“Well, we definitely aren’t in Austin anymore, Emmy,” Bishop says with a nervous grin, as he stands awkwardly and watches my glam squad swoop around me like birds, adjusting my dress and putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup.
We’re in a hotel room in the Chateau Marmont in LA, which has served as the playground for rock ‘n’ roll legends like Janis Joplin, John Lennon, Led Zeppelin, and Bob Dylan. Being here in this sacred place before heading to the Grammy Awards, where my album Girl, Revisited, is up for Best Rock Album is so surreal. I know, I know—indie rock rarely even gets nominated, but truly I have Sunday Sessions and TikTok to thank for pushing Deja Vu and my own music into the zeitgeist.
It’s been about a year and a half since my fateful interview with Odette and Bishop’s declaration of love in Central Park. As I felt my lifelong anxiety quiet that day, I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer to start my life with Bishop. And I, who had never felt quite at home in Laurel Canyon, offered to move to Austin that night. It’d be my homebase whenever I wasn’t touring.
Although I had yet to adapt to the brutal heat of Austin’s summer, Bishop and I had found a rhythm. The place finally looked like ours now; a cohesive melding of our personalities, complete with a robust record and CD collection, a recording studio (previously his study), and a craft corner for me (I’m finally using that Singer sewing machine), and every wall had a framed print from concerts, museums, and places we wanted to go together.
Tonight, though, our relationship is about to have its first real stress-test. If the Lion has a den, it’s the aptly named Crypto.com Arena. Bishop’s fame monster, the Lion, hadn’t appeared since the Sunday Sessions incident, but from the way he is shifting his weight from foot to foot, I know it isn’t just because his new dress shoes are uncomfortable. He is worried that being around all of the industry’s power players and his idols might cause the Lion to rear its head again and potentially ruin what we have built.
I catch his blue eyes and hold his gaze. “Hey you—you doing OK over there?”
“Absolutely,” he says, his smile not quite reaching its full potential. “I’m ready for my first red carpet since the NME Awards.”
“Hey, it’s mine too,” I say gently, as my stylist fastens on my 4-inch Christian Louboutins, definitely the most expensive shoes I have ever worn in my life. “We’re going to go through this together.”
“Yes, but you don’t turn into someone who lies or screws people over for their one big chance,” Bishop says with a sigh, putting his hands in his suit pockets. “This is why I stepped back in the first place. What if someone says we should do another Deja Vu tour? Or encourages me to make music on my own? Emmy, you know I can’t handle it.”
“Bishop Ward, you didn’t lose your last battle with the Lion!” I say as Tiff bursts into the room. Though this is not a tour, she isn’t going to miss this milestone and the opportunity to hustle me around this weekend. “Besides, you have to get on a red-eye to get back to Austin for school tomorrow.”
“Emmy, it’s time to go down,” Tiff says. “I’m not exactly an awards show expert here, and I don’t want you to be so late to that carpet that you’re entering at the same time as Taylor Swift and Beyoncé.”
“Are you daring to imply that I, a Grammy-nominated indie-sleaze rocker, won’t be able to compete with the most famous female musicians in the world?” I joke.
“Glad to hear that you’re finally accepting indie sleaze as a label and not putting air quotes around it anymore,” Tiff says. “And you know your ass looks great in the dress—you’re just fishing for compliments.”
“Thanks lady,” I say, admiring myself in the mirror one last time. I’m wearing a floor-length fringe black dress and a bright red lip while Bishop is looking paler than usual in a gray suit.
“All right, let’s hit it,” I say, scooping up Bishop’s clammy hand in my own.
After we’re safely ensconced in the black Escalade, moving at such a snail’s pace that I can feel Tiff’s anxiety radiating almost as thickly as Bishop’s, I check my phone and see a text from Lawrence in the Deja Vu WhatsApp chat:
“Hey guys! Good luck at the Grammys tonight—miss you both. I guess I’ll have to settle with watching you on TV. By the way, I think you owe Kelly and me a visit to NJ soon!”
Lawrence, miraculously, turned his life around after Bishop and his parents convinced him to enter rehab. He just celebrated 17 months of sobriety. After the combined efforts that I, Bishop, his parents, and the Deja Vu tour profits took to pay off his $150,000 debt to his drug dealer, Lawrence has a clean slate for the first time in forever.
