Chapter Text
Even Bech Næsheim stares at the face beaming from the animated bus kiosk advertisem*nt. He frowns at it for nearly a minute before realizing it’s himself—at fifteen years old, wearing a crown of pastel-colored paper flowers, and smiling skyward. The bus kiosk screen brightens, and its flash briefly turns the teenage Even translucent. A scroll of oversized electric blue text follows: Tonight... 20:00… The documentary event of the summer… Alt er Love: The Real Story Behind Hei Briskeby.
“The real story,” he murmurs out loud.
The title goes from blue to blood red, like some Netflix murder show.
His phone buzzes in his hand. It’s his talent agency. He hasn’t heard from his actual agent in several years, he’s been consistently pawned off to whichever clueless junior agent is working there that month. The last job they offered him was cutting the ribbon at a new REMA in Ullevål. He hits ignore and flips his phone from one hand to the other before sliding it back into his pocket. A little boy standing nearby gapes at him, his photo, then back. Even considers pulling down his hood, but it’s only a kid, so he winks at him and saunters home, ignoring the still-vibrating cell phone in his back pocket.
The rest of the day is quiet. Even smokes some weed. He watches a YouTube video about Mallorcan cooking. Gets hungry. At 19.55, fortified with one of his roommate’s Soba noodle bowls, he turns on the television, cracks open a beer, and settles in to watch the documentary. An instrumental version of Hei Briskeby’s 2015 single, Forever Your Friend, fades out as Dan Børge Akerø’s mellifluous opening narration begins.
“Nice get,” Even says, licking his lips.
In 2014, Hei Briskeby seemed poised for world domination. The seven talented boys from Oslo were on the covers of entertainment magazines all over the globe, promoting a global hit album, featured on remixes, and signing lucrative product deals. Their powerhouse single “Go 2 Far” was rising steadily up the U.S. Hot 100, and the band had just finished a sold-out tour in Asia, capping off their year with a sensational television debut performance at the EMAs.
Further fueling their success was another secret weapon: their rabid fanbase. Dubbed ‘Briskebybabes,’ Hei Briskeby’s fans gobbled up their merchandise and kept the band trending online by spearheading some of the most innovative grassroots promotional campaigns ever seen from an international audience.
The sky was the limit for these precociously gifted youths. Yet, within two years, Hei Briskeby would be calling it quits amidst a series of scandals.
So what went wrong?
“Well, Dan. Where should I begin?” Even says to the screen.
Many seem to think the problems began with Hei Briskeby’s resident bad boy: Even Bech Næsheim…
He grabs his soup. “Hurtful.”
…or EBN, as he’s called professionally. The tall, deep-voiced teen with a surprising 4-octave vocal range—
“4.5,” Even mumbles around a mouthful of Soba noodles and stretches his legs out on the couch. One of his black socks has a hole where the big toe pokes through. He probably should call his talent agency back, see if anyone gifted him free clothes. Some of his stuff is threadbare as f*ck.
—who was singled out for his charismatic live performances and distinctive looks, had been fielding Hollywood film role offers when tragedy struck.
A familiar weasel-like face fills the screen. The narrator intones, When asked, Erik Carlsen, Even’s childhood friend had only one thing to say.
“Childhood friend? That’s stretching it,” Even says, slurping some more soup.
“Even had started acting really weird. His management was concerned that he was using drugs.”
“I wish,” Even sighs. He picks up his phone and checks Tinder, more out of habit than any real need to hook up.
“He was fighting with Mikael all the time. They used to be best friends. But Even was jealous—”
Even looks up, closing the app.
“—of his talent.”
He blows a raspberry. “Bullsh*t.”
Carefully aligning the image of Erik Carlsen’s head between his chopsticks proves tricky, but he manages a photo. Back in the day, their manager Ole Bjølstad insisted that all the Hei Briskeby boys post regularly, and it became natural to document everything no matter how banal. På tide å vatne i hagen, gutter! he’d bellow every day.
