording wouldn't distort the sound. Chris was very surprised when Joe showed up, as they'd agreed to meet in a couple of hours.
"So, how did you get the stain out of your jeans?" Chris asked, looking up from his equipment.
"Not exactly. Do you have any sweatpants?" Joe replied. He was still reeling from the ice cream I'd ruined his jeans with. When he arrived at his friend's, he tried to remove the stain, but it only got bigger.
"I'll look," Chris said, getting up from his chair and going into the next room in search of his sweatpants. His entire house consisted of a kitchen with a living room, a work area, and the room where he lived. He was perfectly content to live modestly, but he always knew where everything was. He was wearing black sweatpants and a light blue T-shirt, through which a slight belly was visible. After about ten minutes of searching, he brought Joe his old gray pants back to his room so he could change into them right away.
"Thanks! How was the song going?" Joe asked, quickly changing. Finally, he felt a little better. Or was it just his imagination?
"Everything's fine. So how did you manage to stain your jeans? Unruly fans?"
- If only. Can you imagine, someone stole my taxi right in front of me today. Luckily, there was another taxi nearby, and I managed to stop by the museum and arrange a charity event. And then this girl got into my taxi and covered me in her ice cream.
- What a busy day you've had. What about the music video? How did it go?
- We'll finish filming the final scenes on the coast this evening. I hope the weather holds up.
- Me too.
- The shoot will be on Venice Beach.
- Will there be hot girls too?
- Depends on how you like it.
With these words, Joe and Chris laughed.
After all, those guys were incorrigible. They had been friends for years and always loved to hang out in bars. Especially about 12 years ago. Even before Joe married Scarlett. I'll definitely tell you about her a little later. But for now, let's go back to my place. I walked like this for about two hours. I stopped often and admired the nature. I looked at the people: they were all of different nationalities, different skin colors, with different habits and tastes. Some were riding in cars, some on electric scooters, some on bicycles. The sheer hustle and bustle of city life. Only the skyscrapers stood motionless like statues. And why is everyone drawn here? Probably precisely this: the combination of all these elements and people in a hurry. Surely, there are tons of offices here where millionaires work. Somewhere in the distance, you can make out various tall attractions and huge, bright signs. Tired of walking, I decided to stop for a bite to eat at a cafe, and then caught a taxi and went to Venice Beach. The famous beach on the coast. I only remembered that I didn’t bring a swimsuit in the taxi. The question is, what am I going to do there? After all, people go to the beach to swim. But all these photos of searching for beautiful places captivated me so much that I decided to give in to the temptation. Let it be the beach, and tomorrow I'll go to museums or wherever my eyes lead. They say that the heart can sometimes guide us to where fate awaits us. Where we are simply destined to be. It's as if our entire lives were planned out down to the minute and told: right now you need to be there. Without a doubt.
Having paid the taxi driver, I opened the door and stepped out onto the street, where the beach began a few meters away. The sun began to warm even more, and all I could do was hope that I wouldn't melt here like an ice cream cone. Although, one ice cream is clearly enough for me today. There are so many palm trees here, kiosks with all sorts of souvenirs. And over there you can see the white beach with its sand. And of course, the blue, endless ocean. How beautiful.
I decided to walk along the asphalt path next to the beach. People of all ages started walking towards me. There were women pushing strollers and couples heading straight for the beach. Some were dressed in swimsuits and running towards the blue waves. Taking off my shoes, I decided to walk barefoot on the sand for a bit. It was so hot, it was as if I had entered a completely different world. Suddenly, two boys about 8 years old ran past me, shooting water pistols at each other. A few droplets of cool water even hit me. A woman in shorts and a T-shirt walked behind the boys. Apparently, it was their mother. She apologized to me, and I just smiled in response. The sun will dry all these droplets on my hair and shoulders anyway. I wonder, will I ever have children? My parents, of course, often asked me: when you have children already, you’re already almost 30! To which I just remained silent. I simply had nothing to say. First, I need to get married and find the one. But where to look? The world is huge, there are so many people, but somehow finding the right person is so difficult. Watching the mischievous boys and their mother leave, I heard something vibrating in my bag. Opening it, I noticed someone was calling me on WhatsApp. It was Michael. My hands even started shaking. Should I answer or not? And was it really necessary after he dumped me in a foreign country? After waiting a few seconds, I decided to answer the call.
"Hello, Helen. How are you? Sorry I missed you," Michael began. I even sensed sincerity and remorse in his words. After all, he was talking on a video call, and I could see his face.
"Hello. Where are you? Why did you leave me?" I asked. I should have just said some nasty words and hung up, but I decided to take a more casual approach. I really wanted to know why. "I was in an accident yesterday on my way to see you and wrecked my car. I'm in the hospital. Send me $1,000 for treatment. We'll definitely see each other as soon as I recover. I'm sorry I haven't written or called you." "We'll definitely see each other as soon as you send me the money."
"Show me in the hospital on video. I only see a gray background behind you."
"I can't. They don't allow it here. Send me the money, darling. I really need your help."
"I'll think about it," I said, and hung up, tears in my eyes.
Slowly sitting down on the warm sand, I decided it would be best for me to sit here for a while and calm down first. Tears were streaming down my face. A few minutes later, he sent me another WhatsApp message, inventing a heartbreaking story about how he'd been driving to see me, how he'd wrecked his car and
got into an accident. How he was lying in the hospital with broken bones and how much he loved me. In the end, he even sent me a photo from the hospital, as if he was all bandaged up. There was only one thing he forgot: I can tell the difference between Photoshop and I clearly noticed that he simply superimposed his face on top. Plus, he didn’t want to show me the hospital room on video. Just words about how much he loved me and that’s all. Was it for this man that I came to America? Was it for this man that I’m now sitting on the beach on the hot sand and crying? Wiping my tears with my hand, I got to my feet, shook out the back of my dress and did what I should have done a long time ago. I blocked Michael and deleted his phone number. I was tempted to throw the phone in the ocean, but I changed my mind. Besides, I still have to fly home, and I don’t have money for a new phone. I didn’t save this money for a vacation to now sit here and cry. To unwind a little, I decided to buy myself black sunglasses at the first store I came across. They’ll do. I especially liked the frames of the glasses; they were white and embellished with rhinestones. Now I can go to the beach, sit on a bench, and just look at the waves, the sand, and the people playing volleyball. Surprisingly, I even fell asleep on that very bench. I fell asleep just sitting there. That's not even typical of me. Perhaps the local climate or the jet lag affected me. I opened my eyes when the sky had already turned a slightly orange, peach-colored hue. Apparently, evening had already fallen. People passing by were quickly sporting light windbreakers or shirts with sleeves. My arms immediately broke out in goosebumps at the first cool breeze. I even started to wonder what if it suddenly got colder and started raining? And here I was, sitting here in just a dress. After stroking my arms, I got up from the bench and decided to walk closer to the water and take some photos of the coast. I took out my phone, took a few photos, and posted them on my social media page. I captioned it: "This sky has captured my heart. All these clouds, like colorful marshmallows, delight my eyes." Of course, I wasn't planning on eating the clouds. These are just lines for my post. I hope my parents will see this photo too. By the way, I should tell you a little about my parents. My mother's name is Arina Markovna. She has worked in a chocolate factory for over 20 years. I remember when I was little, my mother would often secretly bring me chocolate bars. And I would eat them all in literally a second, which, of course, earned my mother's disapproval. She couldn't understand how I could eat chocolate so quickly; it could even give me a stomach ache. Of course, I was a child and didn't care at all. My father's name is Vladislav Alekseevich. He works as a deputy director at a company that's hard to pronounce. I always get confused about its name. My parents say they want to work for another 2 years and then retire at the same time.
What I always liked about them was that they always knew how to get along and always did everything after careful consideration. Looking at them and listening to how much they've loved each other since university always brings a smile to my face. Wow, so many years together. I wish I could have that kind of love. A once-in-a-lifetime love. It's true what they say, that sometimes children seek out the relationships their parents had, to unconsciously replicate them. It's just a shame I've had no luck in my personal life.
Walking by the water, I noticed a few kids building a sandcastle, and a few meters further I saw a beach bar. People were sitting there drinking beer. It was a group of young men and women, dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Looking at them and their joy, my stomach began to rumble like a little kitten. I need to quickly take a taxi and go to the hotel. I'll eat there. As I passed by, I didn't even notice that they were filming Joe's music video on the beach. He was wearing a white T-shirt, white pants, white sneakers, and even a white hat. He looked a bit like a cowboy in all white. If I'd turned my head to the left, I'd have definitely seen security guards, a director, cameramen, and other people assisting with the filming. But I was so lost in my thoughts that I only looked at the highway, where the cars drove along in a tight line. And I thought it would be a good idea to put my shoes back on before walking along the asphalt path.
After taking a taxi to my hotel, I took stock of the day. In my opinion, it had been quite interesting and eventful. I even began to think that this "Michael" was just an excuse to go to America. So to speak, that kick that sends something flying into the air. Well, you get the idea, I hope. I'm not 18 years old to be so upset about a failed relationship. Over the years, I've learned to look for the good in every bad thing. Even if the situation is really bad. I've always been able to find a way out. Now was exactly such a moment. I met Vanessa in the lobby on my floor. She was holding some kind of brochure. She was wearing a tight blue knee-length skirt and an elegant white blouse. Her hair was pulled to the side and secured with a beautiful silver barrette. She was wearing very high heels. I wonder how she manages to walk in those shoes so easily? Perhaps she's gotten used to it, or the hotel policy requires it. I don't know exactly what their dress code is. When she noticed me, she immediately came up to me and said in Russian:
- Hi. I guessed I'd meet you here. How was your day?
- Everything's great, I'm just hungry. I was at Venice Beach today and I'm very tired, I told her.
"I'll have dinner delivered directly to your room. I see you've had a really great day, haven't you? You're covered in sand," Vanessa said, gesturing to my shoulder and knees. "Really. It's good, I sat like this for a while, and even my palms are dirty from the sand."
"I'd be very grateful."
"Is it okay if we're on first-name terms?"
"No. That's very sweet."
"If you don't have any plans for tomorrow, you can take a bus tour right from our hotel. That's rare. They'll pick you up and drop you off right here. You'll see Hollywood, the Walk of Fame, the observatory, and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. It costs $50, but I got it reduced to $40 through my connections. I also arranged for you to get an earpiece for online translation into Russian. That's rare, so I really hope you'll agree." "This is simply super. I don't even know how to thank you. Maybe we should go together then? I'd really enjoy your company."
"Oh, I'd love to, but I'm working tomorrow."
"That's a shame. Does that mean only our hotel will be taking the tour?"
"No, there will be others from the neighboring hotel, too. Space is limited, of course, that's why they handed out brochures to everyone. Take this; you'll need it for the trip."
"You're just like the fairy godmother from Cinderella. Will there be a prince and a horse, by any chance?"
"Unfortunately not. Apparently, the delivery was delayed."
"Yes, most likely," I answered sadly. And I unconsciously told her about Michael and how he asked me for money. I don't know how I managed it. It's not usually my style to share such things. Especially not with hotel staff. Although, perhaps they've heard such stories before. It's their job to listen to guests' confessions and complaints. After telling her my whole story, I didn't even notice how much better I felt. I even found it easier to breathe, and I didn't feel like crying anymore. Maybe I really needed that. Just to vent. I don't even have any friends in Russia, only acquaintances. I can't even call anyone there and say, "Let's go for a walk or to the movies?" Or let's turn on some music at home and dance until I drop. My whole life was a gray, lonely mess. And there was nothing interesting in it. And trusting someone was a real challenge for me.
I'm so sorry, really. I've had plenty of assholes in my life too. And believe me, they don't compare to yours. I once met a guy who thought he was a goose. He said "ha" literally every other sentence. It went something like this. "Hi, ga, how are you, ga, you have beautiful eyes, ga, want to come over, ga." And he also insisted that I should get lip fillers if I wanted to date him, Vanessa replied, smiling.
"Really? Or did you just make that up?"
"No, it's true, ga. Everything I'm saying is true, ga! You, ga, how, ga, trust, ga, me, ga, don't you want to, ga?"
We laughed at that. Then Vanessa said she had to go and knocked on the door of the room next to mine.
I leaned my back against the hallway wall and sighed deeply. I really had no reason to grieve and think about all this. Tomorrow I'll have a tour, thanks to my new friend.
Meanwhile, on the Los Angeles coast, filming the final scenes of Joe's music video was in full swing, and it seemed like it would never end. The director was constantly getting upset about something. Fans would sneak through the fence and disrupt the entire shoot, forcing him to start over. One fan even managed to climb over the wooden fence, run up to Joe, and take a photo next to him. But security guards immediately reacted and escorted him off the beach. Other fans didn't risk repeating the run, as they had also called in the police for assistance. Joe was getting pretty tired of repeating the same movements against the backdrop of the water and opening his mouth at the right times. He thought the filming would go quickly and be done in two hours, but unfortunately, it turned out to be a full four hours. He didn't know who he was angrier at: the crowd of fans screaming under every tree or the director constantly asking him to change his pose. He wasn't a model, standing there against a deep purple sky all night. He was lucky, though; it was warm enough. For the video shoot, they'd pitched a snow-white tent on the coast, surrounded by numerous electric candles. It was supposed to look like Joe was singing against the backdrop of the water, then the tent. It was at that moment, as Joe stood near the tent, that he heard the long-awaited words from the director: "Cut! Thank you all for your help."
"Thank you too!" Joe said, approaching the tallest guard. It was his personal bodyguard, Kevin. He was dressed in blue shorts and a blue T-shirt. He wore a black cap and dark glasses. He was about 45, and his white stubble clearly betrayed his age. He was from Massachusetts, a white Native American. He only worked for Joe for about two years. He'd worked for the FBI and other security agencies for a long time, but he decided to try something new and couldn't decide for a long time where to go. Until one day, his wife told him that her cousin had a friend, a producer, who worked at a very promising recording studio.And that they were looking for bodyguards to protect young singers. That's how fate brought him together with Joe, after which they became good friends, and Joe now always gives his children gifts for New Year's and their birthdays. Kevin is always very grateful to him, and after two years of working with him, he could accurately predict from Joe's eyes when he was tired or angry.
The crowd of fans, realizing that filming was over, immediately began shouting, "Joe, we love you!" and asking for autographs. Someone even pulled out posters with hearts and the inscription, "Marry Me." Looking at them and at Joe, Kevin realized he was too tired to give them autographs and led him straight to the white van used for changing clothes. But halfway there, Joe stopped and turned around and said to Kevin, "I'll just change, quickly sign some autographs, and then we'll go somewhere for a drink. I need a drink right now." And also, if any agent calls, tell them not to call me today.
Joe wasn't an alcoholic, he just liked a drink now and then after all those hard days and filming. He thought a sip of alcohol wouldn't do him any harm. After all, everyone relaxes in their own way. And most importantly, he knows how to control himself. His debut solo album is coming soon, and then a tour. Where exactly that tour will take place hasn't been decided yet, though. Most likely, it'll be around different states first. Or maybe they'll just present him with a fait accompli. They'll send him a contract through a producer and say, "Sign it." And he'll have to sign. Organizing concerts is a very labor-intensive undertaking, with its own strict schedules that need to be met. Fans always have high hopes and are eagerly awaiting their favorite artists. So, he can't just not show up. He spent his whole life in Flagstaff, Arizona. He was born here, grew up, went to school, and even married his classmate, Scarlett. This marriage can't be called a mistake; each had their own goals in life, their own vision of life. Joe never liked answering journalists' questions about why they divorced four years ago. It was his personal business, and he liked to keep personal things secret. Now, Scarlett is a famous actress, traveling to different countries and even participating in fashion shows as a model. Joe and Scarlett have a little daughter, who is five years old; she lives with her mother and, of course, sees Joe from time to time. It's worth noting that Scarlett became famous earlier and achieved everything on her own all her life. It was these character traits that won him over. After the divorce, they remained on good terms, despite occasional quarrels about raising their daughter. They both have different opinions on this. Through communication alone, they accept each other's terms. After all, when they don't communicate, quarrels begin with words like: "Why didn't you let me know?"That's life after divorce.
The next morning, I woke up early. You know, surprisingly, I adapted to the local time pretty quickly. I thought I'd never get used to the fact that the time difference here is so big compared to Russia. And of course, that's a good thing. Otherwise, I'd be wandering around America at night and sleeping during the day, turning into a "night dweller—a vampire." True, I don't have fangs. Well, I hope you understand what I meant anyway, and I won't have to repeat it over and over again. I don't like repeating myself. No sooner said than done. That's all. Although, perhaps I did have to repeat things several times. For the tour, I decided to wear jeans, a white T-shirt, a green shirt, and sneakers. I put a long snake necklace around my neck and did my makeup in front of a folding mirror. I was too lazy to go to the big one on the wall. Especially since I had all my makeup laid out right in front of me. Then I decided to go to breakfast downstairs. I needed a snack before the trip. As soon as I got down the elevator to the floor, I noticed Vanessa, she told me that the weather would be warm today and that the bus would arrive in about 40 minutes,and will be parking in front of the hotel...
Vanessa was right, it was a really cool tour. They told us so many interesting things. I especially liked the Griffith Observatory. It's a stunningly interesting Art Deco building on the outside, and there's so much interesting inside. Including all these exhibits. The observatory building, with its round roof, slightly resembles a mosque. It was named after its founder, Jenkins Griffith. Under the highest dome is the famous Foucault pendulum, which clearly demonstrates the Earth's rotation to visitors. I personally love space and astronomy, but I'm wary of science fiction novels. Sometimes they're so full of complicated phrases that I find them difficult to read. But that's not the point now. They also showed us that very tunnel from my favorite movie, "Back to the Future." I even took a photo in front of it and sent it to all my family. And the view of those mountains... you can even see the "Hollywood" sign in the distance. So many paths below, so many trees, what a pleasant view and a feast for the eyes. If I had my way, I would have stayed further away. But the guide said we'd drive closer and check out the next attraction. I don't think I need to tell you how tired my legs were after all that walking, and how tired I was when we got back on the bus and headed back toward the hotel. I counted about 20 people with me. To be honest, I was so absorbed in the ride that I didn't really pay attention to the people riding next to me. As we approached the area where our hotel was, a huge traffic jam formed. There were probably at least 15 cars in front of us, stopped at a red light and unable to move forward. All I could do was sit and wait. I didn't understand what people were saying to me in English, and I didn't really want to ask. So I simply took a deep breath and looked out the window. The sky was bright blue, the sun seemed to want to blind me. At least it was cool on the bus. At the very top of the skyscraper hung a large clock, and just below it was a screen on which commercials flashed occasionally. I even saw Joe on one. I recognized him, of course. How could I not? Just recently, I had gotten ice cream on him. Well, then it was his own fault. When they showed his face again on the screen, I stuck out my tongue and showed it. What happened next makes me want to laugh now. But, at that moment... oh, how lucky I was! At that very moment, when I was sticking my tongue out, a red Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet with the top down drove past my bus window. And guess who ended up in the back seat? Yes, it was him!My neighbors on my side of the bus also recognized Joe and started pressing against the window, shouting something. But what about me? Realizing Joe had noticed me too, I frowned and stuck my tongue out at him! I can imagine his shock! Joe's car passed in literally a minute and immediately disappeared behind me. I turned away and took a deep breath. For a moment, I thought I heard my phone vibrate, and I instinctively picked up my bag, placed it on my lap, and started searching for it. When I found it, I realized I was mistaken. It was just a notification with another ad. That's how it is, sometimes you're in a hurry, thinking something important has arrived, but it's just an ad. A few minutes later, we finally pulled away, and I began looking out the window at the now more familiar neighborhood.
