Chapter Text
Gigi Murin's love of music was not the only reason for her showing up at Loveless—a dingy, intimate basement venue, the sort of place where, seeing the dark signless stairway, you double check your phone to see if you've got the address right—the more substantial reason, which made her body tingle as she opened the door, was the final performer of tonight's show: the singer-songwriter Cecilia Immergreen, whom she had already seen five times.
* * *
Gigi had come across her by complete chance: she'd been wandering the city one summer evening and heard singing in the distance, accompanied by the plaintive picking of a guitar. The echoes showed great promise.
She traced the sounds to their origin—a shopping-mall plaza—and saw that an informal show was taking place. People were sitting on benches, or in the outdoor seats of cafes and restaurants. The lovely voice sang:
My angel, my angel
Gigi caught a glimpse of the voice through the crowd: a silver-haired woman of natural elegance, who wore a white blouse with the top two buttons unfastened and olive-green slacks. She was in sunlight, and her hair glowed.
My angel, my angel
Gigi jogged toward the stage, but the song ended as soon as she got there. The silver-haired woman (who, upon closer inspection, had light-green highlights and emerald eyes) thanked the audience and went backstage. Gigi was distraught. She would at least get her name. Wasn't there a program somewhere? . . . There was not—ridiculous! She even asked some people in the crowd for the name, but they didn't know or had forgotten it.
About to give up, she decided to ask one more person: a middle-aged woman who had been standing close to the stage. According to her, the name was something like Leah—Leah Evergreen, was it? or just Green, Leah Green? Gigi hastily thanked her, looked up both "Leah Evergreen" and "Leah Green" on her phone and found nothing. The next performer had already begun to play; Gigi half-listened, then went home all restless.
After looking through the search results for the two Leahs again, she checked the mall's website and found the list of performers. Fortunately for her, there were photos beside each name. She saw the face she was looking for, and next to it the name Cecilia Immergreen; she chuckled at that woman's mishearing.
Cecilia's Instagram account had a little over three thousand followers; all the posts were about her shows. There was nothing about her private life—which was a good thing, Gigi supposed. It also made her more mysterious. She had released one album and a couple of singles, and Gigi began listening to them right away.
* * *
Despite the cold water hitting the top of her head, Gigi couldn't help imagining Cecilia's soft singing. Its poignancy came back stronger now that her thoughts could wander.
An excitement, an anticipation welled up within. She rarely went to live shows, and she knew next to nothing about the local scene; but now, she felt as if she'd been given—vouchsafed, even—a piece of something special and alive. There was about it an almost intoxicating immediacy. She jumped into her bed after the shower and listened to Cecilia's album again.
* * *
The entry fee at Loveless was dirt-cheap, and the management was picky about who got to perform there—thus the place was populated with indie-music nerds, mostly young ones. Gigi was somewhat intimidated, having never been to a place like this. (She overheard something about "scrobbles.") She paid the fee and snaked through the crowd to the front, for she was not very tall, and wanted to see Cecilia up close.
Yes, she had admitted it countless times already: she was obsessed. Her voice, her simultaneous beauty and coolness, her candid lyrics . . . It'd got to the point where she'd almost shouted "I love you Cecilia!" during her previous show, but she'd stopped herself out of embarrassment, since, like today, she'd been right in front of the stage and would've been noticed immediately.
But now, a different urge, a more reasonable one, was lodged in Gigi's brain: she wanted to talk to Cecilia, say the typical things like "I'm such a big fan!" or "I love your music!" and maybe even ask for a photo. An autograph too? No, that would be too much, she thought. The crowd began to cheer and clap; the opening act had made their way onto the stage.
* * *
In terms of fantasy, letting one's imagination run wild, Gigi, of course, wanted much more than just a compliment and photo.
"You're obsessed," said Raora—Gigi's roommate—one evening, during their weekly pizza dinner. (At this point, Gigi had gone to three of Cecilia's shows.)
