What I Am To You
1
He stared absentmindedly at the gurgling baby.
Behind the shabby white crib that held the tiny, squirming figure of Phillip Phillips the third, the TV was on. But the thoughts of his run-down father were worlds from either of these things.
They were still stuck in the dark, smoky San Diego venue of the Replay tour, reliving those horrible moments over, and over, and over.
He thought he actually performed pretty well for someone who'd chugged a fifth of whiskey an hour before. He'd seen far worse from sober performers in his younger days. He guessed that maybe there were circumstances that made his situation less acceptable. First, there was the fact that he was headlining the mid-large scale indie tour. Then, the fact that it was his last show. But the more he tried to rationalize what happened, the more glaringly obvious the real reason for it became. He had simply been too drunk to even realize he was drunk, think straight, hear the way he sounded or basically do anything right.
Clearly he'd been even more smashed than the crowd, whose hazy hearing still picked up the wrong notes and the voice breaks. Then came the boos. It was the most intense booing he'd ever received. The walls had shook with angry yells and howling jeers. As booing escalated into heckling, he'd dodged beer cans and a burning cigarette had singed his face. Shocked, shaken and shamed, he'd escaped the stage with his guitar as the audience swarmed forward calling for blood.
On top of a long list of failures, that incident took the final hit. For two weeks already now Phillip Phillips had stayed in San Diego, rented an apartment and drowned his sorrows nightly in shady bars where no one knew his name. And now he held Jack Daniels in one hand and the remote in the other, aimlessly flipping through the channels that trumpeted happiness and satisfaction, so close yet so far away.
At the root of it all, he felt unfulfilled, empty – like something was missing. The endless expanse of ambitions and possibilities when the sky first opened up for him five years ago now seemed to be eons away, petty and meaningless. And the strangest thing was that until recently, he was by no means unsuccessful in his career. He was not an international superstar – as everybody expected an American Idol to be – but he was a big indie name, had a decent national following and earned a comfortable living. Still, he could never explain the bouts of depression that frequently seized him, even after he'd married Hannah and started a family. The persistent feeling that he had been disappointed and lied to had created a drinking problem that not only seriously bruised his reputation, but also his relationship. Worst of all, he couldn't understand why that feeling was there. It had been there since the start.
Winner? What a joke, he thought as he took another swig. I'm a loser. Then suddenly, a flash of clarity in inebriation. That's it... I lost something. And I must have lost it that night. But the question is... what?
FIVE YEARS AGO
In slow motion she saw Ryan Seacrest's mouth form the consonant that created the "f" sound, and the whole world stopped.
She didn't hear his name. His hand had gone from her waist. He wasn't there. There was no screaming. There was no confetti. For what seemed like five complete seconds, it was just her in an empty blue room that was silent except for a loud, droning hum. She stood alone on the stage, staring down at the vacant seats. Her dream was down there somewhere, escaped from the open envelope, scurrying away from her at the speed of light. There! - a dark shadow flitting across the neon logo. Was that it? Or was she imagining things? Her head felt congested from the repressed tears. Her heart felt heavy.
Then someone pressed the play button of her life again, and the first thing she heard was the name of the boy who for the last two months had made her laugh and cry and swoon, stood up for her, admired her, defended her... and now, taken everything she'd wanted away from her. The confetti that would fall from the sky was for him, not her. The winner of American Idol was him, not her. It took another half-second stretched into eternity for it to sink in.
Then she knew that at that moment she needed him more than ever. She needed comfort. She needed a shirt to soak up the stray tears. Surely after he'd taken everything she wanted – however deserving he was – he wouldn't deny her that, right? Surely he'd understand how happy she was for him and how much it hurt. Then it would all be okay, at least for another few moments. The thought process that lasted no more than five seconds in real-time ended there, and American Idol runner-up Jessica Sanchez threw her arms around Phillip Phillips in what seemed to everyone else like a childish, spontaneous embrace.
"Whoooa," she heard him say quietly as he pulled her close. She smiled despite herself, but as she tightened her grip, she felt the awkward, cold rigidness of his body and the lack of warmth in his touch, and her heart sank. After a while she pulled away, chilled to the bone with a stony disappointment. She knew why, but still it hit hard. Feeling the camera lights on her, she fought to plaster on a fake smile as she choked back a sob.
"Phillip Phillips, your American Idol," proclaimed Seacrest cheerily to the celebrating crowd. "Jessica Sanchez, your runner-up." For a second Ryan's eyes met hers, and she thought she saw a wistful compassion in them that warmed her cold heart, although she knew he didn't understand beyond the obvious. Then she turned – the others were coming. Heejun went straight past her for Phillip, but as she was watching their happy moment she felt a strong arm around her shoulder. Colton's grip was firm and sincere, and for the first time Jessica felt part of that aching emptiness being filled. She raised her head to look at him and her pulse quickened. Because although she saw that same compassion in her good friend's eyes, Colton also wore a little gentle half-smile that told her that somehow – by some means – he understood the rest. Surprised, she returned the smile, a genuine one, just for him.
Then all her great friends from the show crowded over in a massive group hug congratulating her and Phil, and for those precious moments, everything wasalright. And Jessica decided that if she could hold onto this feeling, her fake smile could last the rest of the night.
She could care less about anything else. Certainly not Phillip. As he prepared to sing his final song, she turned and followed her friends off the stage. Just walk away. Don't look back. She heard his deep voice, the airy guitar. Jess, be strong. Walk out. The media won't mind. They know how you feel. He's just another white guy with a guitar, and he doesn't care about you.
But of course she knew she was kidding herself. Of course she had to look back. She turned around just in time to see him step away from the mic as the tears streamed down his face. Jessica was suddenly possessed by a peculiar emotion that made her heart feel like it was about to explode. It was a seamless mixture of polar opposites: sincere happiness with seething anger, pure adoration with bitter hatred. She'd kept her eyes dry the whole night, but now one drop fell loose.
She tried to stay and watch everything else. She watched him walk down the stage in a trance. She watched him hug his family. But when he locked lips with his girlfriend – Hannah, was it? - she made up her mind. For the last time she turned away, and then she walked in her own trance down the aisle towards the exit. To her surprise, no one stopped her. No paparazzi weighed down her getaway. They all made space for her, the heartbroken little diva who was sad because she didn't win Idol. She caught a final, fleeting glance of Colton, who must've looked as distraught as she did. Finally. There it was. The exit. Salvation.
Jessica made a break to the restroom and when she slammed the stall door, the tears finally came.