After everything went down the first time, Even got rid of his social media. All of it, except for his finsta account―username: Pennypacker―secretly created back in 2016, well below Bjølstad’s radar. Follower count: 20. They include his former Norwegian tutor, a pair of cousins who moved to Zürich and DM him now and again, an old friend from kindergarten, his mom’s American friend Connie from St. Paul, Minnesota, and more recently, his roommate Tom-Vegard. The rest are strangers who occasionally like his random photos of flowers growing through sidewalk cracks, awesomely plated dinners, or adorable puppies. They probably don’t even know who he is. And that's how he likes it. One semi-public place where he doesn't have to be EBN, the once-famous brand.
He chooses the Ludwig filter, the best for reds, and hits post. You can barely tell it’s a person. Erik’s head is blurry between the chopsticks.
His phone rings. Even answers. “Hello, Sigrid. Are you watching this? It’s awful.”
There’s a pause. “Even, Mauritz called me.”
Mom sounds more pinched than usual. He crosses his legs. “Wow, actual Mauritz and not an agency lackey? Why?”
“Because you’re not picking up your phone.”
“Oh?” Even checks his call history—fifty missed calls this week. That’s not too terrible, given he can’t remember the last time he cleared his messages. He slurps another noodle and talks around it. “My bad. What do they want? Do they want me to sing at a product launch for a robotic mop?”
“They’re going to drop you.”
“What?” The bowl is put down with a clatter. “Can they do that? Signing me put them on the map.”
“Be that as it may, yes, they can. If you don’t answer calls or go to the auditions they set up for you, they can’t see a way forward with representation. They’ve let it slide for nearly four years, which is more time than they’d give any―”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, have you heard what they’ve been sending me? Spokesmodel for flavored water? A dinner theater production of Ghosts?” The last had been particularly ridiculous. Who wants to hear about syphilis while chowing down roast?
He can hear his mother moving around her kitchen, cupboard doors opening and closing. “The agency needs to be sure that you can show up and do the work. With the number of projects you’ve walked away from, they no longer believe you can.”
“Look, I care about what I put my face and name to. I don’t want to sell soaps in Japan.” This is a blatant lie. Even would totally sell anything in Japan. Admitting that won’t help his argument, though. “These gigs are not for me.”
“I agree.”
“You do?”
She makes a small, hesitant noise. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you… I know of something that might be more suitable. Tante Line—”
“She’s not my aunt,” Even says automatically.
“…has that events venue in Nærøyfjord and needs an office assistant. The salary is excellent, too much really for what you’ll be needed for, and it comes with housing.”
He scoots to the edge of his seat. “And this means what exactly?”
“She would be willing to offer you the gig.”
Even is speechless for a moment. “A gig as her office assistant? You― You want me to work weddings?”
“It’s an events venue, and no, you would only work regular business hours. Do tours of the space, make some appointments, offer people espressos, wine—”
“Are you f*cking serious?”
“Even. Are you taking your medication?”
He loves his mother, but it’s sh*t like this that makes him think he should’ve never come back to Oslo from Los Angeles, as bad as that whole thing was. He sighs grandly.
“You need routine,” she continues. “I know you have a gift, but what good is that gift if it comes at the expense of your mental health?”
“So you think the answer is a slow death in Nærøyfjord?”
“What do you mean… death? Is that—” His mom’s voice catches. “Are you threatening to harm yourself?”
Even slumps forward, resting his forehead in his palm. “Come on. I would never do that to you.”
“But you did,” she says tightly.
His mouth tenses. “No. I did that to me.”
Even can’t help the nervous laugh that comes after. A laugh dry enough for a wildfire.
“Please don’t,” his mother says, her voice quavering. That stops him cold.
Outside, a flock of pigeons dip and sway against the backdrop of the pink-hued sky. How nice it must be to be one of them, without thought, just pure poetic instinct.
“So,” he says, after a moment. “I have a terrible talent agency that seems to think what I need to do is go on Maskorama instead of getting me more quality offers?”