Joe was indeed very surprised by my action, but he didn't attach any particular significance to it. He was in a hurry to get to the concert hall with his friends and arrange the presentation of his new video. The premiere was coming up soon, and he was anxious about how it would go every day. Plus, he'd been invited to perform at a concert the next day and sing a few songs from his album. Sometimes, Joe was surprised at how quickly his producer would set him new plans and tell him, "I need to perform, period." Of course, all this isn't just for fame, money, image, and ratings. Most importantly, he loved music and singing. He'd dreamed of it since childhood. His parents also greatly contributed to what he's become today. They recognized his talent early on and sent him to music school, where he successfully learned to play the guitar. Of course, there was a time when, performing in clubs and just starting his career, he wanted to just quit everything and do something more useful. Not even all of his friends supported him at that time; some said that being a singer was stupid and that it would be the only thing you knew how to do. Your voice will disappear one day, and that's it, because without it, you're nothing. Perhaps that would have been true if Joe's parents hadn't been able to find a producer for him. One who simply created a legend out of him, one that's now known across the country. And everyone is eager to see him at their concerts or get his autograph. After the video announcement, his fan base grew even more. Not to mention, he now has several stylists who constantly create new looks for him.
When our bus stopped in front of the hotel, I decided to be the last one off. I simply had no reason to rush. As I stepped onto the last step of the bus, I spotted Vanessa. She was wearing a classic black skirt and a light blue elbow-length blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing black high-heeled shoes.
"Good afternoon! How was your trip?" Vanessa asked me as soon as I stepped onto the dark gray asphalt.
"It was incredible. Thank you!" – I answered and hugged her.
Vanessa gestured to the bus driver, who quickly pulled away, leaving them alone in the middle of the parking lot, where there were a few other cars. Some of the guests were constantly renting cars and driving around the city. At that moment, I regretted not having a driver's license. So, I always had to make do with my slender legs.
- Tomorrow and the day after are my days off. We're planning to go to Beverly Hills with some friends. Want to come with us?
- Are you trying to be a fairy godmother again? I feel a bit awkward.
- Trust me, fairies don't wear heels as high as mine! Don't worry! It'll be fun!
- I don't even know.
- By the way, what about the prince? Did you meet him on the tour? Did you meet anyone?
- No. "He's probably thinking about what to wear," I replied, and for some reason immediately thought of Joe. But I quickly shook those thoughts away. Some prince! He looks more like a lovesick narcissist. Only rich kids drive red cars around town. And he probably has girls waiting on him like they're from America's Next Top Model. All artists are like that, we know them. Especially since they earn millions of dollars and can throw them around left and right. After all, they don't care about anyone. Even getting an autograph from them can be harder than searching for a secret file online.
"What are you so lost in thought about?" Vanessa asked, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to reality.
"I'm just tired and haven't eaten anything for half a day," I said, and my stomach rumbled. And so loudly that my new friend heard it and smiled at me. You'd think I'm always hungry!" "Not another word," Vanessa said, taking my hand and leading me toward the hotel. We chatted for a long time on the way to the caf; on the ground floor, and I agreed to join her on this new adventure. I simply trusted her.
For the remaining half day, I decided to simply ride the tram that circled the hotel. Having bought a travel card, I did just that. I simply hopped on the first tram I saw and rode. I decided, so to speak, to try out another local form of transportation. And admire the city's beauty right from the window. And at least I'd have to walk less. And so I was today during this excursion. I'm sure I'll dream of some magical place tonight. Perhaps even that very Griffith Observatory that stole my heart. That evening, I called my parents on WhatsApp and talked to them for a bit. They kept asking me if I was cold. Of course, it's much cooler in St. Petersburg than here.
No matter how great it is here in Los Angeles, I still miss home. And that's perfectly normal. Everyone longs for their childhood home. Plus, I have work there, and my vacations aren't forever. It's a shame, I would have stayed here longer. Maybe I'd buy myself a house or a ranch. I'd breed horses there and ride them every morning. But I don't have the money for a house, and I don't know how to ride. Plus, my English isn't as good as I'd like. My thoughts have made me sad before my time. It's time to fix that. I urgently need to smile in my large mirror in the hotel room and think about what I'll wear tomorrow. Putting my suitcase on the bed, I found another dress I hadn't worn here. I took it out, hung it on a hanger, and put it away in the closet. I was lucky it didn't wrinkle and didn't need ironing. I also took out my swimsuit and put it in my bag. I might need it. My purse, however, clearly won't fit a towel. I hope I can manage without it, or I'll ask Violetta to bring a spare one for me. I moved my suitcase off the bed, lay down on the white blanket, and before I knew it, I'd fallen asleep.
In the morning, I was awakened by a knock on the door. It was Violetta. She was already standing there, fully prepared, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. A brown, patterned backpack hung over her back. I let her into my room and told her I'd quickly change into a dress and then be ready. Honestly, my cheeks even flushed a little with anticipation. I must have been a little nervous. After changing, I slung my bag over my shoulder and put on my pumps. Why didn't I even feel like wearing any jewelry this time? "We'll stop by Abigail and Stephanie's on the way, have breakfast, and then hit the road," Vanessa said to me as we left my room and walked across the faded carpet toward the elevator.
"Honestly, I still can't believe it," I admitted, adjusting a lock of hair that had fallen right in my eye.
"It's just a short drive from Beverly Hills. I'm sure you'll love it there."
"Tell me more about your friends."
"I've been friends with them since high school; we were on the cheerleading team and went to gymnastics together. They're great girls. Stephanie works as a bank manager, and Abigail owns her own antique shop downtown. They're both 31, just like me. How old are you, by the way?"
"I'm 29."
"You look much younger." - Many people tell me so.
"That's understandable, we're girls, we just get younger after 25."
"Tell me that after 25, you'll always be 18."
"That's true."
"But for some reason, sometimes you feel 45."
"That's normal, we're not horses who work hard all the time. You know who needs to work hard?"
"Who?"
"Men, so they don't slack off and become wimps."
"But sometimes I still feel sorry for them."
"But for some reason, I don't feel sorry for us at all." After these words, Vanessa helped me close the door to my room, and we headed toward the elevator. For a moment, I thought I saw a hint of resentment toward men in her last words. But I didn't ask her. Perhaps she has her own reasons, and if she wants, she'll tell me everything herself. Down in the hotel lobby, while my friend was handing over her keys, I watched as they changed the light bulbs in the crystal chandelier. It was hanging quite high, and the mechanic in the gray uniform needed a stepladder to reach the required height. Watching his movements, I didn't even notice Vanessa approaching and touching my shoulder with her hand.
"Are you ready for an adventure?" she asked, holding up the gray car keys.
"Unless you're planning on taking me into the forest and eating me," I joked, smiling. Vanessa smiled back at my joke, and we headed toward the hotel exit. Vanessa had a white car, like a Mercedes, I thought. I didn't really look closely at the make of the car. The main thing was that it was comfortable. Although, external beauty is also important. After all, many people like to simply admire cars and take pictures of them. I've seen so many expensive and vintage cars on Nevsky Prospekt. Words can't describe it. The city center is everything, so showing off is also popular here. In Los Angeles, I also had a chance to observe all of this. Beauty seduces, beckons. That's why bloggers take advantage of it to get as many views as possible on their feeds. I'm not much of a social media user myself and rarely use them. Sitting in the front seat next to Vanessa, I immediately buckled up and put on my sunglasses. The Los Angeles sun is sometimes gentle, and sometimes scorching. As luck would have it, I'd forgotten my sunscreen in the hotel room, but it was too late to go back. Vanessa put one hand on the steering wheel and put the keys in the ignition with the other. Soon we'll be moving, driving down the gray highway past other cars and cyclists. And only the wind will be coming through the open windows, gently playing with our hair and tangling it.
Crossing my legs, I stretched out slightly and extended my arms out the window to wave at the pedestrians. They simply passed by silently, not deigning to react. Apparently, there was nothing unusual in my gesture. I pulled my arm back and began to watch my friend drive. A few minutes later, we parked near a small stone house. On the first floor, there was a cafe with an outdoor area. Two girls were already sitting at a table and, noticing us, waved. One was about 160 cm tall, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a short red dress with a black belt, and a silver cross hung around her neck. For a moment, I even thought she was the famous actress Jennifer Love Hewitt, since she really did look like her. Especially in her build and eyes. The second girl had short black hair and blue eyes, and was about 5'7". She was wearing a white T-shirt, black pants, and boots. Her arms were quite muscular. Apparently she went to the gym, as I noticed as Vanessa and I approached them. The table they were sitting at was ebony, and there were two white mugs of coffee on it. Apparently, they'd decided to have a drink while they waited for us. Their coffee smelled so good that I tried to contain my drooling desire. It was a real struggle, though.
"Hello, Stephanie and Abigail. Are you waiting for us?" Vanessa asked, immediately sitting down in a chair next to her friends. I grabbed a chair at the next table and sat down next to them as the fourth.
"Meet Helen. She recently arrived in Los Angeles on vacation," Vanessa said, turning in my direction. "Hi, my name is Stephanie," said a girl with short black hair.
"And my name is Abigail," said the second girl.
"Nice to meet you," I replied.
"I see you've ordered your coffee yet?" asked Vanessa. She, too, caught the pleasant, aromatic scent.
"Yes, we decided to at least order coffee while we waited for you," Stephanie replied.
"And rightfully so. We'll order something and then go," Vanessa said.
"Waiter!" Stephanie called. A young woman in a gray skirt and white blouse approached us, holding a notepad. She quickly took our order and ran off, and we began discussing our plan of action and sharing our expectations for our trip. I liked Vanessa's friends; they were kind and sociable. Although sometimes I didn't quite understand what they were saying. I'll definitely have to learn some English words at home. But how can I remember them? Instinctively, I understand what you're talking about and can answer.
The drive to Beverly Hills took only a short time, but I
saw many beautiful sights along the way. We stopped at a two-story, ivory-colored stone house. It was Abigail's parents' home, and they were currently on vacation. So, we had the whole house to ourselves. Following my friends out of the car, I immediately took in the exterior of the house. It was truly very unusual, its facade adorned with a multitude of different, branching flowers. For example, the hydrangea and roses. I could have imagined it as the home of some fairy. Or, perhaps, of people who really love flowers. Pink, purple, and blue flowers grew along the sides of the house, and the fragrance they exuded was beyond belief. On the second floor of the house was a large balcony with two columns on either side. You could even see a white chair on the balcony, along with chairs made of some kind of metal. This is a great place to watch the sunrise or a meal. I'd also like to sit on the balcony with a cup of tea, looking out at the road, the cars passing by. At the houses opposite, at the forests visible in the distance. Or are they mountains? I probably shouldn't stand here just looking around; I'd better go inside quickly. Even if I'm the last one. I shouldn't lag behind my new friends. The living room was large, in dark blue tones. The furniture was in various styles, and everything looked very harmonious together. There was a fireplace in the middle, with a large landscape painting above it. The floor was light gray laminate. When I stepped on it, I didn't even hear my footsteps. Abigail and Stephanie immediately took all our bags and backpacks and carried them up the vintage brown stairs to the second floor. Apparently, that's where the bedrooms are. Violetta walked right in front of me toward the panoramic window and opened the curtains. She wished for more light in the room. Then she opened the window a crack. It was still quite warm in there, and it was obvious no one had lived there for several days. The bookshelves next to the window were filled with English-language books. Abigail's parents were apparently great readers. And the house itself looked like a museum. Even the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. Taking off my shoes, I approached Violetta and asked her:
"Are Abigail's parents collectors, too? Is that why she wanted to open an antique shop?"
"Almost. Her grandmother collected everything she saw. Even that furniture with those weird legs. Abigail's parents work for an airline and are often on the road. That's why she got into antiques, so she wouldn't be so lonely without them," Violetta answered, pressing the button next to the window. It was the built-in air conditioner.
After which the house immediately felt a little cooler.
- It really is like a museum here. Is it the same on the second floor?
- No, it's more modest. The second floor has three bedrooms, a shower, and a toilet. The first floor has a living room, a kitchen, and a staff room. And something else, like a covered veranda. We usually have lunch there when we come here.
- It really is very nice here.
- Now we'll change and go play volleyball on the beach. Do you know how to play?
- I know a little. Although, to be honest, I haven't played in a long time.
- Don't worry, you'll remember everything.
- Where are Abigail's parents now?
- Somewhere in a hot air balloon in Kansas, I think.
- A hot air balloon? That's interesting.
- You can't even say that. Her parents are real creative. They always come up with a new pastime. Or a business trip. Ten minutes later, Abigail and Stephanie came downstairs. They were already wearing tank tops and short shorts. They were clearly ready to go to the beach.
"I'm going to beat you today," Stephanie declared.
"How so?" Violetta asked.
"Last time it was a draw, if you remember," Stephanie replied.
"Today we're playing two on two, so we'll decide who wins," Violetta replied.
"We're going to a concert this evening. They say Joe's performing tonight," Abigail added.
"And you just want to see Joe," Stephanie joked.
"I wouldn't mind seeing him. He's just a ladies' man," Abigail smiled.
"Who is it?" I asked. Although, I already had my suspicions. But maybe it's a different Joe? There are plenty of performers with that name. "Joe, he's a talented singer from Arizona. He's also a professional guitar player, and they say he recorded a theme song for a movie. By the way, his music video is supposed to premiere soon. It was filmed somewhere not far from here," Abigail replied.
"He seems like a pretty ordinary singer to me, but he really does have a great voice. I still can't get his song about unrequited love out of my head," Stephanie said.
The girls continued their conversation, and I just thought to myself, "Why does he keep bumping into me?" Seriously, why? So many celebrities live here. Is he really going to stalk me my entire vacation? I'm starting to get tired of it.
So, after playing on the beach and swimming in the ocean, I tried to persuade the girls not to go to the concert. But it was all in vain. Luckily, it was a charity concert and
there were a lot of different performers. Just before the concert, Joe himself came on stage wearing black leather pants and a black jacket. He was wearing black sunglasses. Apparently, he decided to wear all black for this performance. His muscular arms gripped the microphone tightly. I bet every girl in the audience wanted to be the one holding the microphone. And to be hugged by Joe, not some purple microphone. As soon as the music started, the whole audience immediately started making noise. Abigail and Stephanie stood to my right, and Vanessa to my left. Hearing Joe sing, my heart immediately started pounding in my chest. What a beautiful voice he has. For a moment, I felt like I was transported to another dimension, as if I were sitting on snow-white clouds, listening to his melodic voice. Those powerful vocals will truly impress anyone. Without a doubt. He's a true artist. Why, I've never heard of him before? After performing three songs, Joe stood with his back to the audience and took a photo of the moment on his phone. Then he thanked everyone and left the stage.
"Now let's go karaoke," Stephanie suggested.
"Isn't that a bit old-fashioned? We're not nearly 50," Vanessa asked.
"It seems like a great idea, but what do you think, Ellen?" Abigail asked me.
"I'm not against it. I love to sing," I replied. And I wasn't lying. I do love to sing, though I'm always worried I'll miss the notes and embarrass myself." I once had karaoke at home, but I only turned it on to create a home theater atmosphere. Of course, the neighbors downstairs might have banged on the radiators at that moment, telling me to turn it down. Ah, youth, youth. It flies by so quickly. You think you've managed to do everything, only to realize you haven't accomplished even half of what you dreamed of when you were 16.
I don't think I've had a bachelorette party like this in a long time. And the most important thing is that after the concert, we all still had energy left. So, at exactly 10:00 PM, we went to the karaoke club, where we stayed for almost two hours. Then, tired, we headed back to Abigail's house. On the way back, I admired the stars and the palm trees. There are so many different types of palms here. Mexican, Californian, Royal, and so many more. You definitely won't see anything like that on the street in St. Petersburg. It's probably much cooler here now, and the stars here are different from ours. Stars look different in every country. In some places they're very bright and large, while in others they're small and dim. The only thing they all have in common is astronomers. They can spend hours observing them through a telescope.
- How was the trip? "Violetta asked me as soon as we stepped into the hotel lobby.
"It was absolutely amazing. Thank you so much," I replied.
"Thank you. It was so much fun with you."
"No, thank you."
"How did you like Stephanie and Abigail? Did you write down their phone numbers?"
"Yes, and I got their emails. I'll be corresponding with all of you. Honestly, I haven't had friends like that in a long time."
"I'm so glad to hear that."
"Why didn't you tell Abigail that Joe's music video was filmed at your hotel, where you work?"
"I can't talk about celebrity guests. It's hotel policy. Besides, we're responsible for them. There were already plenty of reporters here who wanted to know all the secret information. I'll tell you a secret, they tried to bribe me too, so I'd tell them where Joe was staying."
"Even that? The lengths people will go to for their own desires." "Unfortunately, that's common in hotels here. They just want to sneak in to take a surprise photo of a celebrity. And believe me, they're not at all tormented by guilt."
"Have you seen a lot of celebrities here?"
"I can't tell you exactly, that's a secret."
"I understand."
"I'm just kidding! At least 10, for sure. This isn't such a luxurious hotel that they'd come in droves."
"Ten is fine too."
"By the way, I'm working when you fly home. I won't be able to walk you to the airport. I hope you don't mind?"
"Of course not. You've already been a great help. Thank you so much. You're a wonderful friend."
"You too. It was so nice to meet you."
With that, I said goodbye to Vanessa and went to my room. I was very, very tired that day, and felt truly exhausted.
It was as if at least a hundred elephants had rolled over me at once. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I touched the gray cotton bedspread with my hand and yawned loudly. Still, such trips are tiring, too, and after them, you only want one thing: to sleep and shed all the weight of the past days.
A few hours later. The day of my flight.
"Want to see photos from the shoot of your video?" Chris asked, turning to Joe. They were, as always, at his house after yet another test recording of the new song. The one Joe had recently written. Only the lyrics needed some work, so they finished early. And because of this, Joe was angry with himself for lacking the inspiration to finish the song. Especially since the melody was already there on the guitar. But it's not so easy to achieve great lyrics while tormenting the strings. "Yeah, sure, let's go. It'll be interesting to see."
"Here, there are a couple of really nice shots," Chris said, handing his friend a few matte-finished photos.
"What's she doing here?"
"Who?"
"That girl," Joe answered, incredulous. "In the first photo, I was standing among the dancers, wearing a robe and jeans. In the second photo, Joe was singing a song with a microphone in his hand, and I was standing almost right next to him, right next to a palm tree. The third photo was taken right at the concert where he was invited as a guest of honor. Joe took a picture with his fans, and miraculously, I was among them. I wasn't in the other photos Chris gave him. But for some reason, those three photos in particular made his heart beat faster.
"Who are these?" Chris asked, walking up to Joe and picking up the three photos to get a closer look. Outside, a heavy rain was falling, pounding the window so hard it felt like it was about to shatter into tiny pieces. It was evening, and the sky was completely covered in every dark shade of blue. The birds had long since disappeared under the roofs of houses or flown into some abandoned barn on the outskirts of town. Only the trees had nowhere to go; they swayed from side to side, letting the wind guide them. It all resembled a tango, just as fiery and yet solitary. The entire porch of Chris's house was soaked through with rain, as it had no roof.Even his rocking chair was instantly soaked, and droplets of water danced on the table next to it. They didn't care about the dark oak finish, or how it could be damaged or rotted. They were just doing their job. Covering everything in sight with their icy drops. It was a good thing there was no lightning, and it didn't glare through the window. According to Chris, lightning never struck his house, but it did knock out the power a couple of times.
