Page 51 of Brown Sugar
I moan and roll over, covering myself with the bedsheet.
Monica sighs and turns to Link. “Do something. We’re already running behind schedule.”
“Kiana, babes, we need you to cooperate. C’mon, up and at ’em.”
Together, my team succeeds in coaxing me out from under my bedsheet. They surround me and set to work, dolling me up for the reshoot I have this morning. We’re doing more shots for the album and then I’ll be moving onto tour practice.
More moving through the motions.
More moments of my life that pass before my eyes without any real meaning.
No one seems to understand what I mean when I say I’m exhausted. I’m burned out and checked out. Completely over everything that’s going on.
I sit like a doll as Tai, Monica, and Link braid my hair in cornrows and then slip on a bright pink wig that pops against my brown skin. I’m zipped into a sparkly, fringe dress that stopsat mid-thigh and then slipped into the usual heels that pinch my toes.
I’m supposed to be fun and bubbly for the photos.
I’m supposed to pretend I’m in love.
But how can I when it’s Shawn who the album was written for?
How do they expect me to lie when the man who’s really on my mind is no longer allowed to be a part of my life?
“Kiana, these poses aren’t landing,” the photographer says, sighing. He clicks away as I stand in front of a green screen and pretend I’m on a balcony overlooking a garden. “Can someone do something about this hair? The pink doesn’t work!”
I’m pulled aside for my wig to be swapped out. The bubble gum pink goes goodbye for a burgundy red that’s pin straight and down my back. I’m nudged back in front of the screen, expected to take up my mark again.
The problem is, my thoughts are elsewhere. My expression’s vacant. I barely remember to pose for the camera as he resumes his clicking away.
I’m thinking about how I’m going to survive these next nine months. I’ll be stuck promoting this album about Shawn as he gives podcast interviews about our sex life and goes home every night to the woman he cheated on me with. I’ll be on the road for months performing in cities all over the road, putting on elaborate dance routines, straining my voice to hit notes for adoring fans that won’t know what’s going on behind the scenes.
All of it sounds like slow torture.
Then I think about the thirty-six hours I’d had in London with Tyson and my heart aches.
The photoshoot ends early with the photographer insisting he and the creative art director will figure something out from the shots they already have.
Tai and the others bring me into the dressing room to strip off the costume and help me into my workout clothes. I’m about to roll straight into three hours of intense dance practice.
Arnold shows up late, breadcrumbs at the corner of his lips as he announces he’ll escort me to the dance studio. Whereas Tyson was like a hawk, always on top of the situation, providing a natural sense of protectiveness, Arnold is the opposite.
He barely seems to have his finger on the pulse.
I’d almost feel safer on my own, following him out to the car.
I sit in the backseat with ear pods in and my songbook flush in my lap.
The tall buildings of New York City whiz by in the car windows. A thousand people wander the streets, each one on their own journey for the day.
I glance down wondering about what Tyson’s journey looks like now that we’ve been separated.
Images appear in my mind of him at the secluded home he’d described. I imagine myself there with him, hiding away from the world like we were in London. The times we shared together were amazing. They were passionate and fun. I truly feltfree.
The pen in my hand scribbles on its own…
Sweet as brown sugar
Smooth as honey