That’s another lie. Even would put on a costume and sing on Maskorama in a heartbeat.
“They’ve tried to find you work,” she says. “You turn things down or don’t show up.”
“But you think that I’ll show up to work at an events venue? That’s optimistic, Sigrid.”
“It’s not the same. There’s a lot of pressure in the entertainment industry. There’s so much depending on you, and you have difficulty handling it. Despite what you think, I know you care more about the work than anything else. There is no shame in needing to live a life that is low on stress.”
His mother doesn’t know him very well at all.
“So, has the agency dropped me?”
“They are issuing an ultimatum. You have to take a job by their deadline. No arguments. Then they’ll assess the situation and go from there.”
“How about they send me to auditions instead?”
“They’re not sending you on any more auditions.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ve burnt too many bridges turning down projects or quitting at the last minute.”
He’s backed out of a few jobs. Nothing wild. People do that all the time.
“So… offers only. How long?” Even asks.
“A month, as a courtesy.” His mother unzips something forcefully. A moment later, he can hear the rattle of a pill bottle―her daily aspirin probably. “Do you see? It’s a deliberately impossible situation.”
“Right.” He nibbles his thumbnail. “With my reputation, I’m unlikely to get any direct offers in that timeframe, so basically, I’m getting fired politely.”
“Yes.”
“Right,” he repeats with finality.
Erik Carlsen’s voice goes up in pitch. “—when he broke into that pool in Vinderen and wrote all that stuff on his social media, that’s when we all knew he’d lost it. He just wasn’t right. You know, in the head.”
The lachrymose violins on the soundtrack swell and overwhelm. Erik Carlsen’s face is a mask of poorly acted concern. Even can’t think.
“Even,” his mother says, squeezing decades of guilt into two syllables.
“I can’t talk right now. I gotta go.” He pauses. “Listen. I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t worry. Just. You know.”
The music gets louder; Even lowers the volume.
“For the past several years,” Akerø says solemnly. “Bech Næsheim has been largely out of sight.”
Onscreen, there’s a montage of Even dancing and singing at ages 12 to 14, his hair dyed a silvery blond for more contrast with the rest of the group. There he is, acting on TV and hanging out in Los Angeles. Then, a little older, his hair back to its regular hue, going out to clubs with people he remembers being friends with but can’t for the life of him remember how or why. 17-year-old Even looking sweaty and wasted. Hanging out with hot girls and boys, his smile bright and wobbly. Shots of ambulances, his white-faced parents. Two weeks later, a long-distance shot of him at the hospital, sitting on a garden bench, smoking a cigarette and looking at his phone. Even had just gotten it back and been instructed to stay away from social media. He remembers that moment so clearly―scrolling through his Twitter feed and thinking: My life is over. But also thinking, I need to get a tattoo. A word in Japanese, like “resilience” or “warrior.” Or maybe something in Korean. Googling and comparing words in languages he couldn’t read. Completely unaware of the paps in the bushes.
How unbelievably stupid. To go from what he did, to doing online searches for ‘cool tattoos’. It should be a detail in a movie. A really stupid movie.
Thankfully, the television’s on mute when Tom-Vegard arrives home, carrying an armload of canvas bags and an even larger IKEA bag.
“Hi. Your mom texted me. She’s been trying to reach you.” Tom-Vegard’s gaze meets Even’s, then moves to the television screen. “Hey. That’s―”
“Me. I know. It’s a documentary about Hei Briskeby.”
“Oh yeah, I saw the ads for it.” He sits down on the couch and raises a bushy, dark eyebrow. “Any good?”
“Garbage. But you know how it is, I got sucked in.” Even presses the remote, switching to a random channel and turning the sound on. “Look, Ex on the Beach. Even this show is better.”
On the screen, a blonde, tanned girl wipes at her eyes with one manicured finger. “I’m okay. I’m over Marcus. I am.”
“Spoiler,” Even says. “Cassandra, 23, Trondheim, is not over Marcus.”