"That's the girl who stained my jeans that time. I saw her here almost every day. Maybe she's a stalker?" Joe asked, not fully understanding why I was in those photos. "Is it just a coincidence, or was I deliberately stalking him? Especially like when I brazenly got into his taxi. As if I wanted to steal him."
"Or maybe it's fate?"
"If there was fate, I wouldn't see her so often." I see her all the time in Los Angeles, wherever I go. She even stuck her tongue out at me from the bus window.
- No, she's definitely not herself!
- Fate doesn't ask which door to knock on, it just comes and takes its toll. Especially since I see you like her.
- Me? No! She's not even my type! - Joe spoke these words so loudly that Chris thought for a moment he was going deaf.
- No, that's right. But you have to admit, she's quite attractive. We write our own life story every minute, and every moment we meet someone who changes everything in us. Making our hearts beat faster and faster.
- Have you decided to become a philosopher?
- This girl doesn't look like your stalker, my friend. If she were, she would have bombarded you with messages long ago and would be screaming outside your house right now. Just like Scarlett did when she was jealous. "I don't believe in fate anymore. If I did, I'd be into astrology."
"What does astrology have to do with it? It's an obvious fact."
"Exactly. The fact that she's pretty."
"Well, there you go, you admitted it!"
"I didn't admit it. I just agreed."
"I just believed it. Okay, so what about the photos? Can we invite this photographer to your next shoot?"
"Yeah, I liked it. Especially that he didn't get in my face with his camera. The last photographer got in my face and kept bossing me around." With these words, Joe discreetly placed three photos in the pocket of his jeans and covered them with his long black T-shirt. He didn't even understand why he took those photos. He could have just taken all the photos.
His friend wouldn't have said a word. Walking over to the table where the vinyl record player sat, Joe put on one of his favorite Jonny Lang songs. He liked to relax and be alone with his thoughts this way. It's not for nothing that they say music is the best healer. As a child, he'd had a very old record player with a multitude of cords that always got tangled. Now, in front of him stood a modern, bright blue one. Watching the record spin, he remembered how reverently his father treated vinyl records. A scratch could quickly ruin them and cause them to simply stop working. How for a while he wouldn't even let anyone handle them, fearing for their safety. So many years had passed, and Joe kept his word to his father: he kept all the vinyl records. He even gave some to his friend to listen to occasionally. He even gave Chris the new record player. His friend immediately appreciated the gift and said they would now listen together. And filming various stories for his social media.
Placing his hand on the cool surface of the dresser where the record player sat, Joe glanced around the room. It was still dark behind the curtains, and the rain could be heard. Even the furniture was shrouded in a faint twilight, which made him feel a little uneasy. Reaching the sofa, he straightened the brown bedspread and sat down on it. The most surprising thing was that he even noticed that he was completely alone in the room. Apparently, Chris had gone into another room for a while, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He didn't mind being alone for a while. Putting his hand in his jeans pocket, Joe pulled out the photos again. Why were they so enticing? Why couldn't he tear his eyes away from them? He didn't fully understand it himself. He just really liked the girl in the photo. And he didn't want to admit it. Maybe there was even a point to all this? Hearing his friend enter the room, he immediately put the photos back in his pocket. "Should we watch the new movie on TV? It just came out. They say it has high ratings and good reviews," Joe suggested, sitting down next to Joe.
"Yeah, we can. Do you have any beer?" Joe replied.
"Sure, I'll get some right now."
"And some chips, too, if you have any."
"Sour cream and greens will do?"
"Yeah, any! It doesn't matter."
"You won't grumble later?"
"When did I ever grumble?"
"Just give you a reason."
- Hey!
- Then why did you take the photos with that girl? As if I didn't notice.
- I didn't take anything, you just imagined it.
- At least don't lie to yourself.
- I'm not lying at all. Don't you know me?
- Of course I do. That's why I'm telling you.
After these words, Chris went to the kitchen for beer and chips. And Joe turned on the big plasma TV on the wall.
Meanwhile, at the airport...
I was sitting at the airport, waiting for my flight. As luck would have it, it was delayed due to bad weather. Sitting on the cold iron bench, I felt sadder and sadder with each passing minute. I'm leaving Los Angeles. I'm leaving America. So many interesting things have happened to me here. I've made new friends with whom I can now communicate via email. And hundreds of photos that I'll look through and smile at. In my suitcase are small souvenirs for my parents; I hope they like them. Although, perhaps, I could have spent more and bought something more expensive. But still, I'm a strategist to the core and don't want to be left completely broke. Glancing at the large panoramic windows of the airport, I saw dark clouds and here and there flashes of lightning. It must really be raining heavily there. Here, the noise of people and the announcer drowns out everything that's going on there. I suppose it's like this in all airports. People always rushing or worried, with lots of luggage. Small children who get under their parents' feet, trying to get noticed. They're all dressed differently. Some in designer clothes, some in casual wear. The only thing they all have in common is the airport and the plane. And when they arrive home, they'll forget all this fuss and worries about the flight delay. The waiting room, yes, I'm right here now. Everyone's waiting for something here, or managing to quietly sleep in their chairs. But I really don't feel like sleeping. It's about 9:00 PM local time. I've been sitting here waiting for about 30 minutes. Something like that. I'm just sitting there, looking at the big board with flight numbers and departure times, or checking out the people. What else is there to do at the airport? Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by a sharp ringing sound. It took me a moment to realize it was my cell phone. It was my boss calling on WhatsApp. Before I could answer, she immediately declined the call and sent me a text message: "Hello, Helen. I know you're currently on vacation abroad. Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you. If you can, please text me or call me back."
This text message made my heart beat faster, as if sensing something bad had happened. Without a moment's hesitation, I quickly typed: "Hello, what happened? I'm at the airport now. My flight is delayed."I received a reply from my boss four minutes later, and after reading it, my heart sank: “Unfortunately, our company is liquidating and laying off all employees. You can come this week to pick up your documents
and receive the remaining payment along with compensation for your last month of work. I’m truly sorry to fire you all, especially you. You were a truly valuable employee to me. If needed, I can give you references for your next job. Before you come, call me so I can meet you.”
After reading the message several times, I burst into tears. How can anyone believe this? I worked there for so long. I have excellent relationships with my colleagues and my boss. Why did this happen? Why is the company closing? I absolutely must find out the whole story when I get back. Could this be a prank? Could scammers have messaged me on WhatsApp pretending to be my boss? I decided to message two of my colleagues, and they confirmed that they were also being laid off. Did that make me feel any better? Wasn't this written by scammers? Of course not. It became even more painful. As if someone had just stabbed me from behind, at the most unexpected moment. The last thing I wanted was to leave here with tears in my eyes. In just a few hours, at exactly 9:46, I would arrive in St. Petersburg. And I had two layovers in Istanbul and Moscow. Taking my ticket out of my bag, I looked at it and sighed heavily. It was hard for me to hold back my tears. And was there any point in holding them back at all? What hurt more at that moment: leaving or being fired and now having to look for a job? Probably both. Everything made me sad. Suddenly, I heard the boarding announcement for my flight. That meant the weather had improved and I could fly. Wiping my tears with my hand, I quickly stood up and, grabbing the handle of my suitcase, walked towards the boarding gate. There was already a large line of people who, like me, were flying on the same flight. Each of them probably had their own adventures in America, just like me. And we'll all have something to remember. Goodbye, Los Angeles! I'm boarding this wonderful transport that will lift me straight into the night sky and take me far, far away from here. And the colorful lights of different cities will stare back at me from the window. To distract myself from the sad thoughts of leaving, I started looking through my phone gallery on the plane. My eyes fell on a photo from Greystone Park, and I immediately remembered a funny incident that happened there with my new friends and me. But first, let me tell you a little about the Tudor-style estate built on the park's grounds in 1928. It was a gift from an oil tycoon to his son. And since 1971, this estate and park have been a kind of open-air museum.
It will soon be a hundred years old, but it has retained its grace and uniqueness.
That's why this area is often used for filming various movies. And at one time, this mansion was the most expensive building in California. Its view alone, and the view of the park itself, are worth it. This unique creation was designed by Gordon Kaufman, and it can rightfully be called another wonder of the world. Of course, this is my personal opinion, and I'm not making any claims. I can only advise one thing: if you ever come to America, be sure to visit this place. It will captivate you, I promise. Although, perhaps someone will say I'm overly raving about this place. Well, excuse me then. It's a matter of taste. I'm not going to ask you. And anyway, I wanted to tell you about a funny incident in the park. Are you ready to hear it? Are you sure you are? I'll crawl out of the book and check. So, I'm keeping an eye on you. Please don't get too comfortable. Okay, I'm kidding. So, here's how it went: Vanessa, Abigail, Stephanie, and I were walking through the park, looking at the fountain, and suddenly we all felt a little sad. Stephanie suggested playing a game called "Secret Action." Everyone immediately agreed. The goal was to come up with the funniest tasks for each other, and then one person had to do it. Vanessa came up with Abigail's task, and it was this: she had to approach strangers from behind and croak loudly. For her task, she chose a man in a brown suit. He was sitting on a bench, reading a book, crossing his legs. Abigail tiptoed up behind him, crouched behind the bench, and croaked loudly. The man, startled, closed his book and started looking around. Trying to find who had disturbed him. Abigail quickly ran up to us, laughing at her own prank. I came up with the second task for Stephanie. I suggested she pretend she was some kind of celebrity, and I was her assistant. After looking around, we walked out onto the busiest stretch of road and started talking to her right in the middle.
- Curry! Is this even possible? Where's my mirror?!" Stephanie screamed, waving her arms.
- Oh, I think I forgot! I replied in a low voice.
- You always forget everything! So that's where you expect me to look to fix my hair!
- You can look at your phone without turning it on.
- Did I just crawl out of some den? I'm not going to look at any phone.
- A mirror, for me. Now!
- But I don't have one.
- What do you mean, I don't have one! Find it! Right now!
People walked past us and looked at us in confusion. From the outside, everything looked exactly as we planned. A capricious star asking for a mirror. And then there's the timid, shy assistant who tries to please her. Perhaps it seemed clich;d and a very popular theme. After all, such plots appear in many films.
We stopped when an elderly couple started grumbling at us for standing in the middle of the road and blocking their path. After that, we decided to stop and return to the girls. We really didn't want them to call the police for us being disruptive.
Stephanie came up with the next task for Violetta. She suggested she sit by the fountain and sneeze loudly every time someone stood next to her. The task was also really funny. You should have seen the faces of those people, who immediately jumped up and ran away, as if afraid of getting infected. And the last task we came up with was something we would all do together. We decided to climb into the fountain and splash around until the park security noticed us. We also succeeded in this little prank. Luckily, the security didn't catch us, and we managed to run to the car, where this photo was taken, which I'm now looking at on my phone. You could see how wet we'd gotten each other with the fountain water. It was probably a bit childish, really. Maybe too much. Well, definitely not age-appropriate, that's for sure. But now I have a whole ton of memories. By the way, we also managed to crack a joke at the cheese store. For which we almost got kicked out. We just stood in line and laughed loudly, telling each other funny stories. Which really captured everyone's attention. We had to laugh so loudly for the whole store to hear! Smiling at the photos on my phone, I smiled to myself. This is what it's worth leaving Los Angeles with. With these memories. I shouldn't be sad now; I'd rather be sad at home and think about what to do next. During a layover in Istanbul, I decided to go to a cafe and get a bite to eat. I ordered some dish from the chef, the name of which I could barely pronounce. Sitting down at a plain iron table, I waited for my order to arrive. To make the wait go by faster, I pulled my phone out of my purse and went on YouTube to watch something new. Quite unexpectedly, I came across Joe's video with the words "Video Premiere" written in big letters. Honestly, I debated for a couple of seconds whether to watch it or not. But curiosity got the better of me and showed me who was in charge here. I wouldn't have been able to resist for long, though. When I turned on the video, my heart leapt out of my chest and spun around. The video was absolutely beautiful. I immediately remembered I'd been to all these places.Joe himself was also incomparable. So handsome. Especially his brown eyes and black hair. It's a shame, of course, that he's not for me. And I'm no longer a little girl to collect his posters and hang them on the wall. The song itself was lifelike, and I loved the lyrics. If I could, I would even sing along. As soon as the video ended, they brought me my dish. The most interesting thing is, my appetite completely disappeared after watching the video. What's wrong with me? Taking a fork, I forced myself to eat a little. After which, unexpectedly, I subscribed to all of Joe's social media pages. I became interested in following his career and how his video would be received around the world. Will this song become super popular or not? Although, perhaps that's a stupid question. He has such talent that I see it through the screen. This special atmosphere just emanates from him. I want to listen to it again and again. It's just a shame that Joe doesn't know my name. Although, why would he need that? Will we ever meet again? Or was this just a one-time act of fate? After all, who is he and who am I? We come from completely different worlds, different countries. I don't even really know anything about him. I'll have to look him up on Wikipedia and read his biography. Even if we never meet again, I'll definitely listen to his songs. That's for sure. Maybe I'll even go to his concert if he comes to Russia. But first, I need to sort out all my problems when I get home. And find the strength to tell my parents that I'm out of work.
A month later...
Joe sat on the green grass on the shore of Lake Theodore Roosevelt. The lake is located in the Tonto National Forest, in his home state of Arizona, a few kilometers from his hometown.
Joe sat right there on the warm grass, among the large rocks, his gaze fixed on the dark blue water. The August wind was calm, barely brushing his black curly hair. He touched his face with his hand, stroking the stubble on his chin and touching his black mustache. He thought a change of image would bring him some special inspiration. But, unfortunately, nothing new came to mind. Because of this, he was already considering shaving it off. Even his brother wasn't very fond of his new look, saying he now looked like a 20th-century Englishman and that it was all long outdated. Did his brother's comments about his appearance offend him? More likely not. Only his stylist appreciated it and said he should save it for a couple of concerts, since his mustache would help him expand his audience.Putting his hand back in the grass, Joe decided to lie on his back for a bit. He was wearing black sneakers, blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black windbreaker with his initials. Truth be told, it's not just any windbreaker with his initials; it's part of his new collection. After the successful premiere of the video and several performances, his manager offered him the chance to create his own clothing line. He also shared the good news that starting in September, he would be touring across America. It might even last until spring. He already had several concerts planned for Europe in the fall. His whole life was now moving at such a pace, and every minute was planned. So, now, being in his home state, the first thing he did was head here. A long time ago, he was brought here when he was born, and they would have picnics here. This was his place of power. A place where he could simply be alone. Of course, sometimes there are a lot of people here, and it's not always easy to hide from them. After all, they all recognize him as their brown-eyed idol and want his autograph. That's why Joe prefers to come here early in the morning to watch the sunrise and close his eyes to listen to the birds singing. But on this day, he arrived a little late, and the sun had long since risen. How he wished he could just lie here on his back and not have to go anywhere. Opening his eyes, Joe saw a bald eagle fly right in front of him. It's a fairly large black bird with a white neck and head. A true predator with a knife-sharp beak. Flapping its wings, it skillfully turned in the direction it needed. After circling the lake gently, the eagle flew on, disappearing behind white clouds. This is who is truly free, Joe thought to himself, and sat down on his butt. There, at the other end of the lake, one could see tall trees and impassable canyons. and mountains. Perhaps the bravest have already been there long ago, because their brownish-green color beckons. Joe knew the lake also offered excellent fishing and even boating opportunities, as it was quite deep, reaching a whopping 106 meters at its deepest point. And it wasn't just a lake; it was also a reservoir. And, of course, Joe's favorite place. He could sit there for hours, staring at the water, as if he wanted to share his thoughts with it. But would the water understand his thoughts? He simply sat there, silent, staring off into the distance. Suddenly, someone touched his shoulder from behind. It was Dan, Joe's older brother. He was wearing a dark brown suit, a white T-shirt, and high-top sneakers. Feeling the touch on his shoulder, Joe immediately turned to the side and noticed his brother.
"I knew I'd meet you here," Dan said, sitting down next to Joe, right on the cool grass.
"Tell me, brother, is it possible to love and not be in love? Is it possible to be in love and not love? Is it possible to love someone you've only seen once in your life?" Joe asked his brother, and immediately turned away from him and looked toward the lake. He didn't want to meet his brother's gaze at that moment. Because sometimes, eyes hide something very personal. And Joe didn't know if he was ready for this, to share everything like this.
"What kind of philosophical thoughts are these so early in the morning? Are you really in love with someone?"
"No, I'm not in love with anyone. I'm just thinking about a new song."
"So how is it? Is the new song ripe yet?"
"Songs aren't like apples; they don't just ripen. They also require inspiration."
"Do you even have an idea? What's your song about?" "There's just a chorus," Joe admitted, though only two phrases were spinning in his head. And it hardly even qualifies as a chorus.
"Sing me the chorus, I'll listen," Dan said, and suddenly a helicopter flew right overhead, its window open, and they could hear people trying to take photos.
"More journalists," Joe sighed, getting to his feet, followed by his brother.
"Look how clever they are! They'll circle the lake and come back."
"Then hurry to the car."
With these words, Joe and Dan headed toward the highway where the car was parked. The helicopter carrying the journalists circled right above them like a dragon, and instead of flames, only the blinding light of its flashes was visible. This was what Joe disliked most about these local journalists, because they knew where he was from and knew literally everything about him. And worse than that, they might come up with some ridiculous stories that he'd have to fight back. The life of celebrities is hard, because the whole world follows them. And we all know firsthand how many people there are on planet Earth. Joe had long been accustomed to this kind of media attention, but he still hoped to be left alone sometimes. But peace was a distant dream, especially now that he'd become a near-global star. Now even life had to be scheduled according to a set schedule, every day. One wonders, what did he expect in his home state? That so few people knew him? Meanwhile, somewhere in St. Petersburg, 9,000 km from Arizona...
The time difference between Arizona and St. Petersburg is 10 hours, and while Joe and his brother were fleeing journalists, I was having an evening off. I was sitting in front of my laptop, thinking about the future. After I got fired from my job, I decided to just relax and wasn't looking for anything. Inside, I felt like my heart had remained in America. But was that even possible? After coming to Russia, I didn't listen to Joe's songs as often. His songs always left me with a sadness in my soul. And that sadness was beginning to hurt me deeply. Looking at the blank white Word document, I involuntarily began writing:
"We are not angels - born on earth,
We are not angels - but still we are sincere,
Let all intrigues remain in books,
In these fleeting, beautiful words.
Today we need only a miracle,
And we will create it with our own hands,
But first we must trust the world,
And then we will walk - with our shoulders straight."
After finishing the last lines, I took a deep breath and draped a plush gray blanket over my shoulders, as it was a little chilly sitting by the window. A few minutes later, I didn't even notice how I laid my head next to the laptop and fell asleep. I dreamed I was standing on stage in a short pink dress, holding a microphone. My makeup was so perfect I definitely couldn't have done it myself. I had a silver bracelet on my wrist and a heart-shaped pendant around my neck. In the dream, I was singing, and I sang so well that everyone in the audience was applauding or dancing. Colorful stars were visible on the screen behind me, and mini fireworks occasionally exploded to the right and left. Everything was so beautiful that I didn't even have time to admire it. I simply held the microphone and sang the song as if it were a part of me, conveyed through my voice. During the song, I had to dance and move, and every movement matched the rhythm of the melody. I knew I had to give it my all, a thousand percent, and I didn't doubt myself for a second. My confidence on stage surprised me greatly in the dream. After all, I had never performed anywhere. At the end of my performance, a swing descended right in front of me, and I sat on it and finished my song. The dream was so vivid that it seemed like it was all real.This morning, I unexpectedly received a message from Vanessa on WhatsApp: “Hi. How are you? The girls and I miss you.” After reading the message, I smiled and replied: “Hi. I’m fine. I miss you too. Los Angeles will always remain in my heart.” Will it really remain in my heart? I thought. Of course. Who can doubt it. To be honest, when I returned from America, I immediately signed up for an English course. I decided that it would be useful for me. What if I ever get to visit America again and this isn’t my last adventure? Suddenly, my phone vibrated and an email arrived. I was invited to conduct interviews and publish them for a magazine. As I told you before, I dreamed of being a journalist since childhood. And this vacancy is a unique opportunity to try myself in something new. They say that sometimes the most fateful things happen to us at the most unexpected moment. Maybe this was the moment? After reading the email, I called the magazine and agreed to give it a try.
