Nola, and her three beautiful girls, are looking for a fresh start. When they take up temporary residence in her grandparents home in London, she is told the musician living next door is rarely home. To Nola, he sounds like the perfect neighbor.
Mov...
Nola and I spent the first part of August seeing each other a few times in England before she had to go back to Paris. Those connections, those moments of our bodies finally existing in the same space (even though innocent after our time at Pinnacle) shifted everything between us. I know she felt it as much as I did because since she left for Paris, there hasn't been a day that we haven't talked or FaceTimed.
I wish we were able to do more than that, but I was in Toronto for a few shows before landing in New York to start my residency at MSG. It's so crazy to me that she has never been to my place in New York, or seen my shows live except for the one she saw in Paris. I've been living this life that she knows nothing about, but then again, I guess she has been doing the same thing for the last year-and-a-half.
----- FaceTime to Nola -----
"Are you there?"
"I'm about to step out of the elevator. I wanted you to see it with me." I tell her as the ding alerts me that the door is about to open to my floor. I flip the camera from me to show her my view of the doors opening to my apartment. I have't been here many times in the last few years, but it's always just as I remembered it when I do come back.
"Oh, my gosh! I love it!" I walk her around the main spaces via FaceTime.
"Down this hallway are the two guest bedrooms. They each have their own bathroom and walk-in closets," I say, showing her the very modern/minimalist spaces. "Then, on the opposite side of the apartment, behind this sliding door, is my office," I open the doors to show her the small office space.
"So, this is where all the awards live?" she asks me as she spies the bookshelf wall. I had a hard time trying to decide where to keep my awards. In a space that everyone could see felt very vain, but having them in storage didn't sit right either. The apartment ceilings are thirteen feet tall, and the bookshelf is the kind that starts after a cabinet at the base and reaches all the way up to the ceiling, complete with a library ladder to access the very top. It was quite literally the perfect place to display it all. The walls hold my album art and gold and platinum record sales. It's a rather showy room, but very few people see it considering this is my private side of the apartment.
"If you keep walking, you reach the bathroom and closet first," I say, walking through them to get to the bedroom. "Then, the bedroom," I say as I enter the room. This room is in the corner of the apartment, with floor to ceiling windows making up two of the walls. One of the remaining walls is concrete and the other is an earthy grey-green-brown color.
"It's SO different from your place in London. Like, I can't believe that you live in both of these places. I mean, that's a huge shift."
"What if I told you I bought this place when I was 19? I haven't changed much about it since then, besides maybe the bedding and some artwork. I'm not here enough to remodel it."
"Don't you DARE!" she says. "I love it. It's nice to see this side of you, too." I finally flip the phone around so we are looking at each other instead of touring the apartment.
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