“I’ll get through this. I don’t need him.” Cassandra swings her hair back, then stills and wipes another tear. “Fiona escaped her dragon all by herself, didn’t she? She didn’t need nobody’s help.”
“Fiona?” Tom-Vegard looks confused.
“Come on, T-V. Cinematic classic Shrek?” Even turns off the television. “Anyway, Sigrid found me. It’s all good. How is the beautiful Nadia this evening?”
Tom-Vegard’s girlfriend is, in no way, traditionally beautiful. She’s one of those people that seem to be made up of rectangles: rectangular head, rectangular body, rectangular glasses. She always looks at Even with a pinched expression of mild distaste, a rare enough event to be unsettling, since he usually wins over anyone. When she gazes at Tom-Vegard, though… her face blooms. Then she is beautiful and Even tries to remember that.
“Oh man, she made the most amazing veggie burgers. I brought leftovers since I figured you hadn’t eaten.”
Even manages not to glance at the near-empty bowl on the table. “What are those for?” He nods to the folded-up bags piled up on the kitchen counter.
“Oh.” There’s a slight tension to Tom-Vegard's face that Even doesn’t recognize. “They’re, um. Nadia’s. She lent them to me.”
“To store your LEGO collection?” Even grins and shakes him by the shoulder. “Hey, admit that was a solid burn.”
His roommate flushes a little. “It was pretty good.”
“Exactly. Pretty good.” Even takes a deep breath, then claps his hands and rubs them together. Right now there’s only one thing that can help. “So. Are we getting high?”
It’s Tom-Vegard’s weed, and he’s never stingy. They smoke up and watch some dumbassed show starring The Weeknd and a lot of naked people. Tom-Vegard rambles about Nadia non-stop. Her adorable (and probably rectangular) feet, the sweet way she snores, how he loves cooking with her, and Even is almost jealous. It sounds so f*cking dull, but maybe that’s what love is for some people—doing really boring sh*t together and loving it.
Tom-Vegard goes to bed looking so happy. Like his feet are strapped to clouds.
And. Even floats, thinking about glass bottom boats. In the ocean. The Indian Ocean. Himself in one, a boat, looking down into the depths. A name stenciled on the side in a script he can’t read. He forces himself away from that vision, up from the couch to swallow down his meds with the remainder of the noodles, before heading toward his clothing-strewn bedroom. Then he lies awake, a starfish on the shore, trying to get back.
The meeting with his agency goes as expected. He’s ushered into one of the smaller conference rooms and is told the conditions of his probation by a junior agent. It’s a sign of how far his star has fallen that he’s only offered water when he arrives. Back in the day, they served him champagne. He was too young to drink it, of course, but his mom let him have a sip. This time, they serve him tap water. It’s tepid.
As Even’s leaving, Ejnar, the agency head’s assistant, waves him over to his desk and pulls out a large box full of random products. “They decided to stop mailing your monthly swag to your apartment, so I saved it for you.”
“Thank you.” Even used to get sent so much cool free sh*t. He picks up a water bottle that tells you how much water you’ve drank. He laughs. “Do you want this?”
“I have one already,” Ejnar says.
“Right.” Even shrugs. “Take whatever you like, though. Seriously.”
With a blush, Ejnar pulls out a face cream and a shrink-wrapped box of teeth-whitening strips. “Are you sure?”
“Please go ahead. If anything comes in that you like, just take it. I don’t mind. I’m going to give the rest of this to my roommate probably. Oh, unless it’s socks. I need some.”
Ejnar’s expression is hard to read. Sad, maybe. “Socks. Got it.”
“Thanks.”
Once the two agency receptionists have had a go at the swag as well, Even says his goodbyes. Ejnar waves with that same sad look on his face. Even’s still holding the box, but he manages to wave back with a wiggle of his fingers as the elevator doors close.
“Good old Ejnar. At least one person there likes me,” Even sighs later that day, sitting in the park and drinking from a mini-thermos filled with hibiscus tea. “It’s funny, but all I could think as I was leaving was, ‘I removed my piercing for this.’” He tongues the now re-inserted small hoop in his lower lip and slips into English. “First world problems.”