And somewhere far away, in a Los Angeles studio, those "turns in the road" I'd written about in lines and dreamed about in dreams, suddenly became part of another story. There, Joe picked up his guitar and, walking over to the microphone stand, put on headphones. Another song was about to be recorded—a song that would become a new hit. At a signal from the sound engineer behind the transparent window in the middle of the room, Joe touched the guitar strings and began to sing:
“I grabbed my bag and chased the sunrise,
Didn't know the roads, didn't care about the signs.
Maps can lie, they show the straightest line,
But the best stories hide around the bend every time.
The airport lights were calling out my name,
I felt the fear, but I refused to stay the same.
A plane took off, the city faded in the glow,
I whispered to the wind, “Just let me go.”
And when the route got twisted, when the compass spun in doubt,
You were the one who said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Your voice was louder than the storm and all the noise inside,
With you beside me, every wrong turn felt like pride.
'Cause we ride the trains, we chase the waves, we catch the planes,
Through every storm and every mile across these open lanes.
The hardest road can lead to magic we could never plan,
And every twist becomes a part of who we are, my friend.
When your head rests on my shoulder, I get a thousand wings,
With your belief, there's nothing this world can take from us.
We're not just finding places—we're finding who we are,
Hand in hand, we'll write our own unwritten star..."
After finishing the song, Joe took off his headphones and saw his producer enter the studio, joyfully announcing a unique opportunity to organize a world tour this fall. Joe was very surprised by this news, and hadn't even suspected that Russia would be among those European countries. And with just one concert in St. Petersburg. For Joe, all these countries seemed like a piece of cake; the hardest part was enduring the enormous workload and all those long flights. He already knew what would be required of him there. And the only thing that inspired him was the thought of singing songs for his beloved fans, who were ready to support him at any moment. There are times in life when time flies so quickly—so fast you can't catch hold of it, like a tail, and you're immediately knocked off your feet. I didn't even have time to realize how quickly autumn and October had arrived. Outside, all the trees had turned a different color, donning outfits no less exquisite than those famous haute couture gowns, tailored to order. Nature is extraordinary and inimitable, but those who have had their fill of it will feel as if nothing has changed: autumn is just another autumn. Meanwhile, in other Russian cities, there are already downpours and cold snaps.
Throwing a wool sweater over my shoulders, I walked to the window with a cup of hot tea and began to admire the sun trying to hide behind the tree branches, as if trying to play hide-and-seek with me. Suddenly my phone rang, and I set my mug on the windowsill, immediately picked it up from the table, and answered:
- Good afternoon.
- Hi, Helen. We have an emergency here and we need you urgently,” said a distressed female voice. It was the deputy editor-in-chief, where I had taken a job conducting interviews.
- I'm listening. What happened?
- There's an exclusive concert in St. Petersburg this week, and an American singer will be performing. I forgot his name. You speak English, right? Can you interview him? Arina broke her leg, and everyone else can't. Can you help her out? It's urgent.
- Of course, I'll help. I'm free. When is the concert?
- The day after tomorrow.
- I won't have time to prepare...
"Don't worry, Arina will email you all the materials and questions now. She'll also tell you when, where, and what time to arrive. Thank you for agreeing to help. This interview is very important for the magazine."
"I'm always happy to help."
After this conversation, I immediately received an email. It contained a list of questions, as well as the singer's biography, an e-ticket to the concert, and instructions on how to get through security straight to the dressing room. Quickly scanning the email, I noticed the name "Joe" and saw his photo. My cheeks immediately flushed, and my heart started beating strangely. Could this really be him? The same Joe from Los Angeles I often saw and who I'd gotten ice cream on? Yes, it was him. For a few minutes, I had a strong urge to call and cancel this interview. After all, how could I possibly do that? Could I interview him and just talk to him? What if he remembered me? What if he kicked me out immediately upon recognizing me? It's a shame these thoughts didn't make me feel any better. I can't let down the people who have so much hope in me. I'll have to go to the concert and interview him. Maybe he's forgotten about me? He probably has enough fans without me. With that, I took a deep breath and put my phone aside. I don't have much time; I need to start preparing.
The day of the concert arrived.
Early in the morning, before the concert in St. Petersburg, Joe and his assistants had been checking all the equipment. It turned out that morning that there were problems with the in-ear monitor. But they quickly fixed everything and held a rehearsal. Afterwards, Joe, accompanied by security, decided to stroll near the Winter Palace and walk around in his coat. People immediately recognized him on the street and approached him for autographs. Joe happily signed autographs, even though he didn't understand Russian. Around 4:00 PM, he returned to the concert hall for the last rehearsal. Meanwhile, I was deciding what to wear to the concert: jeans and a long-sleeved shirt or a long-sleeved dress. The first option won. I decided to dress modestly and not too provocatively. Especially since I was going to the concert with a clear work objective. Oh, my friends, if only you knew they'd be waiting for me there. But first things first. I waited until 6:00 PM and left the house, first taking the metro, then the bus five stops. When I arrived, I saw people already gathering around the concert hall. Many were holding signs. And somewhere around there were paparazzi and news anchors. So they'll show him on TV too. Of course they will, of course they will. After all, this is his world tour and his only concert in Russia, and in St. Petersburg, of course.
I wonder if this is just a coincidence? About 15-20 minutes later, security started letting people into the concert hall, and there was a literal crush. Everyone was eager to get in and take their seats. I somehow made my way into the hall and found a seat in the front row. How lucky I was! I had no idea I had a front-row ticket, and so close to him. Very soon I would see him in person... My palms instantly went cold at these thoughts. What's wrong with me? He's just an ordinary person, just a singer, so what's the big deal? I know he'll perform ten of his songs, and there will also be guest artists.
An hour later... Joe was inimitable on stage. Just like that time in Los Angeles, the city where I first encountered him. From the front row, it was noticeable that Joe was tired, but he continued singing. People in the audience didn't hesitate to sing along when he pointed his microphone at the audience. Looking back, I saw numerous posters with Joe's photos. The hall was completely packed. Some people even stood and danced to his songs. I especially liked his song "Stranger." There was something unusual about it. So much so that I felt like it was a song about me. Although how could that be? What if he didn't write the lyrics? These are just dreams. But how can I tell my heart about this? Towards the end of the concert, Joe performed another song he wrote in St. Petersburg. And he decided to give this as a gift to all the fans in Russia. Everyone in the audience was very happy with this gift. And so a little time passed and the concert ended. Joe bowed and, having accepted gifts and flowers from the fans, left the stage. The audience began to leave the hall one by one. And I got up from my chair and remained standing until everyone in the audience had left the hall. I was overcome with a terrible fear of seeing Joe in person and looking into his eyes. I became so afraid that I thought I was about to pass out. But suddenly, a man in a black suit approached me and asked, "Have you come to interview Joe? Come, I'll take you backstage and show you the dressing room where you can do the interview. Did they tell you you only have 30 minutes? Joe has a late-night flight."
"Yeah? Oh, thanks. Let's go," was all I managed to say. With that, I followed the man straight toward the dressing room. And the closer we got, the faster my heart beat. It felt a bit like a panic attack and a fear of the unknown. Reaching the dreaded door with Joe's name on it, the man immediately opened it and motioned for me to go inside.
The room was quite small for an artist of his caliber. A sofa, a table, two armchairs, a window, and next to it a table with a large mirror. Joe stared directly into the mirror and wiped his sweaty face and neck with a towel. He'd sweated profusely since he'd been on stage. Joe and I were the only people in the dressing room. I quietly walked to a chair and sat down. Hearing me sit down in the leather chair, Joe turned to face me. The first thing I noticed was the surprise in his eyes. We were both silent, unable to say anything.
"You?" Joe suddenly broke the silence.
"I did," I replied, looking down at the floor.
"I'm very surprised to see you here. What's your name? Are you interviewing me? Are you a journalist?"
My name is Helen. I've only been working for the magazine for a short time. I'm very surprised they let me interview you. It will be a very rewarding experience for me.
"You know my name. You know, I really wanted to see you again."
"What? Really?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry I dropped the ice cream on you that time."
"You know, I keep your photos."
"Mine?"
"Here, you can look." With these words, Joe leaned down and pulled out his bag from under the table, pulled out several photos, and handed them to me. Looking at them, I recognized myself. In every single one. After examining them carefully, I smiled and handed them back to Joe.
"No, keep them. By the way, you have a beautiful smile."
"Thank you. If you don't mind, can we move on to the interview questions now? I heard you're leaving soon and we don't have much time for the interview."
After my words, Joe stood up and, holding out his hand, said, "Do you trust me?"
"We don't have much time," I replied, and, without expecting it, I stood up from my chair and took his hand. "Come on," Joe said, leading me by the hand out of the dressing room and through the back exit straight onto the street. Surprisingly, no one noticed us either. And surprisingly, I took his hand with such ease that I followed him. It was already dark outside and cool. Taking one look at me, Joe led me straight toward the secret parking lot where the black rental car was parked.
"Are we going somewhere? What about our interview?" I asked.
"Trust me," Joe said, helping me into the car. Then he got behind the wheel and started the car.
All I could do was fasten my seatbelt and wait. Joe entered some coordinates into the GPS, and we pulled away. Various buildings, streetlights, and passing cars flashed by outside the car window. We drove in silence for the first five minutes. I was the first to break the silence and asked, "Where are we going?"
"It's not where we're going, but who's with me," Joe replied, looking ahead.
"Have you always dreamed of singing on stage? What's it like to have millions of eyes on you?"
"Is this a journalist's question, or yours?"
"It's from my list."
"Save that list of questions for later. Tell me more about yourself instead."
With that, I began to tell them about myself. And Joe didn't interrupt me; he simply listened attentively, smiling occasionally. A few minutes later, we stopped near the Neva River. There was a wonderful view of the bridges and houses, and luckily, not a soul was around. Just a bit of darkness, lanterns, and silence. Only the autumn wind occasionally made me shiver from the cold. Joe took my hand, and we walked right down to the river. I really enjoyed holding his hand. And he didn't take his eyes off me until we found a secluded spot behind a tree. To avoid attracting attention, Joe pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt over his head. We glanced at each other and began to chat about everything under the sun. At that moment, it felt like we'd known each other for a hundred years...
"There are singers who change the whole world and the people around them with their songs." "Do you consider yourself one of those?" I asked, and, looking at the river, I noticed a boat sailing by. "We told you there were no interviews," Joe replied, raising his eyebrows. Then he added, "Call yourself a taxi home. I'll wait for it, pick you up, and then head to the airport. I can't leave without making sure you're in the taxi."
I'll call one right now. "It's good my phone isn't dead," I replied, taking it out of my pocket and immediately calling myself a taxi.
"How long will it take?"
"It says six minutes and he'll be here. Are you sure you'll wait for me? What if the plane leaves without you?"
"Don't worry. If he leaves, I'll take another one. My team will bring my bags straight to the airport. I warned them."
"Do you often run off like this after a concert?"
"Only for special people."
With these words, Joe hugged me, kissed me on the forehead, and saved his number in my phone. He told me to text him anytime. He would always be happy to answer any of my messages. He also asked me to send him interview questions directly to WhatsApp. When I noticed my taxi approaching, I said to Joe:
"Don't waste your energy. I'll be worried about you."
"Don't waste your energy," Joe repeated slowly, as if applying the phrase to a rhythm. And then he added: "You know, that could be a line. Not a hit, but something quiet, something you sing only to yourself. I'll try, really. But to be honest, I don't feel as tired as usual." "Probably because there's someone nearby who sees me, not the artist. 'See you later, my angel, and write when you get home. I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too. See you later," I said, and ran toward the taxi. Joe stood there for a moment, watching me get into the taxi, then got in and drove to the airport.
The entire ride to the airport seemed to be in one breath. As if he were in another world. His team, security guards, fans, and reporters were already waiting for him at the airport. It looked like he wouldn't be able to fly away quietly. My words, "Don't waste your energy," were on his mind, and before he knew it, he started smiling. He couldn't believe how I'd managed to carve out a special place in his heart.
Joe boarded the plane in business class, where his manager had booked the tickets. He immediately plopped down in the window seat. The flight attendant immediately approached, smiling:
"What would you like to drink?" "Water, please. Still. And... a sandwich, if I may."
He pulled out his phone, opened my chat, and simply stared at the last message: "See you later." Then he sighed, put the phone away, and tried to get comfortable.
The sandwich arrived five minutes later. Joe took it and smiled. "Well, at least something normal." And then the plane jerked as it taxied—and the sandwich went flying, right onto the empty seat next to him, with some of the filling ending up on the armrest.
"Seriously?" Joe muttered, looking around. The passenger across from him chuckled.
The flight attendant approached again:
"Oh, let me clear this up. Do you want a new one?"
"No, thanks," Joe waved his hand, but then suddenly froze. An image popped into his head: Helen, ice cream, Los Angeles. That awkwardness of hers, which somehow felt like the most real thing in the world.
He took out a napkin, carefully collected the remains of the sandwich, and, without knowing why, took a photo of it and captioned it: "I just dropped a sandwich in a turbine. Or maybe it was just a tray. Either way, I lost to the sandwich just as much as I lost to your ice cream."
My response was quick: "Was the plane at least still in one piece?"
After reading the message, Joe watched as the flight attendant quickly removed the fallen sandwich and just as quickly brought him some water. Taking the glass from her hand, Joe wrote back, "Do you feel more sorry for the plane than for me?" He received a laughing smiley face in response. Taking a sip of water, Joe lowered his seat slightly and, closing his eyes, decided to enjoy the flight. He only had three hours to fly, and he hoped to get some sleep. But how could he possibly get any? Five concerts in Europe in five days. A new country every day. He really didn't like that kind of schedule. But he couldn't change anything.
Those five days flew by. I was constantly messaging Joe on WhatsApp. He constantly made me laugh, and I made him laugh. We would talk on video and just make funny faces at each other. It was something we shared. I was even surprised that he sent the answers to my interview questions not to me, but directly to my editor-in-chief, and even wrote her a ton of thanks about me. After that, I felt like a truly valuable employee and was asked to write a whole article for the magazine. On the fifth day of his European tour, Joe texted me out of the blue: "I have a few more shows coming up. I'd really love for you to come with me. I'll give you a backstage pass and headphones so you don't go deaf. Don't worry about work—I'll write to the editor inviting you on my tour, where you'll be covering every day of my life. I'm flying to St. Petersburg tonight for a layover and for you. I have a window between flights, and I want to spend it with you. The ticket is already booked—don't argue, I won't take no for an answer. This isn't charity, it's my condition: I need to know you're nearby, and not somewhere where I can't protect you."
After I finished reading the message, I couldn't believe my eyes and read it several more times.
And then she replied, "Sorry, I can't."
Literally two minutes later, a reply came: "Are you afraid you won't have time to pack? I'll be at the airport at 11:30 PM. Just grab your passport and the most important thing. We're flying to South America. I've already sent a letter to your editor-in-chief." Thoughts immediately rushed through my head, like waves, knocking me down. Why should I fly with him? And most importantly, why? How could I leave everything here? Will he always be so pushy? Although, in character, he seemed completely different from what he appeared on the posters. Not a self-confident idol, but... impulsive—as if every decision was born somewhere in his chest, not in his head. Caring, even when it seemed like an order: "the ticket is already booked" sounded not like control, but like "I want you to be okay." And in his concern, he was ridiculously vulnerable—that sandwich, those photos... by the way, where are those photos now? It seems I might have forgotten to take them with me in my haste. It all happened so quickly. It was like two comets flying together in an unknown direction and now we've crashed into a planet called a tour. And not just here, but a tour of South America. I'll have to get used to the time zones, too. Having dressed quickly, I packed my backpack just as quickly. I didn't have much time to choose my clothes. So I didn't even choose; I just threw in whatever came to hand.
Arriving at the airport, I was met by a tall security guard, Joe, and led to the business lounge for those relaxing before their flight. The business lounge at St. Petersburg airport was set up as if someone was trying hard to convince guests they were already in paradise: soft chairs, subdued lighting, panoramic windows with clouds drifting past, and unobtrusive jazz playing from hidden speakers. But Joe still looked like he was ready to leap out of his chair and run onto the runway at any second. He tapped his shoe on the floor, twirled his phone in his fingers, and kept glancing at his watch. He was probably deep in thought. So deep that he didn't even notice me approaching him.
I sat down next to him on the empty chair, trying to look collected, not like someone flying across the ocean for the first time, not with a backpack and a sandwich, but on a business class ticket. Although that was exactly how it was. Could a girl from Russia really dream of ending up in a business lounge with a really cool artist? The anxiety made me twirl my hair and glance around nervously.
"Don't worry," Joe suddenly said, noticing my gaze. "We won't be late. I have a superpower: I can be late with style."
"How so?" I asked, taking off my backpack and placing it on the empty seat next to Joe.
Maybe you'd like to guess?
"Is this some kind of special technique? Like 'tripping over your own guitar five minutes before boarding'?"
"Sort of," he winked. "Only today I decided to avoid the drama. Well, almost."
He stood up, stretched, and took a couple of steps toward the wall where a large painting hung—an abstract thing in a heavy frame, all those blue brushstrokes and gold lines that seemed to be trying to say something but never quite finished it. Joe stopped right beneath it, looked at the canvas with a connoisseur's air, and muttered, "You know, I always thought they hang paintings like that on purpose to make passengers feel less cultured." I barely had time to open my mouth to respond when there was a sharp crack, and the painting, as if determined to prove it, too, was capable of causing drama, tore itself from its mountings and crashed down—literally a centimeter from Joe's shoulder. The frame hit the floor, the glass jingled but didn't break, and Joe himself didn't even flinch—he merely tilted his head slightly, as if assessing the situation.
For a second, the room was silent—even the jazz seemed to slow down. Then someone on the staff gasped, and a security guard rushed to the scene.
And Joe slowly turned to me, raised his eyebrows, and said calmly,
"Well, there you have it. Now I'm officially cultured. This painting wanted to meet me."
I couldn't help but laugh—quietly at first, then so loudly that even a couple of people at the counter turned around.
"Are you serious? Are you kidding me right now?!" The administrator, who had arrived, was already jabbering apologies, muttering something about "poorly made fasteners" and "we'll fix it," but Joe just waved his hand:
"Come on, don't panic. The main thing is that no one was hurt. Well... except for this painting's sense of beauty. I think she'll see the world through a different lens now."
We stood next to each other for a few more seconds while the administrator fussed over the fallen frame, and then Joe took my hand, a little tighter than usual, and led me toward the boarding gate.
"Let's go," he said louder, as if challenging the entire day. "Otherwise, maybe some other statue will decide to befriend me."I can't handle that much charm at once.