He lives at home under the watchful eye of his parents, not ideal for a man in his 40s but the accountability is crucial to keeping him on track. After determining that both his jobs—a work-from-home UX designer and drummer in a rock band—were not the best for his recovery, he got a job at a record store, which keeps both his hands and mind busy. He worked his way up to manager and had a meet-cute that was pulled straight from High Fidelity. Kelly is relatively new in Lawrence’s life, and with the whirlwind of the new album, I hadn’t gotten all the details on his new romance, but she seems smart, nice, and most importantly, a good influence on our bandmate.
“Thanks bud!” I type. “We miss you too! We’ll get something penciled in—maybe over Bishop’s spring break or summer?”
It’s admittedly weird being a “we” after my divorce, but this “we” feels natural. Bishop never resents me for traveling for work, makes me feel judged for my ambition, nor does he restrict the amount of pillows I bring into his one-storey house. It doesn’t feel like there is a secret log of my supposed transgressions or ways I have disappointed him. I’ve heard that when you’re in a healthy, comfortable relationship that your nervous system uncoils and your cortisol levels start to lower. I find that to definitely be true, so much so that I often accidentally doze off next to Bishop on the couch on weeknights while he grades papers.
But right now, my other half is dealing with an undeniable surge of cortisol. Bishop isn’t just my date tonight. As my self-proclaimed superfan, he joined my team in more ways than one and became my writing partner. He co-wrote four songs and played bass on my new album, Girl, Revisited. We determined that Deja Vu should be put on ice for at least the next decade, likely the next time fans will clamor for another reunion tour, or indefinitely. With two out of the three of us unable to handle the pressures of touring, it just doesn’t make sense.
And after my conversation with Odette on Sunday Sessions, I noticed that other women really resonated with the rocky relationship I had with my younger self. I decided I wanted to give voice to those feelings and also how my life had shifted after the reunion tour—and the way I do that is through music (and therapy). I wrote the majority of the introspective songs, but Bishop stepped in to help with the ones about the band’s break-up and our reunion, which seemed fitting because they were about him. Even as our car crawls to the Grammys, our most personal song, “Worth the Wait,” sits at No. 28 in Spotify’s Top 50. My manager Namina says it was included in Netflix’s latest hit romance and is consequently going viral in TikTok fan edits, meaning that I might actually get some attention at this pop-centric awards show.
“Hey Bishop, you’re uncharacteristically quiet,” I say. “What’s happening in your head? You have to talk to me.”
“I’m trying to be normal,” he says. “It’s just… I’m so worried that I’m going to run into like, Noel Gallagher, and offer to sell my soul to him for $2—actually, maybe even give it to him for free—if I could jam with him sometime.”
“Well, even if you did do that, he’d probably tell you to fuck off,” I say with a laugh. “But seriously, you wrote songs on this album and you absolutely do deserve to bask in that. Besides, everyone makes an ass out of themselves in front of celebrities—even me—and I think at most, some people might say that they liked the album. I don’t think either of us will be offered a poisoned apple opportunity here.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, examining the watch I got him for his birthday. “I just really don’t want to jeopardize us ever again.”
“I’ll let you know if the Lion is in the room tonight, I promise,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m up against the Rolling Stones, Paramore, and Green Day. I’m definitely not winning, so there’s no way for you to crash the stage and rip off your shirt again.”
“Hey, you never know!” Bishop exclaims, “You put out a great record, Em. You should have more faith.”
“I’m just being realistic,” I say. “And if anyone should have more faith in themselves, it’s you.”
“Not to interrupt—but five-minute warning, guys,” Tiff says, her face pressing up against the tinted glass as she tries to get a better look. “I hope, at least.”
I take the opportunity to check my make-up in my phone camera one last time. The cat eye-makeup is on point, per usual, and my lipstick hasn’t migrated to my teeth. I feel fairly confident in my overall look—I know I might feel differently once I’m up against a wall of Botox’ed foreheads and face-lifts but I try to remember to take the win now.
“Emmy, you look so sexy.” Bishop says, reading my mind. That’s been happening more often than not these days. It’s so weird yet thrilling to have someone know you so well.
“Thanks, babe,” I say as I contemplate whether it’s worth seeing how transfer-proof my red lip is by kissing Bishop on the mouth. I decide it is.