Sofienbergparken's a nice spot for an impromptu Monday afternoon picnic courtesy of Tom-Vegard. They sit on an old blanket, splitting a sandwich and people-watching.
“I’m confused. Who are Bragi Entertainment? Aren’t they your talent agency?”
Even sips his tea. “Bragi are my management team. MOH Talent Agency represents me for acting and commercial work only. Not music or recordings or anything.”
“Got it.” Tom-Vegard wipes his mouth daintily with his napkin. “So what did they say? MOH. What are the terms of your probation?”
A girl throws a frisbee at her golden retriever, who catches it mid-leap. Even applauds and Tom-Vegard sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles appreciatively. The dog wags its tail in lieu of a bow.
“I have to call them every day at 9.00 for the next month to see if I’ve been offered anything,” Even continues after giving the friendly dog some behind-the-ear scratches. “Whatever’s offered, I accept and, like, crush.”
Tom-Vegard chews thoughtfully. “Offers… not auditions?”
“Yes. When you’re a big star, you get offered projects without an audition. It’s a status thing.”
“I don’t get it. You are a big star?”
Tom-Vegard is still wearing his work clothes. He’s a ceramicist and makes all sorts of beautiful high-end sh*t sold in boutiques all over Oslobukta. Between them is a little gift he made for Even. A small nest with two tiny buff-colored eggs inside. It kills Even that something so lovely was made of scrap clay as a kind afterthought. For him. He picks up one of the little eggs, smiles at the tiny brown freckle-like spots that Tom-Vegard must have painted by hand, and carefully puts it back.
“I used to be a big star. But then. I accidentally broke up my band. We got sued for breach of contract because I couldn’t tour, and my management lost 30 million kroner thanks to me. Most labels blacklisted me after I pissed off a bunch of Swedish hitmakers. I got the entirety of South Korea―and most of the online world―mad at me for suggesting we were cuter than BTS. Word of advice: never take on K-pop stans. Those ARMY people are no joke.” Even shivers and rubs his hands together. “Let’s see… what else? I got fired from a streaming show produced by Baz Luhrmann, who was my teenage idol, and the part was recast with some no-name. I’m uninsurable. And―” Even stops himself from talking about how Bragi legally still owns any music he releases, partly because of the NDA but mostly because of the shame. He uncurls his hands and holds them, palm upward.
“Dude,” Tom-Vegard sighs.
“The list is endless, man.” Even smiles. “I’m persona non grata, and I’m not going to get offered sh*t. At the end of this fake trial period, MOH Talent will cut me loose without guilt.”
Even doesn’t say, There’d be no use to it anyway. What I do best, what I want to do, is out of my reach. And there's no way for me to change that.
“But why make you call? Shouldn’t they be calling you?”
“To teach me humility. Or humiliate me. They aren’t the same thing, I don’t think.” He pulls out a blade of grass and looks at it in his hand for a moment before blowing on it gently. “I have a plan B. Remember Stockfleths down by Schouss was looking for a barista? I walked in this morning, asked them about it, and got the job. I start today at 15.”
Tom-Vegard sits up. “That’s… Even! It’s already 15 past.”
“Is it? Oh sh*t.” Even stands up, patting his pockets. “Have to run. Catch you later.”
He’s late, but the manager doesn’t seem to mind. Even’s late for the next two shifts after that; she’s less cool with it the second and third time. The fourth time, he gets a talking-to. There is no fifth because he learns to walk in wearing his apron, so it looks like he’s already been working.
It’s an exceptionally easy gig. Half the time, Even’s just posing for photos with fans and collecting phone numbers. He comes to equate the smell of coffee with the promise of sex and hangs.
If Even can keep this going, he might be alright.
“Are you a model?” the girl asks in American English. She has blue-green eyes and blue-black hair. Dyed, of course. It’s cute.
“I’ve done some modeling. I’ve acted in a few things too.”
She giggles. “We like your piercing.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very tall.”
