Look at Me

On Thursday, everything falls apart. Niall texts me mid-morning and asks to meet me at the studio. He has news, he says.

I practically float to the studio, my worries from a few weeks ago long behind me. I can’t wait to see the shock on my mom’s face when I tell her that my first single is going to be a duet with Niall Horan. Yes, Mom, that Niall Horan.

But as soon as I see Niall’s face, all of those worries, those fears of failure, come rushing back. Niall’s perched on one of the chairs in what I’ve come to think of as our studio, looking far from relaxed. When I come in, he stands up and shuts the door behind me.

“What’s going on?” I ask him, sitting down. I set my bag on the table. Inside are my journals, which I’ve been carrying around since the day I let him read them. They’ve become such a part of me that it feels wrong to leave home without them.

“I sent the song to my guys. And I wanted to tell you myself,” he says, fidgeting in his chair. His left knee bounces, bounces, bounces, so repetitively that I have to look away. His anxiety is making me anxious. “My label wants to find somebody else to sing the song.”

“The song,” I repeat. “Our song?”

Niall nods. “They think another voice would be better—”

“They’re not going to let you sing your own song?”

Now he shakes his head. “Not me, you. They want a more, um, established, I think that’s the word he used, singer to do the duet with me.”

I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say. Half a dozen emotions are battling it out inside my head. Anger, annoyance, frustration, betrayal… Which one will be the first to show itself?

Niall leans toward me, his arm outstretched like he wants to touch me, but then he pulls back. “Listen, I know this sucks. It’s just, this is gonna be my first collaboration and it’s gonna be a big deal, you know, from a marketing perspective. Jorge really thinks this is the right way to go. And you’ll still get a songwriting credit, so when it blows up, you’ll make a lot too.”

I stare. This is not a “Minna and the…” moment. This is pure, unadulterated Minna Locke. Minna Locke, who felt too much and made assumptions and put all of her eggs in one fucking basket. All I can think as Niall parrots someone else’s words at me is that I have to get out of this room before all of my emotions burst out of me simultaneously. But Niall’s still talking, apologizing again.

“I’m so sorry, Min. I tried to fight for you, because I know how much the song means to you, but—”

“But it obviously doesn’t mean that much to you, or you wouldn’t let this happen.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Looks like betrayal disguised as anger is the winner. I’m not being fair, and I know it. But this hurts. I thought the connection that Niall and I made through the process of writing this song was special. I thought he’d fight for that, especially knowing that tiny, nobody me won’t be able to.

But I was wrong.

“It does, Min,” he says. Now he does reach for my hand, but I pull my arm away. I stand up, crossing my arms over my chest. “There’s nothing I want more than to sing the song with you, but—”

“Stop,” I say. I don’t want to hear any more of his excuses. I grab my journal off of the table and shove it in my bag before reaching for my guitar. “I get it. Thanks for telling me. You can have the contract sent to my agent.”

I hate the way that sounds. Just hours ago Niall kissed me, and now I’m cutting off direct communication. This isn’t what I want.

“Minna, please,” Niall says, reaching for my arm again.

“Niall, let me go. Please.” Swinging my guitar over my shoulder, I push past Niall to get out of the room. My eyes water, but I don’t want to cry in front of him. When I let Niall read my journals, I gave him the tools he needed to hurt me—I just didn’t know it at the time. Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t know that he’d try.

Niall follows me out into the hallway, keeping just a few steps behind me all the way to the elevator. The doors open immediately, an act of God or karma. I step inside and jab at the “close doors” button repeatedly.

“Minna—” Niall says one more time, but the doors slide shut before he can finish his sentence.

I came to Los Angeles to make the album I wanted, not the one my mom wanted or the one Wombat wanted. I came here to tell my story the way I wanted it told. Maybe that’s where I fucked up. All along I was afraid that I wouldn’t be good enough, that I couldn’t write songs that would sell or that my voice wasn’t fit for the radio.

I never thought that what I’d actually fail at would be keeping my name on the music that I make.

I never thought I’d fail at keeping control over my own life.