"Of course I am! She's so cool! She just gets it!" exclaimed Gigi, then shoved a bundle of fries into her mouth.
Raora smiled with amusement while laying one fry after another on a slice of pizza.
"And," continued Gigi, "she's a local musician! It's completely different from fangirling over a celebrity! There's something so exciting about that, y'know?"
"Hmm, I kinda I get it. But what I wanna know is"—and here Raora smirked—"are you crushing on her?"
The answer, Gigi felt, was no. Sure, she was obsessed with Cecilia; but she didn't think her attraction was romantic in nature. Despite this, Raora's unexpected, nosy question knocked the composure out of her for a short but critical moment.
"Well— no."
Raora kept staring with teasing eyes.
"Oh, come on! You know what it's like to be obsessed with an artist! You've literally squealed watching idol concerts on your phone!"
Raora giggled and said, "Yeah, but idols are different from local musicians—you said so! You have a chance! She might live in this neighborhood, or maybe even this building! Your deepest desires might come—"
"'Deepest desires'?! Enough! . . . Enuffadat." Gigi picked up a bunch of fries and put them one by one into Raora's mouth like coins into a crane game.
What, then, were Gigi's true feelings? What did she fantasize about?
At night, she would often listen to Cecilia's songs; their softness and vulnerability calmed her. The fantasies usually occurred then: they were the best of friends, each with a deep understanding of the other, and they would do everything together . . .
Sometimes it seemed to Gigi that this imaginary relationship went beyond friendship without becoming romantic—but what did that signify? No, no—that was enough dreaming. Don't be weird. Gigi would then laugh at herself and fall asleep.
* * *
It would be accurate to say that Cecilia Immergreen occupied the forefront of Gigi's mind—not disruptively, but with a lingering presence. Unrelated thoughts often wandered their way back to the silver-haired musician.
The day before the show at Loveless, Gigi resolved to speak to her and spent hours thinking of what to say. The irrepressible desire was this: she wanted to stand out and impress her; to convey somehow that she, Gigi Murin, listened to and understood her music on a level deeper than everyone else. But she knew better than to embarrass herself so.
After turning it over and over in her head, she settled on a simple expression of gratitude, nothing more; the last thing she wanted to do was annoy Cecilia or make her uncomfortable. She tried to plan out what she was going to say:
[Cheerfully and naturally] Hey Cecilia! Your performance was so good! I just wanted to say that I really love your music—I've been listening to your album a lot!
[She'll probably say thank you]
Oh, it's nothing. Your music has really helped me, honestly.
[She'll probably say something modest]
[Smile pleasantly] Well, I won't bother you any longer! I wish you the best of luck, and have a nice night! (?)
It sounded dreadfully awkward. She shuddered and waved away the mental script. She worked better on impulse; meticulous planning was definitely not in her nature. It would work out—somehow—when the time came.
* * *
The fourth act had just left the stage; Cecilia was next. The applause died down, became pitter-patter, and Gigi counted each passing second.
Then Cecilia was right in front of her. The musician held her guitar by the neck in one hand, and with the other, adjusted the mic's position. Her attire matched the atmosphere of the venue: a faded gray full-zip hoodie (which was zipped three quarters of the way up), white T-shirt, and black jeans; even so, she exuded elegance.
"Hey," she said, somewhat monotone.
The crowd cheered in response, one letting out a loud "Wooo!"—but Gigi opted just to clap and kept looking in admiration. Cecilia smiled amusedly and waited for quiet; she cleared her throat and began to play.
The songs flew by. Gigi stood there, rapt, listening to Cecilia's voice floating over skillful, emotive guitar-playing. The musician was clearly in her element: she often closed her eyes as she sang, and her fingers moved effortlessly over the strings. She played songs from her album, then two unreleased songs; Gigi hadn't heard them before and a fresh wave of excitement washed over her.