Her friend is a redhead. It might be natural. Also American. Redhead says, “You look so familiar. Anything we might have seen?”
“Well,” Even smiles. “I used to be in a boy band. We played the States. Hei Briskeby?”
She repeats it slowly and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I never got into boy bands.”
Even laughs. “That’s okay, you didn’t miss much. We had some corny hits back in the day.”
“Like, with dance routines?”
“Oh yeah. And stupid ballads about having no one to love.”
The other girl takes off her jacket. Even loves shoulders. Tan ones, especially. He bites the tip of his shirt collar.
“So, where are you from?”
The two girls grin. The now jacket-less one wears a crocheted halter and Even’s pretty sure he can see a nipple.
“We’re from Los Angeles.”
“Cool. I love L.A.” That’s half a lie.
“Your English is so good,” Crochet says. She touches his forearm with her sunglasses—a move straight out of Pretty Woman. Respect.
“Thank you. I love the States. Where are you staying? Do you need a guide while you’re in Oslo?”
“Do you know someone?”
“I might. In fact—”
“Even!” His co-worker Annika calls out from behind the espresso machine. “Please help the next customer. They’ve been waiting.”
“Just a minute,” Even says smoothly to the girls and turns to help the person behind them. A blond young guy with dark shadows under his eyes, chin-length curly hair and hunched-up shoulders, a large backpack hanging heavily off one of them. He stares dumbly at the American girls who are leaning against the drinks fridge, chatting and occasionally glancing over at Even.
Poor dude looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Even says apologetically, drying his hands on his apron. “What can I get you today?”
The guy’s gaze darts from the girls to the glass display beside the counter. It goes up and down, as if he keeps forgetting what he’s just seen. “Just coffee, please,” he says quietly.
“What kind of coffee?” Even moves a little closer and gives his most disarming smile. “Cappuccino, latte, espresso, macchiato? We have filter coffee too if it’s more your thing.”
“Filter? Sure.” The guy doesn’t smile back; he only stares at the chalkboard on the wall behind Even.
Sponge cake. With bright yellow ribbons of lemon zest. Those are the colors in his hair.
“Filter it is.” Even leans one hand on the counter and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I like it. Old school stylez.”
He makes sure to enunciate the z, but it doesn’t elicit any further reaction from the guy. His gaze drifts to Even’s hands, to the leather wristband he never removes, then darts quickly over to the espresso machine.
“Annika! One filter coffee, please!” Even turns back to the guy. “Milk?”
A crease forms at the bridge of his nose. It’s unexpectedly cute. Like a surly but neat little bow. “No thanks.”
“For the fifteenth time, Even!” Annika half-shouts in exasperation. “You can take the filter coffee yourself, it’s just to your left!”
“Right, sorry!” Even leans a little further forward, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s all? No cake? Something sweet?”
“Oh, my God!” The girls’ giggles cut through, and a familiar tune starts playing from the phone in Redhead’s hand. An upbeat song with a sampled harmonica hook. They stare at the phone, then at Even. Crochet holds her hand to her chest and gasps. “You were so cute!”
The chorus starts and Even knows exactly what’s on the screen. The model slash actress, who was five years their senior, walking down a Parisian alley with the wind in her hair and getting sung to by each of them. First, on the street corner, Mutta, with his wide smile. Then Elias, Mikael, and Yousef, each with their own signature move, voices adding to each other in harmony as Adam performs a shoulder spin in the foreground. As the camera retreats, Chris comes into view, singing to the girl from an ornamented French balcony, her head turning with his dance routine. For a second, she stops, hair flowing down her back, lit golden by the afternoon sun. Even remembers this shot especially—it's the second before he joins. Entering from a flower shop on the right and walking beside her in sync. His hair was still blond then but grown out, longer and flying in the wind just like hers. As the chorus slips into a higher key, Even takes her hand. Tucks her hair behind her ear as the camera pans out, the scene fading into a Fin.
The music ends, and Crochet looks back up at him with her mouth half-open.