And I walked along, laughing, feeling my fear of flying, of America, of this whole vast future, diminish with every step—because there was someone next to him who could turn even a falling painting into a joke. That was him. Even flying with him on a plane, I wasn't bored. He told me about how he once spent so much time choosing what to wear that he ended up going on stage in a T-shirt with his own face on it. And it wasn't egoism—it was logistics. I imagined that moment, Joe walking out in a T-shirt with his own face on it, and I wondered: how many artists would actually dare to do that? And it was from Joe's words that I learned that he has his own merch: T-shirts, caps, and all sorts of little things. We landed in Bogot;, Colombia, early in the morning, American time, when the city was just waking up and reaching for the sun, as if trying to shake off the last of the night's chill. The plane touched down gently, and I pressed my forehead against the cool window, eagerly gazing at the unfamiliar landscape. Joe sat next to me, his head tilted back slightly, and seemed barely aware of the landing—he simply exhaled, as if throwing off the heavy backpack he'd been carrying the entire flight.
"We're here," he said quietly, his eyes still closed. "Now the fun begins."
Everything at the airport was unfamiliar: a different language, different intonations, a different rhythm. People moved quickly but without fuss, as if they knew time flowed differently here. While the team sorted through our luggage and documents, I stood by the panoramic window, watching the city spread out below like a vast mosaic of houses, roads, and green parks. Joe came up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder, and nodded toward the exit:
"Get ready. We're about to get caught up in a big mess."
And it did. Before we could even exit the terminal, cars, security, and assistants were waiting, vying with each other on their radios, checking lists and routes. I could barely keep track of their names: Carlos, the logistics guy, calm and collected, keeping everything in his head and rarely using notes; Mia, the stylist, petite but with an iron grip, overseeing every element of Joe's look as if the fate of the world depended on it; Lucas, the sound engineer, silent and focused, constantly tweaking, checking, listening, and tweaking again.
When we pulled up to the Movistar Arena, I froze. The arena looked like it had been built at the intersection of the future and the present.
During the day, its fa;ade wasn't just a wall—it shimmered, played with light, and seemed almost alive. The panels that made it up caught the sun's rays and transformed them into soft reflections, and here and there, the contours of the interior levels could be seen through the translucent shell. It was as if the building were breathing.
"Impressive?" Joe asked, noticing my frozen gaze.
"It's like a spaceship that landed in the middle of the city," I whispered.
He laughed:
"I keep wondering why I feel so calm here. It turns out I'm finally home."
Inside, the arena unfolded in layers: wide corridors leading to different areas, staircases, balconies, hidden passages. The stalls below seemed like a huge bowl, ready to fill with voices and emotions. Tiers loomed above, and VIP boxes—cozy capsules with a view of the stage—were hidden to the sides. Everything was meticulously planned, yet it didn't feel cold: the air was thick with the scent of fresh paint, wood, and something elusively concert-like—as if the very atmosphere was already primed for the music.
We walked backstage, and another world began—a world of wires, cables, metal structures, and endless lists. Technicians scurried back and forth, checking fixtures, testing lights, shouting at each other in a mixture of Spanish and English. The stage towered above all this chaos, like an island connected by hundreds of invisible threads.
Joe stopped near one of the walls, where cables were neatly bundled and labeled with colored markers. He turned to me, took my hands, and looked me straight in the eye:
"Listen, it's easy to get confused here. This is all new to you, and I don't want you to accidentally pull out something important." These red ones are power, blue ones are sound, yellow ones are light. If you're standing nearby, just don't touch anything without asking, okay? Or better yet, keep a notebook and write down what's going on. You'll figure it all out faster that way.
I nodded, feeling my insides tighten with excitement:
"I'll try not to mix anything up."
He smiled, squeezed my fingers lightly, and quietly added:
"You're already doing everything right. Just be here. That's enough."
While they were preparing, I watched his team.
They moved like a single mechanism: Mia checked Joe's suit one last time, Lucas stood frozen at the control panel, eyes closed, listening to a sound that didn't yet exist. Technicians climbed ladders, secured spotlights, checked rigging. It all resembled a complex dance, where everyone had their part, and any mistake could disrupt the rhythm.
Finally, the lights dimmed, and only Joe remained on stage. He stood in the center, his head slightly bowed, as if listening to the silence that was about to explode with music. People began to gather in the hall: at first a little, then more and more, until the stalls were filled to the brim, and the balconies were lit up with the lights of telephones.
The first chord sounded like a bolt from the blue—sharp, pure, real. And at that very second, the hall responded with a roar: thousands of voices merged in a single exhalation, and this wave of energy covered everything around. Joe smiled, as if this was exactly what he'd been waiting for, and began singing.
I stood backstage, trying not to get in the way, but soaking in every second. The wires, the cables, the equipment—all of it suddenly stopped being intimidating. Now they were the threads that connected the stage to the audience, Joe's voice to the hearts of the people. I held a notebook in my hands and wrote down not words, but sensations: how the air trembled when he hit a high note, how the audience joined in with the chorus as if they'd known it their whole lives, how Joe closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again—and looked straight ahead, where I was.
After the concert, when the lights dimmed and the last of the audience was still applauding, Joe came up to me. Beads of sweat glistened on his face, his eyes were shining, and his smile was so wide it seemed it could light up the entire arena.
"So, did you get the wires mixed up?" he winked. I laughed, feeling the fatigue recede.
"No. But now I understand why you explained everything in such detail."
He hugged me, pulled me close, and whispered in my ear:
"Because you are my most important cog in this machine. Without you, nothing works here."
And in that moment, I realized: we hadn't just landed in Bogot;. We had become part of something bigger—something that lived by its own laws, breathed music, and knew no boundaries. And I was ready to move on—next to him, along these tangled corridors, past wires and lights, to where new cities, new stages, and new stories awaited us.
Right after the concert, Joe gathered the whole team and treated them to coffee at his own expense. And there were no longer three of us, but ten. No less.
It was hard to keep track of them all. They were constantly rushing back and forth, each doing their own thing. It all resembled magic that eventually culminates in a spectacular show.
Having barely finished his coffee, Joe suddenly noticed a text message on his cell phone from his ex-wife: “Sorry, the new commercial shoot has been delayed, and the nanny quit. I have no one to leave my daughter with. Where is your next concert? I'll fly out.”
After reading the message, he sighed heavily and sent a reply: “Of course. Let him stay with me. I'll check with the manager which city and let you know.”
A few minutes later, Joe, his team, and I loaded all the equipment onto a bus and headed to Medellin, a neighboring city seemingly created to show a different side of Colombian concerts.
In Medellin, we were met by a local promoter—an energetic man in a denim shirt, clutching his ever-present notebook. He led us into the Teatro Metropolitano: the building stood in the historic district, as if it held dozens of stories told on stage. Warm, homely lighting softly cast a glow on the ancient walls, and the auditorium, designed for approximately 500-800 people, felt more than just a venue, but a cozy space where every spectator was a welcome guest. There were no giant screens or dazzling light arrays, but there was live acoustics and that special closeness to the audience, when you can see the sparkle of someone's eyes in the front row.
Joe, accustomed to large arenas, paused for a second, looking around. Was this really the place?
"Wow, it feels different here," he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb this special silence. I stood nearby, also captivating the moment: the sound felt different here—without any powerful external processing, it seemed to flow through the hall, enveloping everyone, and it was mesmerizing. There was no artificial power, but instead there was a sincerity that caught your attention from the very first notes. I was wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and Joe was wearing a simple black tracksuit.
"A unique place," I thought, breathing in the air, saturated with the spirit of music and old brick walls. And in that moment, it suddenly dawned on me: sometimes it's precisely these intimate halls that remind us what it's all about—not the stadium ovations, but that very breath of air in the hall, when artist and audience become one.
After examining the performance space, Joe pulled me close, and we left the building. It was already a warm evening.
Surprisingly, there's no one around. Not even the paparazzi and annoying fans.
Our concert is tomorrow at 4:00 PM. Then we'll fly to another state, and my daughter will join me there, Joe confided.
"Daughter?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes, it'll be more fun with her. I want you to meet her."
= "I'd be very happy."
"We're going to rehearsals now, and there are a couple of other things to do. If you're tired, you can go to the hotel and sleep. I don't know when I'll go to bed."
"Where are your self-deprecating jokes?" Joe froze for a second, as if I'd caught him in the act, and then he broke into his signature smile—light, a little guilty, as if he didn't know where it was coming from.
"Jokes? I spent them all on that painting at the airport," he winked, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Now, until tomorrow's concert, I'm in humor-saving mode. I need to conserve my strength."
I snorted:
"Seriously? You're going to save jokes?"
"Absolutely. Imagine: I walk out on stage, the audience is waiting, the silence is deafening... and then I deliver my signature line. The effect is wow. And if I scatter them along the way, who will appreciate it? No one. It's like the last candy in the pack: you have to eat it at the right moment."
"Let's go to rehearsal," Joe finally said to me, realizing I clearly wasn't going to sleep. "But if anyone says a word to me about the wires, I'll blame you. I'll say, 'Ask Helen, she wrote it all down.'"
I laughed, standing up after him:
"Just try. I'll mix them all up just to spite you." "That's what I love," he winked, opening the door for me and letting me in to the warm evening air, scented with adventure and something very real.
After the concert in Medellin, everything spun at a new speed: the technicians were coiling cables, the crew were checking lists, and I was standing at the exit of the Teatro Metropolitano, trying to catch at least a moment of silence. Joe approached me, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up, dark glasses over his eyes, and dark blue jeans made him almost invisible in the dim foyer—as if he wanted to be just a guy for five minutes, with nothing to prove to anyone.
"I'll rent a car and go to the airport myself," he said, looking at me as if he already knew I would argue. "I want to meet her alone. You know... so it's just ours."
I nodded, trying not to show how my insides sank at his quiet seriousness.
"Of course. I'll stay here and help as best I can."
He had already taken a step toward the exit, but suddenly froze, as if he couldn't believe he'd said it. He turned, frowned slightly, then suddenly laughed—briefly, in his own way, as if he were making fun of himself.
"You know, no. Let's go together. If I'm alone, I'll get nervous, and I'll end up at the airport standing there, lost, staring at the board. But with you, at least I'll have something else to think about. Well, besides the fact that she's getting off the plane now and probably thinks I've forgotten her."
"She doesn't think so," I smiled.
"You don't know five-year-olds. They have ironclad logic: if Dad's not standing right at the exit, it means he's forgotten." We climbed into the rental car, and the city slowly left us behind. The road stretched like a ribbon between the hills, and the autumn landscape seemed specially crafted to make everything within feel a little calmer. The trees stood in gold and copper, leaves swirling in the air like little parachutes and falling to the side of the road, covering it with a colorful carpet. Fields where the harvest had already been gathered flashed by along the road, and now they seemed warm, as if they held the summer's warmth within. The wind swayed the dry grasses, and they rustled, as if whispering. The air was cool, but not angry—the way autumn is when it hasn't yet decided whether to become winter. Music played in the car, creating an intimate atmosphere.
Joe opened the window, and the scent of foliage, earth, something real, not concert, not studio, rushed in. He took a deep breath and said quietly, “You know, these are the moments I love. When everything around you is simple. No screens, no monitors, no lists. Just the road and the wind playing with your hair. In that moment, you realize you’re truly alive.”
I smiled, watching the sun set behind the hills, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and lilac.
“And without falling paintings.”
“Especially without them,” he winked, and the tension that had been lingering somewhere between his shoulder blades all this time seemed to ease a little.
At the airport, for a second, Joe became that artist again, the one people recognize: someone gasped softly, someone pulled out their phone, but he seemed oblivious—he only gripped the steering wheel tighter and glanced at the arrivals board.
"There's her flight," he said quietly, as if afraid to scare off this moment.
We got out of the car and walked toward the arrivals area. And then I saw her—Scarlett, Joe's ex-wife. She stood at the exit in a white dress with blue polka dots and a blue jacket, straight and collected, as if the entire airport rested on her shoulders. Her movements had that impeccable precision that comes from people accustomed to keeping everything under control. A Virgo down to her fingertips: order, schedule, to-do list. But the way she slightly tilted her head, scanning the crowd, wasn't stern, but caring—the kind that doesn't shout, but simply does everything to ensure her daughter's well-being.
When a small figure emerged from the arrivals area, Scarlett took a barely noticeable step forward, as if she wanted to be the first to see him. And then the girl noticed Joe—and everything else suddenly ceased to exist. She lunged toward him, jumped, and he caught her, hugging her so tightly, as if he were afraid she would disappear. She wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her nose in his shoulder, and laughed—that laughter was the most real sound in the entire station. Someone passing by tried to secretly film the scene.
Scarlett moved a little closer and nodded reservedly to Joe:
"She's been asking where you are the whole flight."
"Sorry, there were bumps in the road and a lot to do."
"I know. Everything's fine."
And that was it: no reproaches, no long explanations. Just two people who had learned to speak briefly and to the point to each other—to make their daughter feel safe. Scarlett straightened the girl's jacket and gave me a small smile—not a wide one, but the kind you smile when you want to show you're happy but not intrusive:
"Nice to meet you."
"Me too," I replied quietly.
Joe, still holding his daughter in his arms, looked at me and suddenly smiled in a way that held everything at once: relief, joy, and gratitude for my presence.
"Let's go," he nodded toward the car.
The girl raised her head, looked at me with wide eyes, and suddenly extended her hand.
"Hi. Will you sing with us?"
I laughed, feeling the warmth inside me from this simple question.
"Probably not. But I'll clap louder than anyone else."
She thought for a second, then nodded, as if she accepted this as a perfectly acceptable option, and buried her face in her dad's shoulder again.
We reached the car, and Joe sat his daughter in the backseat—right next to me. She immediately reached out to me and quietly asked,
"Do you like ice cream?"
"A lot."
"Daddy does too. Only he always says he won't, and then he eats it anyway."
Joe rolled his eyes, but there was no irritation in the gesture—only endless, quiet love.
"That's not true."
"True!" she laughed. As Joe walked around the car to get behind the wheel, I noticed the flashes of cameras: vigilant photographers had captured the moment his daughter jumped on his neck, the way he held her close, and even how we all walked to the car together. Let these shots fly in the tabloids, let someone write headlines about a "secret companion" or a "new chapter in Joe's life"—I didn't care. Because the most important thing in this photo was not the pose, not the image, but the way he looked at his daughter—as if she were his most important concert, his most precious song, his greatest miracle.
The car pulled away smoothly, and we drove off—toward a new city, a new concert, a new story. The girl snuggled up to me, rested her head on my shoulder, and quietly said:
"Are we going to sing soon?" Joe glanced at us in the rearview mirror, caught my eye, and smiled slightly:
"Soon. But first, ice cream. I promise."
And then I realized: this is it, the "big thing" that makes up all the concerts, all the flights, all the stages. Not the applause, not the spotlight, but this: a warm little hand, trustingly resting on yours, and the person next to you who, even in the most frantic race for seconds, knows how to stop and say, "Let's go together." It was true trust, the kind that simply can't be faked. Maybe someone will ask: why did he so easily decide to trust me and let me into his life? And I'll probably answer that at that moment we simply felt that we needed each other.
Yes, and besides, he took on a great responsibility for me – he brought me to America. As soon as we dropped Joe's daughter off at the concert hall, everything went according to schedule: autograph sessions, fan meetings, interviews for a city magazine, and endless rehearsals. During one of them, Joe called out to me while he was performing his song. I looked at him in surprise. Then he motioned for me to come over. And I slowly and hesitantly decided to approach.
"Want to sing something?"
"My ear isn't as good as yours."
"You try it. This microphone is charged with a lot of energy. And my drool. Just kidding, that's a joke."
"When I was a kid, I tried to audition for a band. But they didn't make me into the main cast. They said they'd only hire me as a backup singer. And now I don't really want to sing. I'm even scared. What if I make a mistake?" I'm not a singer, after all.
- Trust me, Helen, I'll help you if anything happens. What song in English do you know well?
- Titanic.
- Of course not.
- Uh, I'm not laughing.
- Take the mic and just start, I'll be right here and sing along with you. I'll be singing backup today. If you want, just close your eyes and sing. Listen only to your heart.
After these words, I walked up to the stand and noticed that the microphone was high. Joe, noticing this, immediately lowered the stand and the mic a little. I closed my eyes at his suggestion and began singing the song, that very popular song from Titanic. Sometimes I hit the wrong notes, and Joe tried to sing along, making the song more or less perfect. I liked the way my voice sounded in the microphone. It wasn't like the voice I hear on a recorder or in messengers. It felt like it wasn't my voice. So strong, so gentle, so charged with energy. After I finished singing, I noticed everyone in the audience, including Joe, starting clapping for me. My cheeks flushed from the praise. Five minutes later, Joe's daughter ran onto the stage, saying she wanted to sing a duet with her dad. He, of course, agreed and asked to play a melody from a children's song. And they began singing together. It was so touching: father and daughter singing together. I think I now know in what footsteps this five-year-old girl will follow.
You said you weren't chosen for the main cast once.You know, sometimes people judge by what they see on the surface: the notes, the tempo, the way you stand. But real music lives deeper. It's in how you feel. Today you reminded me that it's not a spot in a lineup that matters, but a place in someone's heart.
He smiled, bowing his head slightly:
"So consider yourself the star of the show today." At least, in my story, Joe nodded at me after saying this, and, taking his daughter by the hand, walked backstage with her...
Lima, Peru, greeted Joe not only with an audience but also with the usual touring hustle and bustle: someone shouting into a walkie-talkie, someone checking cables, the lights being adjusted as if the fate of the world depended on it. Joe stood by the stage, tossing a pick from one hand to the other, routinely checking his guitar strap—and then suddenly froze. His face went blank, as if someone had muted it.
"Where's my case?" he asked quietly, but everyone immediately heard the alarm in that quiet voice. "The one with the strap, the picks, my setup. It was with me at the hotel."
The technician, Max, was already turning white.
"I carried it myself. I swear. I put it by the dressing room door when we left. And now it's gone. I've already double-checked."
Someone ran to security, someone flipped through the security footage, that familiar, sticky tension hung in the air: forty minutes remained until soundcheck, and without his strap and picks, Joe couldn't go on stage. Not because he couldn't—but because these were his rituals, his anchors, a kind of talisman. And without them, he felt naked in front of thousands of people. Joe ran his hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the panic rising in his throat. He didn't scream. He tried not to scream, because he knew that if he lost it, everyone around him would too. But inside, everything was clenching into a tight knot.
"Not today," he thought. "Not on the day when she's finally here."
And then Joe's daughter, who had been standing slightly to the side this whole time, watching the adults rush around the playground, suddenly said quietly:
"And the driver... he picked something up from the floor of the car when we were leaving. Some kind of black briefcase. I thought it was weird, because he usually doesn't touch anything."
Max froze, then turned abruptly:
"Exactly!" He could have thought it was our prop and tossed it in his car. Three minutes later, the driver was already running from his car, holding the briefcase in both hands, as if it were a bomb about to explode.
"Sorry, I thought they left this in the car. I was going to check it in at the counter..."
Joe grabbed the briefcase, clicked the locks, saw his old belt, a stack of guitar picks, a small notebook with notes inside—and closed his eyes for a second. It was as if the air he'd been holding for the last ten minutes had been let out.
He looked up at his daughter. And there was so much in that look that she didn't even need words.
"Thank you," he said simply. "You... you saved me."
The girl blushed slightly, as if she wasn't used to being the savior, but something new flashed in her eyes—not just "I'm here," but "I can be helpful."
"Oh, come on," she muttered. "I just noticed."
But Joe stepped toward her and hugged her tightly, not like at the airport—in a different way, as if she were now not just a daughter to protect, but the person who had just helped him save a concert. I, standing nearby, smiled slightly. She saw Joe's fingers tremble as he fastened his belt, how he took a deep breath, as if regaining control. And she saw his daughter standing next to him, no longer hiding, but watching her father become himself again.