At one point, between songs, Cecilia muttered, "Damn it, I forgot my water," causing some in audience to laugh. A stage hand passed a water bottle to an audience member, who passed it on to the next, the bottle getting closer and closer to Gigi . . . but it stopped at the person right next to her, a young brown-haired woman around the same age as our disappointed heroine. Gigi watched her, whose eyes sparkled with reverence, hold the bottle out to Cecilia.
Here was someone else obsessed as she was, Gigi thought. She felt ambivalent seeing someone mirror her: it was a sort of fellowship—bonding over a common interest—mixed with a pang of self-awareness (plus an undeniable pinch of jealousy about the water bottle thing).
"Okay, for the last song I'll do a cover," said Cecilia. "Any suggestions?"
People shouted various names. Gigi frantically flipped through her memory to find an appropriate song to suggest. Something well-known and simple, something playable on guitar, something that fits Cecilia's vocal range . . .
"The Beatles!" shouted someone from the back.
"All right, Beatles it is," replied Cecilia, to which many cheered. "Which song?"
Voices erupted again, and the silver-haired musician looked somewhat impatient, as if waiting for a correct answer.
"'In My Life'!" shouted Gigi; it was one of the few songs from the band she knew.
Cecilia shot Gigi a look. The latter's heart felt as if it'd been zapped. A strange whimper made its way out of her mouth—most of which, fortunately, got caught in her throat. "Okay," said Cecilia, and began to tune her guitar, which made the crowd quiet. The warm, iconic riff sounded through the venue, she began to sing softly:
There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
The crowd sang along and chirruped the piano solo to humorous effect. Cecilia laughed; she had to stop playing for a moment to compose herself. The beauty of this sight burned itself in Gigi's memory. It seemed that each consecutive show made her like Cecilia even more.
* * *
But the song ended.
"Thanks for coming," said Cecilia, amid the applause and whistling. "And get home safely."
She left the stage, the lights were turned on, and the crowd began to trickle out the door. Gigi's heart thumped. She took slow, reluctant steps back and forth. She had been determined, but now she was seized by a bursting of doubts at the eleventh hour.
"Come on," she muttered to herself. "It's just saying thank you." (And the picture, don't forget about the picture!)
She managed to walk with purpose. She peeked through a door near the stage that had been left ajar and froze up. There Cecilia was, talking . . . talking with that brown-haired girl who'd given her the water bottle! They seemed as if they knew each other well. Gigi tore herself away from the door and left.
The evening air calmed her, carrying away bit by bit the irrational devastation that had gripped her moments ago. What was she getting so worked up over? Nothing! She was being silly. She was being pathetic. But that pinch of jealousy still remained, splashed now with regret. She chided herself for faltering—she could have just waited!
"Oh well, oh well," she uttered, looking up at the last light of day.
She called up Raora and discussed what to have for dinner. They settled on a local pizza joint. As Gigi walked, all she could think about was Cecilia laughing and having to compose herself—that bright, blessed face.
The pizzeria was packed. Gigi waited outside for Raora and people-watched. She overheard a conversation about the show—apparently, many from the audience had made their way here.
"Pizza time," a familiar voice called out. Raora was in her pajama pants and the T-shirt she'd designed, which read I LOVE CHATTINI and had an illustration of the little blue creature.
"Pizza time," echoed Gigi, grinning.
They bought a whole pizza and found a table near the entrance. Gigi talked about the show, but tried to stop herself from gushing too much about Cecilia. People kept streaming into the restaurant; Gigi noted each person as they entered with a foolish hope—a hope that was suddenly fulfilled.
Cecilia walked in, accompanied by some of the other performers and the water-bottle girl, engrossed in conversation. Gigi froze mid-chew. Raora turned to see what she was gawking at and said casually, "Isn't that her?"
Gigi lurched back into reality and tried to act normal, but almost choked on her pizza.
"I'm fine," she said to no one in particular. Half panicked and half excited, she suddenly grabbed Raora's forearm and added: "Don't you dare embarrass me."