“You have a really good voice! And you were so f*cking cute!” she repeats.
“Were? Oof,” he clutches his chest. “You wound me.”
She’s got very pretty brown eyes. Velvety. “Well, you’re smoking hot now.”
“Clea!” Her friend hisses and covers her mouth.
“What? He is.” She looks him up and down. “Nice tattoo… is that a snake?”
Annika yells out, “Even! Trond is still on his break.”
“Oh sh*t. One second.” He turns right and makes a quick Americano with a splash of milk, using a cup with green stripes. Even places it in front of the tired customer, who frowns at the drink.
“I picked that cup especially for you,” Even says with a wink.
Despite the dark circles under his eyes, the guy is attractive. If you don’t mind a little stubble. Even certainly doesn’t. When the young man finally meets Even’s eyes, he blushes so fiercely that Even nearly feels sorry for flirting. Nearly, but not quite. Even’s smile grows.
“I, uh, this―” The guy blinks back down at his cup, gestures to it with two fingers, then brings his hand up to his head.
“Oh, did you want sugar?” Even asks brightly, tongue at his lip ring.
He’s trying to remember who or what the guy reminds him of, with his cute, slightly open-mouthed look of confusion, when another song starts; Even knows this one, too. An early single, from when his voice was even higher―Love U Again. It turns up in volume, and the girls cackle. He laughs. “Ladies, please―” Even grabs the sugar, but when he turns around, the customer isn’t at the counter anymore. He’s across the room, sitting at one of the tables facing the windows, that enormous bag resting at his feet. His shoulders are still drawn up as if a weight is bringing his head, his neck, his whole body down. Even wonders if he’s freshly broken up. If he’s been kicked out of his apartment, and he’s carrying all his belongings in that backpack because he has nowhere to go. Or if he’s just received some bad news on his phone, which he spins around on the table. Around, and around.
The sandwich grill timer chimes behind Even; reluctantly, he tears his gaze away and goes to take care of it.
When he returns to the counter, the guy has put his phone away. He sips from his cup and restlessly taps his foot against the floor, heel bouncing underneath the table. His legs are long, so long that his jittery knee keeps knocking into the chair opposite him. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s making accidental music.
If Even still kept a journal, he would fill several pages about him. The boy is a story delivered right into his hands.
“Two oat milk chai lattes!” Annika sets a couple of paper cups down on the counter with slightly more force than necessary.
The two girls approach. Redhead smiles coyly at him while Crochet grabs the cups, leaning forward so her top hangs down a little, and yeah. She is definitely not wearing a bra. Even shifts his weight between his feet.
“Our Airbnb is just around the corner from here,” she says, co*cking her head to the side. “So… are there any good bars in this area?”
“Lots,” Even says, leaning closer. “Glød, Rabarber, Rebell… depends on what you’re into.”
“We’re into anything.” There are freckles on Crochet’s chest. “Which one is your favorite?”
“I do like Glød,” Even murmurs. “You know what the name means?”
“No.” She laughs. “I think we might need a tall Norwegian to translate for us.”
Even purses his lips and nods. “I can arrange that.”
Crochet hands one of the cups to Redhead, then tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Maybe we can meet up later and work on it. And the guiding.”
Annika clears her throat, loudly, at his side, and Even hastily grabs a pen from the counter and scribbles the name of the bar down on a napkin. “See you there tonight?”
Even grins as the girls make their exit and wave at him through the window. This really must be the smoothest job in the world.
When he looks back out over the room, the table facing the window is empty. The guy and his overstuffed backpack are gone, as is his cup. The chair is barely pushed back from the table, like no one had even sat there in the first place.
Annika is on his case for the next twenty minutes, for giving out the wrong orders or not being fast enough. He doesn’t get what the rush is. Time happens when it happens. It’s best to go with the flow.
Even goes for a smoke break, fully intending to take his whole fifteen minutes. He ducks down the graffitied alley next to the pet store across the street and gets about as far as lighting his cigarette when he hears people coming. He takes out his phone and pretends to look busy. It’s the girls from earlier, first claiming to have gotten lost but then admitting they’d been looking for him, and pulling out a joint.