The concert in Lima started on time. And when Joe hit the first note, the hall was still empty, but his family was already on stage. And he considered his family not only his daughter, but also me and the team, and even all the fans who would now turn on the flashlights on their phones and hold them up, creating a special magic. During the concert, I sat next to Joe's daughter on a high balcony, and we had a wonderful view of the performance. And do you know what I saw in the eyes of Joe's daughter, who sat next to me in a pink dress with patterns? I saw in them the genuine childish love of a daughter for her father. These emotions truly cannot be faked. She constantly clapped her hands after every performance, and even sang along as best she could, albeit inexperiencedly. That's why I'll remember that first concert in Lima forever.
The second concert in Lima also had its surprises. The setlist went according to plan, the lighting was perfect down to the second, the equipment worked perfectly—everything ran like clockwork, and that's precisely why no one expected Dan (Joe's brother) to emerge from backstage. He walked leisurely, wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, as if he'd just dropped by to see how things were going, but in his hands was an old acoustic guitar—the very same one Joe had once tried to teach him to play. The crowd howled. Joe froze for a split second, then broke into a smile:
"Are you serious? Right now?"
Dan shrugged, as if it were the most ordinary thing.
"When else? You're singing about 'eternal love,' and I don't even know what you're talking about. Let me hear you live at least once."
The musicians exchanged glances, but didn't lose their rhythm. Dan sat down on a high stool and nodded to the roadies: "Keep the drums down, we're having a brotherly duet here." And he started playing. It wasn't a hit song, but an old, almost forgotten number the brothers had once written together and then abandoned because it "didn't fit the format." But now it sounded better than any hit: it held so much shared history that even fans who didn't know the lyrics caught the intonation and began singing along by ear. At that moment, Joe realized he'd been teaching his brother guitar for a reason. He was a skilled student.
At one point, Joe looked at his brother and suddenly said into the microphone:
"You know, I used to think the most important thing was the applause. But now I understand: the most important thing is having someone sitting next to you know where you hit a false note in the chorus."
Dan chuckled:
"It wasn't false. It was drama."
And the audience erupted in laughter and applause again.
As soon as the duet ended and Dan left the stage, Joe paused for a sip of water, when a small figure ran out from the aisle. It was his daughter. She was wearing the sparkly dress she'd picked out that morning. But now, when she saw all the lights, the screens, the crowd, and her dad on stage, her courage vanished.
She froze, her eyes widened, and the first tear rolled down her cheek. "Dad..." she whispered softly, and the whisper, amplified by the microphones, carried throughout the stadium.
Joe reacted instantly, but without fuss. He simply stepped down the steps, crouched down, and opened his arms.
"It's okay, honey. I'm here."
She rushed toward him, buried her face in his shoulder, and he picked her up, holding her.
And suddenly I knew what to do. I stepped toward the guard and quietly said,
"Give him a minute. He knows what he's doing."
The guard nodded, as if he'd been waiting for these words. The guards had long since gotten used to me sometimes giving them orders on Joe's behalf. And nothing surprised them anymore. They thought I was just his friend.
Returning to the stage, Joe didn't explain anything. He simply nodded to the musicians. They slowed the tempo slightly, and Joe began singing again—quietly, calmly, looking directly at his daughter. And there was no posing or showmanship in this singing, just the voice she knew best.
When the chorus ended, his daughter raised her head, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and suddenly said so loudly that the microphone picked it up again:
"Daddy, it's really loud in here!"
Joe smiled:
"Yes, honey. But don't cry. I'm right here."
"And when I grow up, will you buy me a microphone?"
"Of course I will.
Then next time I sing with you."
"Deal."
The audience exhaled, "Aaahh ... Hiding backstage, I waited for Joe's daughter to come running to me so I could take her to the dressing room. There, among her dolls, she pulled out a beautiful gold butterfly-shaped hair clip and said to me, "This is a gift from me. Daddy said you're very beautiful. The hair clip is beautiful too. It will suit you."
Taking the gift from her hands, I smiled. She immediately took the hair clip in her own hands and somehow managed to place it on my hair. It was so sincere and so childish that I simply hugged her in response. A minute later, Joe's brother, Dan, came in. I got to know him a little, and it was all very rushed. He took his niece by the hand and offered to buy her an ice cream for her bravery, to which she happily accepted.
A few minutes later, the concert ended. Joe's team began loading things into a large white van. The next concert was in the next town, and we'd have to drive almost all night. Joe's daughter fell asleep first, next to her favorite toy. The journey wasn't as tiring for her as it had been for Joe and me. I saw him sitting next to me, scribbling in his notebook. I wondered what he was writing? Maybe a new hit? He'd sometimes admitted to me that he sometimes wrote lyrics himself.
Early in the morning, our van stopped near an indoor stadium. The stadium was very large and was blocked off by a large green fence. Someone from Joe's team said we were already there. Now it was another tough day ahead, and back on schedule.This stadium turned out to be several times bigger, as it seemed to me. As Joe explained to me, it was a football stadium and it was designed for almost a thousand people. This would be the largest concert in the state and a lot of people would come to it. I had to not only be on Joe’s team among ten people, but also keep an eye on his little daughter. And this was sometimes a hassle. During Joe’s rehearsal at the stadium, I ran after her across the football field. She ran away from me and kept laughing that I couldn’t catch her. Seeing a large poster of Joe on one of the walls, she ran up to it and, stopping, asked me for a pen and paper. When I brought it all to her from the dressing room, she took her pen and wrote on the poster: “the best dad ever.” Seeing the inscription, I quickly took her hand and led her away, hoping that the organizers and owners of the stadium would not be too angry. The most amazing thing was that when the workers started setting up benches and chairs, they covered up the poster. And good, I thought to myself. After rehearsal, Joe came up to my daughter and me and said he had time to watch a movie with us and have lunch, after which he would have another rehearsal and meet with fans. And that evening there would be a concert, at which he would be the fifth performer. The scale of this stadium concert truly left an unusual feeling.
The stadium hummed, as if a huge, living heart were beating inside it. Thousands of voices merged into a single roar, spotlights cut the darkness with slanting beams, and Joe's voice burst from the stage—his signature piercing voice, which sent shivers down the fans' spines. Scarlett walked quietly down the service corridor—slowly but decisively, a habit of being in control evident in every step. She wore a tailored, dark gray suit that fitted her perfectly, her hair pulled back into a sleek low bun, and a thin watch on her wrist that ticked faintly, a reminder that time was running out.
The guard at the side door tried to stop her:
"Sorry, this is for staff and invited guests only."
Scarlett didn't raise her voice, but it took on that same steeliness that made her business partners avoid arguing with her unnecessarily:
"I'm here for my daughter. Joe knows."
The guard hesitated, and that was enough: she added gently but firmly:
"Please don't make me call the organizers. We're short on time as it is."
He stepped aside, opening the door slightly.
"Come on in. Joe's dressing room is just up the stairs, on the left."
Scarlett nodded, offering a restrained thank you, and moved on. But just as she was climbing a few steps, a small figure in jeans and a T-shirt with a print of Joe's favorite band slipped out of the half-open door. I remained standing by the open door, hesitant to go outside. I realized my mother had come to pick her up and simply nodded. Scarlett took her daughter's hand, knelt down, and kissed her cheek.
"Mom! This is so cool! I'm watching the concert from here. Dad said I can't go to the stadium—it's too noisy!" the girl babbled.
"Let's go, or we'll miss our flight," Scarlett said meekly, getting to her feet. She turned around and looked me over carefully, trying to figure out what her ex-husband saw in me. After standing there for a minute, she said to me:
"What's your name? Helen? Tell Joe I picked up your daughter."
"Okay, I'll tell her," I replied.
"Mom, can I say goodbye to Auntie?" the girl asked, looking at her mother.
"No. We have a flight," Scarlett said with a twinge of jealousy, and quickly led her daughter toward the exit.
After the concert, I told Joe that Mom had picked up their daughter. He didn't seem surprised at all. He explained that Scarlett had a tendency to do things very unexpectedly and secretly. Of course, the fact that Scarlett didn't let him say goodbye to his daughter hurt him a little. But at least he was grateful to her for letting him spend those few days with his little one. That evening, everything was as usual. I helped load the equipment into the van, and we hit the road again. The van rocked gently on the night highway, and Joe clutched his notebook in his fingers—as if the lines and notes held some kind of support. I looked at him and realized that behind all this loud life—behind the stadiums, the fans, the endless rehearsals—he was simply desperately trying to maintain his balance.
"You know what's on my phone?" Joe suddenly said, not looking at me, with a wry smile. "A calendar. And it looks like a survival game: get on stage, survive the interview, get on stage, find coffee, talk to fans, don't die in the photo shoot at two o'clock... And I still haven't figured out where the 'save progress' button is."
I laughed softly, but there was no mockery in it—only sympathy.
"So we're just driving and not letting the game end." He finally looked at me and relaxed his shoulders a little for the first time that evening. His neck was a little sore after the concert.
"Thank you for not letting me give up."
"Of course I won't let him give up. How could I even let something like that happen?" I took a notebook out of my backpack and decided to write down all our adventures with Joe. Maybe then people would understand that behind the singer's mask there's hard work and patience, a broken microphone and equipment. Agreeing with myself, I took out a pen and started writing.
The next day was another concert. Also at the stadium. When Joe took the stage again, the stadium was buzzing, spotlights cut through the darkness, and in this chaos of light and sound, he suddenly froze for a second. No one expected him to stumble mid-song. There was no silence—the audience continued singing along, confidently and loudly, as if they knew the words better than the performer himself. Joe smiled, lowered the microphone, and, spreading his arms slightly, said:
"Sorry, I forgot for a second what city we were in." But if you're singing along now, it means I'm doing it right.
The crowd erupted in laughter and applause, then took up the chorus again—even louder, even more confidently.
I stood backstage, watching the concert, enjoying the music. Now, when Joe went to his dressing room to change, the next guest was announced. He was supposed to perform a couple of songs. How correctly I heard his name: Luan Andreas. Backstage, Luan didn't look like a star at all. Worn-out sneakers, jeans with barely noticeable wear on the knee, a faded T-shirt from some old band. Over his shoulder, a guitar in a simple case—not a lacquered monster, but an instrument actually played. He hummed constantly, as if the melody had always lived within him. He had an open face: light stubble, a hooked nose, a smile that appeared quickly and disappeared just as quickly if he was thinking. He had no desire to please - he was simply himself, and this drew people to him. And when he was announced on stage, he walked out on stage in what he had come in. Without pathos and pomp. I would never have thought he was an artist. After performing the first song, he noticed me and winked at me in a strange way. At that moment, Joe came up to me. He was afraid to take my hand and just watched, standing next to me. Suddenly, during the chorus, Luan came up to me and led me onto the stage. I was wearing a short green dress and shoes. He began to hug me and sing into the microphone. And then behind me I heard a sound as if something broke. I wanted to look back, but Luan took my hand and we did something like a dance. To tell the truth, at that moment I wanted to run away somewhere.As soon as the song was finished, Luan hugged me and whispered something in Spanish in my ear. I couldn't quite catch what it was. As soon as the song ended, I seized the moment to slip backstage unnoticed. On my way, I noticed a broken monitor. Joe was standing a little further away, flushed. He was about to say something to me when a security guard approached him and said he was being called to sign some paperwork.
After the concert, Joe's team quickly loaded the van. And we hit the road again. The lights of the highway flickered outside the windows, merging into one long, glowing line. I looked at Joe's profile: he sat there, his fingers clenched into fists, as if trying to hold in everything that had built up over the evening.
"Can you tell me what's wrong with you?" I asked quietly. "After the concert, it was like you switched off."
Joe didn't answer me right away. He only clutched his notebook tighter, as if it were the only thing he could control. It contained nothing but thoughts and possible future songs.
“I’m sorry,” he finally exhaled. “It’s just… when he pulled you onto the stage, I stopped breathing for a second. And it wasn’t about the stage. Not about the show. It was about you being mine. And I don’t want anyone to ruin our moments together.”
I tilted my head slightly, as if trying to discern something in him I’d missed before.
“What if I want to be on stage myself? Not with him, but in general. To be noticed. But still be yours. Can’t you have both at the same time?”
Joe shouted sharply at the driver and asked him to pull over. The van rocked gently and came to a stop. The engine rumbled softly, and all around there was that silence that only comes on a deserted highway.
Joe opened his window and looked at me. There was so much vulnerability in him that it took my breath away. He doesn't want to share me with anyone.
- You can. Of course you can. It's just... I don't know how to share. I don't know how to watch someone steal your attention like it's a small thing. For me, it's not a small thing. You see, when he started hugging you. That was wrong.
Instead of answering, I reached out and gently touched his hand, stroking his warm fingers.
- Then don't share. Just look at me. I won't sing with anyone else but you. Just don't be angry.
And he looked. For real. No stage, no cameras, no thousands of people expecting him to be perfect. Just a guy terrified of losing what matters most. The cicadas could be heard through the open window. They were clearly trying to ease the tension between Joe and me.
Only it wasn't the cicadas that eased the tension, but his kiss on the lips. He kissed me so unexpectedly that I was speechless.
When Joe pulled away slightly, he smiled—for the first time that evening, truly. His jealousy had clearly faded into the background.
"Sorry about the monitor," Joe confessed.
I laughed, burying my forehead in his shoulder. I'd completely forgotten that in a fit of jealousy, he'd smashed the monitor right backstage while watching me.
"I forgive you. But next time, just say, 'I'm having a hard time.' I know how to listen." "Even if you don't say it," I replied, resting my head on his shoulder.
He hugged me, and we sat like that for another minute—just listening to the purr of the engine and the city somewhere far away continuing to live its life. So imperceptibly, he and I dozed off for a bit and woke up at 3:00 AM. Our cell phone woke us. It was the head concert planner calling:
Joe, you have to be on a morning TV show in three hours.
"I'm not going to give any interviews," Joe replied sharply. He woke up instantly, as if on schedule. My eyes were still sleepy.
"A lot of money has been invested in this. That's the organizer's decision."
"I don't care about your organizer! I have a concert this afternoon and a closed event this evening."
"According to the terms of the contract..."
"I don't give a damn about your contract! I'm a human being!"
"Then we'll have to cancel the concert."
Joe grinned, but there was no humor in his grin. "Cancel it. Just keep in mind: I'm not refusing to perform. I refuse to turn this into a circus. If you want a show, let Luan go on the morning show. He's charming, he'll smile, tell a few stories. I've done all I could and am simply tired."
There was a moment's silence on the line.
"We can't replace you."
"Then let's make a deal. I'll go on the show. But only to sing one song. No interviews. No relationship questions. No "tell me how you're feeling today." I'll just sing and leave."
Silence again. Then a heavy sigh.
"Okay. One song. No interviews."
Joe hung up, closed his eyes, and finally exhaled.
"I hate it when they make a picture of me."
"At least you didn't let them make a picture of us," I said, and he pulled me close, buried his forehead in my shoulder, and for a few seconds, simply stopped being an artist. If it weren't for me, he probably would have snapped. He was very tired. It's hard to get enough sleep on these trips.
"Driver, stop right here at the all-night caf;," I said to the almost sleepy driver, and he immediately turned toward the caf;.
"Where are you going at 3 a.m.?" Joe asked me.
"Sit here," I replied, and jumping out of the car, I quickly ran to the caf;. There, I bought three coffees: one for me, one for Joe, and one for the driver. "That's just what I need," Joe smiled, taking the hot glass from me. I smiled and sat down next to him, feeling the warmth of the coffee slowly dispel the night chill. The van pulled away again, and the road stretched ahead—an endless ribbon of headlights cutting through the darkness.
The following days merged into one long, exhausting rhythm: travel, soundchecks, crowds, lights, the screams of fans. But amid all this hustle and bustle, there were those quiet moments when everything froze.
One morning, while the crew was setting up the stage, I sat on the edge of the stage, dangling my legs, watching the dawn slowly bathe the stadium in golden light. Joe came over, sat down next to me, and handed me a notebook:
"Here are some sketches. For a new song. About all of this: about the roads, about fatigue, about how hard it is to keep a smile when you just want to lie down and never get up. About those who are there and keep you from breaking down." I flipped through the pages covered in his uneven handwriting and felt his soul living in those lines—unadorned, unvarnished.
“Will you sing this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe. If I can make something real out of it. Not just a hit, but something someone hears and thinks, ‘He gets it. He knows what it’s like.’”
And then there were the concerts in Brazil—those very ones where it was as if reality decided to play a game of absurdity with us.
At the first concert, while Joe was singing, a rooster ran out onto the stage.Real, alive, with a loud scream and sparkling eyes. He was rushing around in front of Joe, pecking at the microphone stand, as if he were seriously aiming for the role of backup singer. Security in blue uniforms scurried after him like in a ridiculous comedy sketch, and the audience was in tears of laughter.
Without wasting a second, Joe leaned toward the microphone:
"Looks like I have a new backup singer."
When a rooster jumped and almost landed on one of the security guards' heads, Joe added:
"Who ordered the cock race here?"
The audience erupted in laughter. And in that moment, I realized: this is the magic. Not in perfect notes or flawless lighting, but in the ability to turn chaos into a joke, in the ability to keep your cool when life throws you a rooster instead of a backup dancer.
And at the next concert, in another Brazilian city, the stage decided to throw another surprise. Halfway through the song, an electric scooter rolled onto the stage—some guy had brought it and then disappeared backstage. Joe froze for a second, then, without thinking, hopped on it, grabbed his guitar, and finished the song, riding around the stage.
"I think I've got a new mode of transportation! Who wants to ride with me?" he shouted into the microphone.
The crowd roared, laughed, and waved. And when the song ended, Joe rode the scooter right off the stage—and it was so typical of him: bold, spontaneous, and genuine.
After the concert, I approached him, still unable to contain my smile:
"Do you always surprise the audience like this?" He laughed, ruffled his hair, and winked:
"You know, I don't really plan these things in advance. Sometimes on stage you just seize the moment." You feel the energy of the crowd, and then suddenly this scooter appears... and you're like, "Okay, let's go!"
We sat in the shadows backstage, away from the hustle and bustle, and he spoke more quietly, as if sharing something very personal:
— Honestly? It's not that I create magic. I just try really hard not to screw up when something doesn't go according to plan. And when it suddenly works, and the crowd laughs, and everyone screams—that's when I think, "Oh, okay, I'm a magician today." And you know, that's the thrill: when you don't know if this thing will work, but it does. And you realize: it's not you who's so brilliant, it's them who are so cool, this crowd, these people. They are making magic together with me.
After those two concerts in Brazil, I put the pieces together in my head about Joe's multitasking ability.
And how after concerts, like all artists, sweat trickles down his neck and you can see fatigue in his eyes. At such moments, I just silently watched and gave Joe a little time to gather his strength. Honestly, I was tired of this tough schedule myself. It seemed to me that I even lost a kilogram. Either from the stress and constant running around, or from simply forgetting to eat. Then, as Joe told me, two more concerts were planned in Venezuela, after which he said he would buy me a ticket home. But I really didn’t want to leave. I had already become such friends with all the people from his team that we truly became like a real family. I didn’t even notice how I started making fun of them in Joe’s spirit. Yes, his charm and charisma are very infectious. Immediately after the concerts in Venezuela, Joe gave me an unexpected gift... now I’ll tell you how it all happened in order. I was sitting in a rocking chair on the hotel's outdoor veranda, headphones in. I was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, my hair slightly tousled by the warm breeze. The sky was slowly darkening, draping itself over my dark blue outfit. My favorite Joe song was playing in my headphones. I closed my eyes and accidentally fell asleep. I was awakened by a light touch on my shoulder. Opening my eyes, I saw Joe. He took the earphone out of my ear, put it in his, and said, "I thought you were tired of my voice."
