Anita says over FaceTime the next day. She looks like she could strangle me. Troy and I are on my tour bus, and the minute he told me she wanted a conference call, I knew there was trouble. “Nothing,” I say hoarsely as I grab another tissue. All that crying last night did nothing to help ward off the cold I knew was on the way. I feel like I’m in a tunnel, her words sound far away, and it’s painful to look at the bright screen. “Somebody spotted me and they wanted me to sing, but I didn’t feel like it. I wanted a night off.” “Why did Adam sing instead?” I feel my jaw tighten. “We haven’t really spoken much since last night,” I say, thinking about the awkward and very tense ride back to the hotel after his performance. “He said he was ‘trying to help,’” I say, making exaggerated air quotes. “Adam’s a good guy, Bird,” Dylan says, exasperated as he walks back to the bathroom. “Yeah, he’s a great guy, Dylan,” I call. “But I doubt he’s in trouble with his publicist today.”
