Page 51 of When I Picture You

“It was.”

“That’s a fucking dyke power move.”

“Renee!”

“Sorry, I meant fucking bisexual power move.”

“Renee!” Lola cried again, but even as she glared at the camera, she was laughing.

“I’ll cut it, relax. You can’t expect menotto react when you tell me you learned to play guitar onone of the gayest songs of all time.”

“It wasn’t intentional. I was teaching myself and it’s super easy to play. It’s only five chords.”

“How did I not know that for our whole childhood you were holding solo sing-alongs to queer classics next door? Okay, okay, okay.” Renee crossed the room, set the camera on the piano, and grabbed a guitar.

“For the film?” Lola asked.

“Forget about the film.” Renee’s lip quirked into a crooked grin. “I want to hear you scream that chorus.”

Her eyes sparkling, Lola got to her feet and slung the guitar over her shoulder. “It’s actually illegal to sing this song sitting down.”

So they danced, belting out the words together and wailing at the chorus, flinging themselves around Lola’s studio until they collapsed in a heap on the couch, their cheeks flushed. Lola’s eyes were glimmering—that sadness that Renee had seen but not understood faded.

Renee shook her hair out of her face and said, “Next you’ll tell me you know all the words to ‘Fast Car.’”

“Of course I know all the words to ‘Fast Car’!”

Inside Renee, something was zinging, singing, pitched with delight. “Prove it.”

15

Renee arrived at the home of Ackerlund, Lola’s longtime, single-named producer, feeling excellent.

The footage from Lola’s studio had taken her breath away. Golden light illuminated Lola, among the splayed-open journals, like a fairy ringed by white roses. That shot had magic, beyond any doubt or criticism. She cut together a short clip to send to Dragan. He responded with a single-word message: “Intriguing.” It was the most positive feedback she’d ever gotten from him.

Since then, she’d filmed solo with Lola twice more. First, they drove around to all the places Lola had lived in L.A., starting with her tiny first apartment. The second time, they’d hiked up to the Griffith Observatory. That had ended up as more of a hangout, since filming while hiking was a lot harder than Renee had expected.

It felt like an ace up Renee’s sleeve—proof she could make the kind of film she wanted, one where Lo acted like herself. She was funny, kind, and fundamentally optimistic in a way that felt fascinating and foreign to Renee. But at the same time, there was a melancholy air about her. One moment she’d be laughing about a story from her last tour, and the next, a dark cloud would drift over her. If Renee asked her what was wrong, she’d brush it off. Still, it was progress.

The session with Ackerlund was in a converted pool house in his enormous backyard. In the back was a recording studio for demos, but they’d be shooting Lola and Ackerlund running through new songs in the lounge area.

The prospect of hearing Lola’s latest work put a spring in Renee’s step even as she tracked down Micah. He was frowning into his phone by the sapphire pool. She clapped him on the shoulder.

“Nice place, huh?” Renee said.

Micah didn’t raise his eyes. “For sure. My wife hired the same landscaper.”

Not even this extremely Micah-y response could dent Renee’s mood. “Where’s our girl? She was due on set five minutes ago.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Micah said, then moved away to answer a call.

Renee frowned. Lola was never late. Micah’s body language on the call wasn’t reassuring either: hunched, his phoneless hand shoved in his armpit, chin jutted out.

Micah came back with his report. “She’s running late, but she’s coming.”

“Was that Cassidy?”

“Gloriana. She promised Lola will be here.” It had never occurred to Renee that she might not be. Why would Gloriana be talking to Micah about Lola’s schedule? That was Cassidy’s job. Before Renee could ask, Micah said, “I’ll grab Ackerlund so we can get going on his interview.”