With these words, he removed the earphone from his ear and placed it in my palm.
"How could he be boring?" I asked, taking the earphone out of my ear. Now I had both earphones in my palm.
"So, I'm not boring you either?"
"Say that again and I'll kiss you."
"Then kiss me." "It's okay to dream! You have to earn my kiss!"
"Then now's the perfect time," Joe said, bending down and picking me up. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held on to him to keep from falling.
"Put me down," I asked, trying to stay in his arms.
"I'm kidnapping you," Joe replied, and carried me away from the hotel, straight through the park. There, among the trees, sat a black plane with the pilot standing next to it. After setting me down, Joe helped open the door and silently motioned for me to sit down. I had no choice but to comply. As soon as I sat down, he sat down next to me and immediately put headphones on both of us, then helped me fasten my seatbelt.
"I've never flown in a helicopter," I admitted, adjusting the microphone next to my headphones.
"Now we can fly," Joe said to the pilot, who immediately took his seat up front and started the engine. It became a little noisy and very unfamiliar. I looked around and couldn't believe that our helicopter had taken off and was heading directly over the park and forest. Looking out the window, I saw the stars begin to light up in the sky, and right below us were thousands of colorful city lights.
"Do you like it?" Joe asked me.
"I really like it. Joe, it's amazing!" I said, turning to face him.
"Do I deserve your kiss now?" "What do you think?
"Wait, I think you're dirty," Joe said, and touching my lips, he ran his index finger first, then immediately kissed me on the lips. There was both passion and tenderness in that kiss. It was more breathtaking than our flight itself. Then a Jonas song started playing. It was the best moment of my life. The flight lasted almost 40 minutes, and we landed back where we'd taken off. It had gotten even darker, with only the streetlights outside the hotel lit. Joe walked me straight to my room, where I couldn't help but kiss him on the cheek. In response to my gesture, he followed me into my room and locked the door...
The next day, we went to Venezuela. There, during a concert, someone threw a sneaker right on stage. Joe narrowly avoided it, then laughed, picked it up, twirled it in his hands, and said calmly, "Hey, guys, I sure love gifts, but let's not throw anything at it, okay? Otherwise, I'm not getting an encore!"
Then he placed the sneaker on the mic stand like an art piece and joked, "Now it's part of the show!" Laughter immediately broke out in the audience.
I watched the whole performance from backstage and laughed as much as everyone else. It was so typical of him. Not to get angry, but to make a funny story out of it. The last concert in Venezuela went quite well. No drama or funny situations.
And I think it was then that I asked Joe:
"Do you prefer drama or funny stories at your concerts?"
To which he responded with a thoughtful look:
"Not everything is dramatic or funny. Sometimes a concert is just work. You go out, do what you can, and try to do it well. Yes, it can be a bit boring, sometimes you're repeating the same thing over and over again, and at some point you catch yourself barely holding back a yawn. But then you look out into the audience, you see someone's eyes sparkling, someone singing every word, even the ones you sometimes forget... And suddenly this routine becomes something more. Those eyes are what make it worth going out again and again."
"Who are your closest people?"
"Close? Those who don't ask for an autograph every day and are still happy to see you. Those who say, 'You look like a zombie today, go to sleep,' and not, 'Give me another take.' Without them, I would have gotten lost in these airports and hotels long ago." Or start talking to the microphone like a best friend."
Looking at my notebook, I realized I'd filled it completely. There were phrases, snippets of dialogue, funny details that only I could understand. For me, it wasn't just a tour chronicle—it was our story, line by line, moment by moment. How I wished this story would never end. Only my tour is slowly coming to an end. Soon I'll be heading home to St. Petersburg. I need to check all my documents and change. As Joe told me the other day, he'll buy me a ticket home. I went behind the screen and started changing.
At that moment, Joe walked into the dressing room. He picked up my notebook from the couch—the very one I'd left behind the screen. He flipped through a couple of pages, his gaze lingering on the phrase: "He tripped over the cable, but pretended it was choreography," and suddenly looked up at me. In a serious but warm voice, she says,
"You wrote all this down, as if you knew we'd make a story out of it one day. So, I want the next chapter to be about us as a family. Marry me—and let it be the happiest ending."
I fasten the last buttons on my blouse and step out from behind the screen. I look at him with surprised eyes. Is he joking? Maybe these are just his latest lines from a new song? It feels too much like a dream.
"I'm serious, Helen. Marry me," Joe replies firmly, noticing my confusion.
I take a step forward, but I still don't believe it:
— A... ring? You can't propose without a ring, can you?
Joe pauses for a second, and then the corners of his lips lift slightly. He quickly looks around, as if searching for something suitable, grabs a shiny, sequined stage headband from the dressing room shelf, and hands it to me with the most honest expression: “Well, this is all I have right now. But I promise: as soon as the tour is over, I'll buy you a real one. For now, let it be this: you're my princess, and this... well, temporary royal jewelry.”
I can't help but laugh, even though tears are already welling up in my eyes:
— “Are you crazy? It's a show prop. They'll look for it later, and you'll even be accused of stealing it.”
— “But it's survived five concerts and three microphone drops. So it's proven. And as a symbol: I want to be with you even in the most ridiculous situations.” He pauses, then becomes slightly more serious again, but doesn't lose his sincerity. What choice do I have but to agree?
"I love you, Joe, and I'd be happy to be your wife," I reply, my voice a little quiet. With these words, he hugged me tightly, so tightly that all the noise outside the dressing room, all the future concerts, all the unfinished songs and unfinished business momentarily ceased to exist. There was only us, this quiet corner, the shiny headband in my hand, and the feeling that now everything would be fine.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and the manager entered the dressing room and said joyfully:
"Would you agree to another concert in South America? The organizers are really asking for it!" I looked at Joe, expecting him to be angry, but instead he said:
"I'll do another concert on the condition that Helen stays with me."
"So, I can't count on a ticket home?" I asked, giving him a sly look. "Don't even think about it. I'm not letting you go anywhere now!" Joe says, picking up my notebook again, smiling and saying to me:
"You wrote all this down... And I didn't even think it was worth writing down. But now I see: this isn't about concerts. This is about us. Let's make something out of this that will last." I suggest we make a real TV series," and with these words, he hands my notebook to the manager. He takes it and begins reading slowly and silently right in front of us...
Six months later...
I'm sitting in our kitchen—in this small but cozy house we finally bought. No pool, but a huge garden: still almost bare, just dirt and grass. But that's even better. I'll plant the trees and flowers myself, decide where to put the benches, where to put a table to drink coffee or tea in the morning. As for the trees, I already knew which ones I wanted. I've always dreamed of planting a catalpa tree, so that its flowers would fill the entire garden with their fragrance. And I even decorated the porch myself: I hung garlands of wooden beads and unusually shaped lanterns. Joe even helped me hang them.
Meanwhile, the apple pie is quietly simmering in the oven—its warm, rich aroma is already spreading throughout the house. Somewhere inside, a timer is quietly ticking; the pie will be ready very soon. I know my Joe is currently working out in one of the rooms, and then he'll come running into the kitchen at the smell of pie. After all, I knew he adored my pies and had often admitted I had talent. He also liked to joke that my pies were too salty. I'd take a piece of his pie for that, and he'd get really upset about it.
My laptop is on the table right in front of me. I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and open Joe's updated personal website again. He told me they'd redesigned the site, removed the old photos, and added new ones. They even remembered to mention upcoming tours and provide a link to the store with his merch. Then I scroll down the page and see there's no feedback or even email. Just a link to the store and that's it.
A couple of minutes later, the timer tells me the pie is ready. I get up from the table and carefully remove it with the help of the towels. Just a few minutes later, Joe himself walked into the kitchen. He always knows how to find the right moment. His sly gaze first settled on the pie, then turned back to me. He realized I'd been studying his website intently.
"So, what do you think?" Joe asks me, nodding at the screen and sitting down next to me, wiping his face with his hand. "I think this looks like me now. Not like a poster, but like the real me."
I close the laptop lid and place my hand over his.
"It looks like me," I say quietly. "It looks like me."
"Keep talking. I won't be offended," Joe said. He was wearing only sweatpants, and I could hear his heart pounding after his workout.
"That's impossible! No email, no contact form. Only 'contact our management.' Where am I supposed to find management? It's like a quest!"
"I know, it's infuriating. I'd be really angry too if I were you."
- So, no one writes to you at all? What if it's something important?
- Of course they do. Millions of them. If I reply to everyone, I'll stop being a musician. I'll become a secretary. And I won't have enough time for anything. Even my touring schedule is a complete quest.
- Sounds like an excuse. So that only brands or famous people write to you.
- It's not an excuse. It's math. Imagine you have exactly twenty-four hours. And one percent of them you can spend just being yourself. Not a hero, not a star, but just a person. These are the hours I cherish. And the rest is filtered by people I trust.
- But someone really just wants to say "thank you." Or offer something cool.
- Yes, I'm grateful for every "thank you." But I don't say "thank you" in response to a letter. I say it on stage. In every concert. In every song. It's my way of saying, "I hear you." And if there's a business proposal, there's a way. A long, awkward, but honest one.
- If I weren't your wife, I wouldn't be able to find your contact information, not even your manager's. It's all so hidden. And you know, this mini-investigation led me to an idea.
- You're not working as a journalist anymore, after our wedding. Or have you gone back to your old ways?
- Joe! Be more serious sometimes!
- Okay, I'm listening.
- You know what I think? It's just unfair. Every country should have its own representative. One person with a normal email address where I can simply write, "I have an idea." And so I don't have to put together a portfolio like I'm applying for a job.
- You know... I'd like that too. So it's simple: I write, and it gets through.
- Really?
- Really. Sometimes I look at this "system" of ours and think: what if there's someone sitting there right now who has the coolest idea in the world, and we don't see it because it got lost in three transfers? It's a shame.
- So you agree it's unfair?
- I agree. But I also understand why it happened that way. When you're from a small town and singing in a garage, you want to respond to everyone. But when your tour is thirty cities in two months, you suddenly realize the only way to stay on track is to put up filters. And these filters sometimes look like walls.
With these words, I glanced at my husband's muscular torso and sighed deeply.
"I just want there to be a proper door between 'I want to say thank you' and 'I want to propose a project.' Not a trapdoor, not a backdoor, just a door."
"I do too. Maybe someday we'll come up with something of our own. Our own little channel where people can write directly. Maybe not to me, but to someone I trust. Someone I can just forward a letter to and say, 'Look, this is something good.' It would just take a separate team of people to read all these letters with collaboration proposals."
"Sounds like a new plan.
That's the plan."
After these words, Joe stroked my hair like a little kitten. Such moments of frank conversation were always very important to me. And he loved me because I wasn't afraid to offer him my ideas. Even if they didn't always fit into his public persona. Then Joe reached for the pie, broke off a piece with his hands—he didn't wait for a plate—and, blowing on it, popped it into his mouth. He paused for a second, as if the whole world had narrowed to this one taste, and then broke into that same smile that always made Helen feel warm somewhere in the pit of her stomach.
"Perfect," he drawled, closing his eyes. "Not a drop of extra salt. Well, maybe just a little bit. But I won't complain. Honestly."
"One more word about salt, and your piece will go to the garden. To the future catalpas," I said, breaking off a piece of pie for myself.
"You know, that sounds very romantic. You, me, and the future catalpa," Joe said, looking into my eyes.
"Yeah, and if you mention salt again, I'll be making pies for the catalpa, not you!" In a few hours, there was a television show where Joe and I were invited as guests. I wore a long red dress with minimal jewelry, and Joe wore a stunning black suit.
We stepped out onto the porch, inhaled the cool morning air, and then a familiar figure appeared at the gate. Kevin, Joe's bodyguard, stood next to a black SUV, smiling so broadly that the crinkles around his eyes deepened. He'd recently taken time off to spend with his family—hiking with his wife and kids in the mountains, hiking, barbecuing, and, as he put it, "forgetting what a tour schedule looked like." And now here he was again, wearing his usual jacket, carrying a walkie-talkie over his shoulder, and with that special calm that seemed to banish any fuss.
"Finally!" Kevin exclaimed, coming closer and bowing his head slightly to hide his joy at seeing Joe. "I was starting to think you'd decided to escape all the cameras and live in the garden, planting trees."
Joe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder—not hard, just in a friendly way.
"Almost. But Helen said the catalpa could wait, but the show couldn't."
Kevin glanced at me and winked:
"So you talked him into it. Good job. Otherwise, he really would have stayed with the shovel."
I smiled, feeling the slight pre-shoot jitters fade away. I always felt calmer around Kevin—he was the one who knew how to protect Joe from unnecessary stress, and he did it so subtly that it seemed like everything was just a matter of course. It's a shame he wasn't with us on the South American tour. I think we could have had even more adventures with someone like him around."
"Get in, guys," he said, opening the back door of the car. "I'll give you a ride so fast you won't even notice you're there. No traffic, no shouts of 'Joe, look over here!'" We got in, and the car pulled away smoothly. Kevin drove confidently, calmly, occasionally commenting on the road as if it wasn't a trip at all, but part of their old, tried-and-true routine. We'd both gotten used to his grumbling lately.
"By the way, Joe," he turned around for a second, his eyes still on the road, "I was thinking: next vacation, I'll take you and Helen up to the mountains. I'll show you where I used to grill those kebabs. It's so quiet there, you can't even hear the grass growing. I'm not kidding. And the water in the lake is an unrealistic blue. The kids and I even went for a ride in a rubber dinghy."
Joe chuckled, but something warm flickered in his eyes. For a moment, he remembered riding in a rubber dinghy with Dan as a child. How they floated away, forgetting their fishing rods, and their father started yelling at them from the shore.
"Deal." Just no marathons. After the tour, all I can do is sit and stare at this silence.
"And that's okay," Kevin replied calmly. "Sometimes the most important thing is just to sit and breathe. You can even do square breathing, or whatever it's called? I've heard all the psychologists talk about this special breathing technique."
As we drove, the city grew busier, and then the TV studio building appeared ahead—modern, glass, as if assembled from cubes and lines. It looked cold and austere, but at the same time, it felt energetic: light reflected in the windows, and a crowd had already gathered at the entrance.
Joe's fans stood behind the barriers, holding signs, some shouting his name, others whispering quietly, as if afraid to spoil the moment. Journalists crowded nearby with cameras, microphones, and notepads—all waiting for the guests to arrive. The noise was so loud that even through the closed windows of the car it penetrated inside, reminding us of the world that awaited us outside this cozy cabin.
Kevin parked near the service entrance, stepped out first, and paused for a second, as if steeling himself. Then he nodded to us:
"Ready? Stay close. I'll show you."
We climbed out of the car, and immediately the noise grew louder, voices merged into a single hum, camera flashes flickered like lightning. But Kevin walked confidently, as if cutting a corridor through the crowd. He nodded to familiar guards, spoke briefly to someone on the radio, and gradually the space around us grew a little quieter. Somewhere off to the side, police cars were parked, blocking off at least some space from prying eyes.
"Joe! Joe, this way!" they shouted from all sides, but Kevin wouldn't let us stop.
"A little to the left," he said quietly, directing us toward the doors. "We'll go through the hall now; it's quieter there."
And indeed: as soon as we were inside, the noise seemed to be cut off. The lobby was bright and airy, smelling of coffee and fresh paint. The receptionist—a young woman in a formal suit, holding a badge and a clipboard—approached us immediately and smiled, but her smile was businesslike.
"Welcome! You're just in time. I'll show you to the dressing room now, where you'll be prepared for the shoot. Joe, your stylist is already waiting. Helen, everything is ready for you too."
She led us down a hallway where everything was lined up: doors, signs, and direction signs. It seemed as if even the air here was controlled—nothing random, only precise routes and pre-planned steps.
The dressing room turned out to be cozy, despite all the studio austerity: soft lighting, mirrors with bulbs, tables with cosmetics, a neat robe draped over the back of a chair. The receptionist nodded:
"Make yourself comfortable." Someone will be with you in a moment. If you need anything, just say so.
As soon as she left, Joe quietly exhaled, as if shaking off the outside noise, and looked at me:
"You know, sometimes I think all this fuss is like a warm-up for a concert. First, there's the shouting, the lights flashing, everyone wanting something, and then you go on stage—and all that's left is the music."
I walked up to him, straightened the lapel of his jacket, and smiled:
"Today, your music is your words. And they will be heard."
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening not to the words but to what lay behind them, and said quietly:
"Thank you for being here. Without you, I probably would have run off to the catalpa tree on the way to the studio."
At that moment, the makeup artist entered the dressing room—smiling and energetic, with an eyeshadow palette and brushes in hand.
"Hi! Ready to work with you? I promise I'll make you look natural, but the camera will definitely notice you."
I nodded, sat down in the chair, and while she carefully applied foundation, I looked at Joe in the mirror. He stood by the window, looking out over the city, then turned, caught my gaze, and slightly lifted the corners of his lips—in a way that made it clear: yes, there would be interviews, cameras, questions ahead, but between us, everything would remain private and authentic. Especially since he understood that this was my first official outing together, especially on camera. We tried hard to hide our relationship; many people didn't even know we were married right away. While I was putting on my makeup, I tried not to think about what awaited me behind that patterned door, although that didn't make me any less nervous. Noticing that I was frequently looking at the door, Joe quietly approached me and placed his hand on my shoulder. When my makeup was done and the finishing touches were ready, we were called into the studio.
The studio is decorated in a "live backstage" style: subdued warm lighting, dark yellow walls, and large translucent panels in the background, flashing footage from Joe's concerts, interview clips, and tour posters in real time. In the center is a semicircular sofa made of soft dark blue fabric, opposite it is the host's chair, slightly raised so that it visually "holds" the frame. Between them is a low dark wood coffee table with a glass top: on it are glasses of water, cards with questions, and a small tablet where the producers throw in prompts. The floor is a dark parquet square, with small spotlights pointing upward around the perimeter to create a "stage" effect. Along the back wall is a glass partition: behind it sit the editors, camera operators, and sound engineer, all wearing headphones, ready to signal or bring up a clip at a moment's notice. One of the panels flashes the show's logo and the words "Live." During recording, this logo will glow bright red.
Along the sides, behind a low decorative partition, are several rows of comfortable chairs in the guest area. Seated there are members of Joe's team, a couple of journalists, acquaintances from the industry... and among them, Scarlett. She came not for the show, but to support Joe: after all, today is a tough day for him; his daughter is staying with her grandparents. Scarlett was dressed modestly—black pants, a beige sweater, and a long chain necklace. Her hair was loose and curled. When I saw her, I didn't know how to react, so I simply took my husband's hand.
Then we were shown to the couch and told to get ready; the show would begin in four minutes.
I sat next to Joe and we nodded silently. Suddenly, the host walked into the studio. He had gray hair and a stubble; he looked to be about 50. He was wearing a white suit. Noticing that everything was ready, the host immediately began his speech:
“Welcome everyone! We’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, and now it’s here! Today we have special guests: Joe, the star of his world tour, and Helen, a journalist who became part of his story. Tell us how you ended up together on this tour? Was it spontaneous or was it planned in advance?” Joe, relaxed but attentive, smiled slightly and answered confidently:
“Spontaneous. I generally don’t like to plan too much. Sometimes the best route is the one you come up with on the road.”
“And Helen,” asked the host, “what would you add?” "I didn't plan it either," I replied. "I just agreed to an interview, and then... it turned out to be the start of something bigger."