“Get a room!” Tiff says, pulling a face and redirecting her attention to her phone, likely to set up her next conquest. I notice that Tiff has swapped the aqua highlights in her hair for a bubble-gum pink. We wrapped the tour up a month ago, and this LA trip was my first time seeing Tiff since.
“Have I mentioned how much I’ve missed you?” I tease. “So who are you going out with tonight? A male model? A fitness influencer?”
“Those are basically the same thing, Emmy,” She snorts. “And no, actually.”
“Then who?” Bishop quips. Tiff’s love life is a frequent topic of conversation in our Texas household.
Tiff raises her eyebrows and looks down her gold-rimmed glasses at us both.
“Neither of you need to know.”
“But we want to know!” I protest.
Luckily, Tiff is saved from responding by the flashbulbs of what feels like four hundred cameras. We are officially at the red carpet. I feel Bishop steel himself as the car door opens and I’m helped out by an attendant.
“Godspeed!” Tiff shouts after us. “I’ll see you inside.”
I grip Bishop’s hand as I walk through the melee. We pass assistants, managers, photographers, reporters, and celebrities I never ever thought I’d see outside of a screen.
“Emmy!” A woman I do not know ushers me forward, while I pull Bishop behind me.
“I’m going to stay back here!” Bishop yells, releasing my hand. “I don’t want to be in the shot!”
The lack of the pull of Bishop’s hand propels me forward onto the carpet. Well, I guess I’m in it now. I stand tall and angle myself in what I hope is a flattering angle. I try to remind myself to cycle through facial expressions—serious to smiling—so my smile doesn’t become too forced. Thanks, YouTube! I’m sure it looks so psychotic to everyone watching me in real life, but it apparently works.
I can barely even see straight ahead, so I gasp audibly when I feel someone to my right touch my arm. “Emmy Gold!” I hear a woman say in my ear, “I just had to say hi!”
I turn, coming face-to-face with Stevie Nicks, and my jaw drops. It occurs to me that this image, which dozens of photographers have just captured, will be a meme tomorrow.
No doubt, Stevie Nicks experiences this all the time, so she charges onward despite my lack of response. “I loved Girl, Revisited! A really great mix of love songs and introspection.”
“Oh thank you!” I stutter out. “You’re one of the best songwriters ever.”
“Thank you!” She laughs and starts to turn away.
“Wait! Before you go—Bishop, come here right now!” I wave frantically at Bishop, who walks toward me like he’s going to the guillotine and not to meet one of the most iconic figures in our profession.
“This is Bishop Ward,” I say, my arm reaching up to encircle his shoulders. “He wrote some songs and played bass on the album. He’s also my partner.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Stevie Nicks says politely. “It was a great album.”
“Thank you so much,” Bishop says. I can see him wrestling with his Lion behind his blue eyes. He blinks for a second before continuing, his gaze clear and calm. “Emmy is an incredible musician. I’m so glad she’s getting recognized for it, especially by legends like you.”
“You two have a good night—good luck!” Stevie smiles before moving on.
“Ohmygod,” I squeak, trying to recompose my face as the photographers snap photos of Bishop and I together. “I can’t believe that just happened! See Bishop? You can handle it!”
“It seems like I can—in small doses, at least,” Bishop smiles as he leads me into the Grammys. “C’mon Gold, I think they’ve got enough embarrassing photos of us.”
As my vision comes back to normal, I see Tiff is waiting for us inside to take us to our seats.
“Tiff, you won’t believe it!” I exclaim, “Stevie Nicks!”
“Oh, I saw!” Tiff says. “You might have peaked early tonight.”
“Yeah, who cares about that award now?” I laugh. “We can go!”
“Absolutely not—you’re here for the long-haul, girl,” Tiff reverts to manager mode. “The more you’re seen, the more tickets we can sell for your next tour.”
“Yes, I know,” I say.
“But if it’s alright with you, I’m going to cut out after I get you settled and leave with Namina,” Tiff says nonchalantly.
“Why? Meeting someone new?” I ask as we sit down.
“Actually, it’s a second date,” she responds, putting her nose in the air. “I’ll be taking no further questions at this time.”
“You haven’t gone on a second date since I’ve known you, and I’ve known you for more than a decade!” I yell as she disappears into the sea of people.
Bishop laughs at my frustration and takes my hand. “It seems like a momentous night for everyone on Team Gold,” he says.
“Aren’t we so lucky?” I say, giving his hand a squeeze.