"The first episode of your series airs on our channel tonight. How do you feel, Joe?"
"I'm so grateful to Helen and her notes. Without them, none of this would have happened," Joe admitted, taking my hand.
"Tell us what your series is about? Is there love in it?"
"It's about touring, laughter, and drama. In short, it's my whole life. And more," Joe replied briefly.
"Helen, maybe you could tell us what the first episode is about? We're all eagerly awaiting the premiere."
"I don't want to spoil it," I replied, unsure what to say.
"I don't want to spoil it either. Our series is about the life that always remains behind the scenes. That's why it's better to watch in person," Joe added, smiling at the audience. Honestly, I was sitting there, incredibly nervous, so afraid of saying too much.
The host nods, as if accepting the answer, but a familiar glint flashes in his eyes—the same glint you get when you've got a hook in mind. He pauses, letting the moment hang in the air, and suddenly changes his tone:
"You know, viewers really love stories about unexpected encounters. But sometimes these stories get... fleshed out." Just today, photos taken in Los Angeles, before the tour began, surfaced online. They show Ellen in a robe, in the middle of filming Joe's music video.In the second photo, Helen is standing near a palm tree on the beach, also on the set of a music video. And in the third, Helen is standing next to the audience while Joe was taking photos with them. And this photo, taken right at the airport. And some commentators believe this is no coincidence. That Helen has been stalking Joe in search of fame from the very beginning, and that everything else is just a PR stunt, nothing more. Many viewers also accuse Helen of lying and dishonesty. What can you say?
On the panel behind the host, a collage flashes with the very same photos that unexpectedly disappeared from my St. Petersburg account. Under the photo are lines from the comments: "She was stalking," "This is PR," "The marriage is fake, she's using him," "Someone save Joe."
Silence falls over the studio, audible even over the hum of the equipment behind the glass. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, but I don't look away. I look not at the host, but at Joe—and in that moment, I see in his eyes not confusion, but a calm readiness to be there, even in this moment. In a moment when it seems that this scandal will not only harm both of us, but will also put the show itself in a difficult position.
She resolutely walks past the partition, steps onto the set, and the spotlight falls softly on her shoulders. The host is momentarily taken aback, but quickly regains his composure.
"Scarlett, are you joining us today?"
Scarlett doesn't take the offered chair. Instead, she walks over to the sofa, stands next to Joe and me, and turns to the camera. Her voice is firm, but not aggressive—simply the voice of someone who knows what they're talking about.
"Yes, I'm here. And I've known Joe for a long time. I know how hard it is for him to trust new people. And I know he wouldn't have dragged anyone along on this tour if he wasn't sure. Helen hadn't planned anything in advance. I saw her reaction when she found out about the trip—she was in shock, packing in a hurry. And yes, I was skeptical at first. I thought, 'What if this is just a cover story?' But now I see that's not the case. With Helen, Joe breathes again. And that's the most important thing." (She decided to keep quiet about how I sat with her daughter during the tour)
Joe and I looked at Scarlett with gratitude, and I, unable to hold back my tears, started crying. And why did Joe hug me in front of everyone and shield me from the audience with his back? Then they announced a commercial break for a sponsor. During it, I stopped crying, and Scarlett simply hugged me and quietly returned to her seat. After the commercial, I decided to respond to the audience and the host:
"These photos... yes, they are real. But the story behind them is completely different from what they say in the comments. I didn't even know Joe at the time, and we weren't acquainted. It was all a series of coincidences. And I certainly didn't plan any "strategy." Honestly, I wasn't even thinking about becoming part of someone else's story back then. I was just trying to find my place. And when Joe asked me to go with him, I didn't agree for the fame or the headlines. I agreed because for the first time in a long time, I felt trusted. And I don't want to turn that trust into a topic for gossip.
After my words, there was applause. Even Joe had something to add to my words:
"If anyone wants to believe in conspiracy theories, let them. But the truth is, I'm not the kind of person who can be captured on camera and forced to do something I don't want to do. I decide for myself who to travel with, who to take with me, and who to trust. And if I invited Helen on tour, it's not because someone planned something. It's because with her, I don't have to be a star, but just a person. Yes, we met in St. Petersburg. Yes, then she went with me. But in between, there's no script. There's only life, which happens. And I won't let anyone turn it into a cheap plot."
The host, clearly not expecting such a calm but firm reaction, leans back slightly, as if giving the story space to explain itself.
"Thank you for being so forthright about that." Sometimes the truth speaks louder than any headline.
He pauses, then gently changes the subject:
"Now tell me, what was the most unexpected thing for both of you on this tour? Not the scandals, but the good moments."
And then the tension in the studio seems to dissolve. I smile, remembering Joe trying to explain the difference between cables to me, and Joe laughs, remembering the painting that fell at the airport.
"The most unexpected thing was that we became a team," I say. "Not because we had to, but because that's how it happened."
"And also that someone nearby isn't afraid to say, 'You forgot to eat again,'" Joe winks.— It's worth it.
The studio camera captures our smiles, and on the panel behind the host are stills from the first episode of the series.
Immediately after returning home, my phone literally exploded: three incoming video calls in a row—Vanessa, Abigail, and Stephanie. I smiled at them through my fatigue: of course, they couldn't wait a minute. I pressed "accept all" and started a group WhatsApp call.
A couple of seconds later, three faces appeared on the screen, each with its own mood.
Vanessa, in her signature hotel work uniform, but with her top button undone and her hair slightly disheveled, was the first to break the silence:
—Helen! Have you seen how many views you already have?! I stood right there at reception and watched until a guest called. But I had to watch until the end! You were so strong! Simply wow!
Abigail, sitting in the dimly lit room of her antique shop—an antique sideboard and a pair of elegant lamps visible in the background—looked at me seriously, as if assessing everything not as a friend, but as someone accustomed to seeing the essence of things beyond the surface:
“Are you crying? Are you okay? Tell me honestly. If you want, I’ll close the shop for an hour and come over. Or you could just turn off your phone and not look at a single comment. I know how exhausting it is—to have thousands of eyes on you. I once had a blogger review my shop, and I couldn’t sleep properly for a week afterward.”
Stephanie, dressed in a formal office suit, but with the top button undone and a tired but warm gaze, leaned slightly toward the camera:
“I was sitting in the conference room right during a break and watching. My colleagues thought I was in a meeting, but I was watching your broadcast. And you know what struck me?” You didn't make excuses. You spoke calmly, to the point, without unnecessary drama. It's very professional. As if you'd spent your whole life interviewing celebrities, and not the other way around.
I finally allowed myself to exhale. The tension I'd been holding in the studio slowly eased.
"I'm fine," I said quietly, sitting down on the low concrete fence next to the entrance to the house. "It's true." It was scary when those photos came up on the screen. It felt like everything was about to collapse. But when Scarlett stood next to me... I suddenly realized I wasn't alone. And Joe... he didn't even yell or blame anyone. He just calmly told the truth.
"Because that's the truth," Abigail nodded. "And you said it. Without excuses, but very honestly. You know, that's the hardest thing—not making excuses when you're being attacked." Or they hurt you and try to devalue you.
Vanessa suddenly frowned.
“Just don’t look at the comments, okay? There are so many people there who know nothing, but they write as if they understand your life better than you do. At our hotel, sometimes guests leave reviews as if they’ve lived my life for me.”
“I won’t,” I smiled. “The first ten were enough for me. But you know what surprised me? There are already some good ones. People are writing that they believe you. They just didn’t quite buy this whole story of a simple girl from Russia and an American superstar. They’re used to artists only dating people like themselves.”
Stephanie raised an eyebrow slightly—her entire banking experience was evident in the gesture: her habit of separating emotion from facts.
“That’s because you are the real you. And Joe is too. He can be anyone on stage, but when he talked about trust, it wasn’t for the camera. It was for you.” And people felt it. And God, the way he hugged you when you cried. It was so touching.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, so quietly that I thought I might cry again. “I never realized how much I needed to just hear your voices. Thank you so much for being there for me. You’re absolutely right in everything you say.”
Vanessa immediately broke into a smile:
“Of course. And we always will be. Even if you go back to flying around the world interviewing superstars.”
Abigail tilted her head slightly, as if choosing her words, like someone picking a rare item on a shelf:
“If it suddenly gets too noisy, you can always come to me. The shop is quiet, it smells of old wood and dust, and no one will take your picture. We’ll just sit, drink some tea, and you can tell me everything in order, without rushing.” And by the way, I found what you asked for to decorate your garden.
Stephanie nodded:
"And if you just need to ground yourself, let me send you a list of the most boring but reliable things. About exchange rates, about train schedules, about how to fill out a return form. Sometimes it's the boring things that help you feel like the world is still here."
I laughed—for the first time all day, truly, after this whole scandalous spectacle:
"You know, Abigail, I think I'll take you up on the store thing. And you, Stephanie, if I ever want to feel like a normal person, send me the one about the return form."
It sounded like the perfect antidote to all this celebrity fuss.
They chatted for another ten minutes about trivial matters: how Vanessa had finally come to an agreement with a stubborn guest who wanted to change rooms for the third time that day; how Abigail had found an old porcelain cup at a flea market that was "looking at her suspiciously"; how Stephanie had accidentally signed the wrong document but noticed it all in time. And in this stream of ordinary news, I felt myself returning to myself.
When the call ended, I sat for a couple more minutes, staring at the blacked-out screen. Then I stood up, adjusted the hem of my dress, and went into the house. Joe was there immediately, hugging me and asking, "Are you okay? You looked more beautiful than ever today."
"Yes," I replied, taking a step back and looking at the hem of my dress. After all, I had gotten it dirty sitting on those stones in the garden. But none of that mattered. After all, it's who's next to you that matters most.
- You know, I was thinking... If you suddenly feel like today's broadcast is the most awkward thing that's ever happened in your life, just remember this story. At a concert in Toronto, right in the middle of the most pompous ballad, my belt came undone. Just a click—and that was it. And it would have been fine if I'd stood still as a statue, but no: I was just taking that "emotional step forward," you know, to make the audience gasp with drama... And instead, I almost lost my pants.
I giggled involuntarily, covering my mouth with my hand.
- "And what did you do?" I whispered, already sensing another of Joe's signature jokes about to happen.
My husband rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically.
- "What could I have done?" He finished his verse. Then he discreetly tightened his belt, as if it were part of the choreography: like, "That's how I feel the music." And after the show, the manager said, "Joe, this is your signature move now. We'll call it The Belt Slide."
I burst out laughing, and it was like a breath of fresh air after a long day under the spotlight. Laughing with friends is one thing, but when you have a husband like Joe by your side...
"You're making this up," I shook my head, but the smile wouldn't fade.
"I swear by the guitar," Joe pressed it to his heart, and the gesture was so boyishly charming that I completely melted. "And you know what's funniest? Fans were writing on social media afterwards: 'What a symbolic moment! He's throwing off the shackles of fame!' And I simply forgot to fasten the buckle."
Joe shifted slightly and looked at me with that warm, slightly guilty smile of his.
"So if tomorrow someone writes again that we're 'not right for each other' or 'it's all a PR stunt,' just remember: your PR partner once nearly lost his pants in front of ten thousand people. And the world didn't end. The concert ended, the fans applauded, and I've been checking my buckle twice ever since."
I shook my head, still smiling, and said, "You're a storyteller."
"But honest," Joe winked. "And honestly, I'd rather be remembered for my music. But sometimes life throws up stories no screenwriter could dream up. It's those stories that shape us into who we ultimately become." My husband's words really gave me strength, and I went straight to the kitchen and got a chocolate bar. Then I returned to him, unwrapped it, broke off a piece, and handed half to him.
"To the buckle," I said, as if making a toast.
"To the fact that we don't lose our pants," my husband nodded seriously, accepting the piece, and then immediately broke into a smile again. "Well, at least we try not to."
And there was so much warmth in this small, ridiculous joke that all the evening noise and mean comments suddenly seemed distant, unreal—mere background noise, easily drowned out by laughter.
The next morning, our house seemed to breathe differently—a new, calm feeling had settled in. Not the silence after a storm, but the silence that comes when the worst has already happened. We've been through so much that it's a unique story. And some might think it's all too naive or a fairy tale. But you know what? This is just my story. I created it. Sometimes we think everything ends at one moment. Although, for me, that's a simple misconception. When one thing ends, something else inevitably begins. A moment that will be different from the last. These moments are what make up our lives. My moments in life have been captured in a series called "Ellen and Joe." Now, millions of people watch this series. Every day, comments like these appear under each episode:
"That moment where he stumbled and laughed—that was the most real thing."
"I thought stars didn't forget their lines. But it turns out they get nervous too."
"Joe, get a rooster to sing backup."
"The series isn't about fame. It's about being yourself when millions are watching."
"This show is a clear example of the situations musicians find themselves in."
"Ellen, we're looking forward to a collaboration with Joe."
"I wonder how many gallons of coffee they drank during the tour."
And more and more comments like these came in. They were all sincere, like the show itself. It was all about the truth. Maybe a little about everyday life, but without too much whining on camera. I doubt the viewer will remember that. If someone asked me what my favorite comment was, I'd answer this one. It was written by a famous popular singer. He, too, had to deal with the most ridiculous situations on his tours. Here's what he said: "When I first saw this show, I wasn't looking for myself in the details. I was looking for myself in the sensations. And I found it. The way Joe stumbled on the owl and laughed—that's true. We're all like that: we want to be perfect, but in the end, we just want someone to nod and say everything will be okay." I like the show because it doesn't make a pretty picture out of fame. It shows that behind every performance, there's a person who's also nervous, worried, and despite the forgotten lyrics in the chorus, they're still themselves. Thank you for your show; it's the best show that shows the whole underbelly of concerts."
A few days later...
Spring was spreading through the garden outside, as if someone had painted it with watercolors: the grass was bright green, buds were swelling on the branches, and the air smelled of damp earth and something fresh, as if the world had just awakened from a long slumber. The house smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and that special comfort that comes from being around your people.
I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a stack of notes, a pencil, and a tattered Dungeons & Dragons rulebook in front of me. Opposite him sat Joe, wearing a faded T-shirt and the look of someone who's about to realize he's been pulled into something very strange, but it's too late to back out. Next to him, long legs stretched out and leaning back against a pillow, sprawled Dan—Joe's older brother—with a sly smile and a look that said, "I'll show you how it's done."
"So," Dan tapped the book cover with his finger, as if it were a magical artifact, "you're both newbies, which means I'm your Dungeon Master today. But be warned: I'm kind, but not merciful. If you roll a one, you kiss a toad. Or, say, get a penalty to your charisma."
"A toad?" Joe asked, raising an eyebrow. "I've toured thirty cities, performed in front of stadiums, and now they threaten me with a toad? That's all?" "Exactly," Dan nodded seriously. "In this world, a toad is a metaphor for all your awkward moments. And it's always there."
I giggled and immediately pretended to study my character sheet.
"Okay, okay," Joe muttered, as if surrendering to the inevitable. "I'll be... uh... a bard. Because I already am. In real life. I'll be like Romeo, singing under the balcony."
"Great," Dan nodded. "So your power is in your words. But if you forget the spell, I'll just let you sing a verse. It'll count as a saving throw."
"And I'll be a warrior," I said decisively, feeling excitement welling up inside me. "With an axe. And with a story about how I almost dropped the camera during an interview with a rock star."
Joe snorted. "That's not a story about an axe, it's a story about nerves." "But realistic," I winked at my husband.
Dan began telling a story: we were walking down a dark corridor in an abandoned castle, where shadows moved of their own accord and the air was thick with the scent of dampness and mystery. Joe, like a bard, tried to charm the guard with song, but instead of a spell, he sang a line from his hit—and the guard, to everyone's surprise, froze, as if he recognized the melody.
"He's a fan," Dan whispered, holding back a laugh. "Your charisma save passed. But now he wants an autograph."
"Seriously?" Joe rolled his eyes, but a glimmer of mirth danced in them. "Okay. I'll sign it on the shield. Let it be an artifact." Meanwhile, I tried to sneak past the trap, but tripped over an invisible rope—and fell to the floor with a crash, nearly knocking over the lamp.
“Well then,” Dan drawled, sighing theatrically. “You activated the trap. Now an orc is charging at you.”
“What orc?!” I exclaimed, panicking and clutching an imaginary axe. “I just walked in! This isn’t fair!”
“Justice is a rare commodity in this world,” Dan remarked philosophically. “But you have an advantage: you’re evil. And an evil warrior hits several times harder.”
Joe, unable to contain himself, burst out laughing:
“Are you evil? You refused to eat pie yesterday because there was ‘too much cinnamon’ in it. That’s not anger, that’s principle.” "It's a tactic," I said sternly, but the corners of her lips twitched. "And now I'm using it against the orc."
I swung the axe—and at that moment a bird chirped outside the window, the sun glided across the sill, and the whole absurd, ridiculous scene suddenly filled with light.
Dan paused, as if listening for something, and then said more quietly:
"You know, the most important thing in this game isn't defeating the orc. It's not losing each other along the way."
The room grew quiet—not tense, but the way it does when everyone understands: this is it, the real deal. Joe looked at me, then at his brother, and something warm and deep flickered in his gaze.
"Thank you for being here," he said quietly to Dan. "For keeping us from taking ourselves too seriously."
"Someone has to," Dan chuckled, but there was tenderness in his voice, too. "Otherwise, you both are always trying to be perfect. And perfection is boring. There's no room for orcs and toads in it."
I smiled, feeling our game fill with this special family atmosphere. Joe, my husband, has a big concert ahead of him in New York, and let this be his springboard before jumping onto a new stage under the spotlight.
"Okay," I said, pretending to regain my composure. "I'm ready. Let that orc fear my axe. And my integrity. And if he also says I oversalted the apple pie, he'll be dead!"
"Oh, I don't envy that orc, my dear," my husband replied.
Dan nodded, becoming the Dungeon Master again:
We laughed—all three of us—and that laughter was like a spring breeze: light, lively, chasing away the shadows. It's moments like these with loved ones that make life calmer and finds that much-needed balance. And he, in turn, is capable of quenching all this fatigue, if only for a moment.
Joe narrowed his eyes slyly, as if he'd just come up with a brilliant plan, and quietly muttered:
"You know, if that orc does survive... I'll offer him backup vocals at the New York concert. He's sure to have an epic roar—the fans will be thrilled!"
Dan and I burst out laughing, and Joe broke into his signature smile—the kind that made even imaginary orcs lose their fighting spirit.
And in that moment, I realized: it doesn't matter how many millions of viewers watch our series, how many comments are written online, or how many cities we leave behind. The main thing is that somewhere amidst all these scenes, tours, and interviews, there are moments like these—when your people are around, when you can simply laugh at a ridiculous joke and feel that life is going on as usual, and it's amazingly good.
-END-
Acknowledgments:
Thank you to everyone who helped me write my novel. It was very important for me to hear your opinions and where I needed to make adjustments. Thank you to my closest friend, who believed in me and always said kind words in moments of sadness.
Thank you to everyone who eagerly awaited the book's release for almost a year. I know this book is highly anticipated not only in Russia but also in America.
Thank you to the Jonas Brothers, who inspired this novel. And this is not fanfiction—it's a full-fledged story. Thanks to Joe Jonas—he became the inspiration for my main character, Joe. I hope he enjoys his fictional prototype and won't be offended by me. And finally, hello to all the Jonas Brothers fans and all the musicians who might find a piece of themselves in my novel.
With love, yours, Elena Baol.
Elen and Joe
© Copyright: Åëåíà Áàîë, 2026
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