Of course, there’s shotgunning. Then kissing. The blue-black-haired girl, Clea, is a better kisser than redheaded Lissie, who is handsier. Not that he minds; it’s all good.
What’s not so good is that the harried Annika apparently leaves Trond manning the counter so she can go retrieve Even, and finding him occupied with his new American friends, she fires him on the spot. He shrugs regretfully and apologizes as he helps tie Clea’s halter top that he’d accidentally loosened with his thumb. Annika shakes her head as he hands her his apron.
“Even, what are you doing? I could have been a resident of that building or a photographer. Smoking weed in public and…” Annika motions to his shirt and turns away. A missed button.
“Thanks.” Even fixes it. “I don’t really get many photographers anymore. Uh… Can you punch me out?”
Despite his new unemployment, it’s not a bad night. He has fun. The girls are flying back to America the following evening, and he is their last hurrah. He refuses to let himself think about his work predicament and plays the part he was meant to play: the life of the party. A laugh here and a compliment there. They pay, he entertains.
It’s what he does best, after all.
The phone’s ringing wakes him up. Only his mother would call this early.
“Yes, Sigrid?” he rasps.
“You stopped calling,” a man says.
Even opens an eye. “Um… sorry?”
“You have to call.”
He struggles to place the voice. A man, young, with a posh Vestkant accent. Who has he hooked up with that he forgot to call? “I just woke up. Everything… good?”
“Yes,” the man says, sounding uncertain. “Are you?”
“I’m great. I could use some coffee.”
“Okay. You should go get a cup.”
Dimly, he hears phones ringing and voices. Like from an office. So his unknown lover is calling from work.
“Want to meet up and have some?” Even winces and hopes he didn’t just invite a stalker for breakfast.
“I can’t get away just now. God, I could get fired for telling you this―but you have to call. They’re counting on you not to call.”
Office. Call. Work. The agency. Even sits up. “Ejnar!”
Clea covers her head with a pillow, and Lissie shoots him a dirty look. Even puts a finger to his lips and grabs his boxers. He hops in one leg and then the other, continues hopping into the corridor and whispers into the receiver. “Hey. Did. Did an offer come in?”
“Just call, Even.”
“Wait. Is it… is it good?”
“It’s an offer, Even. You should―”
“―take it. I know. I’ll think about it. Thank you.”
He gathers his things quickly and heads back home, nearly going into Stockfleths to get a coffee. Even sighs. He liked their double espresso. He takes a photo instead, making sure to center it. X-Pro filter. The photo has a forlorn quality.
Post.
Back home, he takes his morning meds, then makes himself a Nescafé and sits on the terrace. He calls and listens to the offer: co-host for a new singing competition for kids on TV2 Direkte. Not a judge, no singing spots. Just him introducing the young contestants. It’s high visibility but low reward. His face would be on everyone’s television twice a week asking children what they were going to sing this time.
This opportunity―standing in front of hundreds of people, thousands more watching from home and witnessing a little kid get their shot? Children who are full of hope, on their way into the future, and him stuck with his past―a bleak echo. It’s not much of a comeback at all.
Because he’s grateful, truly grateful, to have an ally at the agency, Even invites Ejnar over for a home-cooked dinner. Tom-Vegard, who handles most of the cooking because Even is hopeless, entertains Ejnar by talking about pottery, Nadia and how much he likes her neighborhood, and his little sister Linnéa’s twelfth birthday karaoke party the following week that Even agreed to host months ago.
“I’m going to say no.”
Even’s voice comes out a little too loud. Ejnar sits at their dinner table, poised to take a radish slice from a vegetable plate held by Tom-Vegard. The two men blink at him.
“To hosting karaoke?” a wide-eyed Tom-Vegard asks.
“To the television gig,” Even clarifies. “Of course I’m doing karaoke. I love Linnéa.”
“You know the chances of you getting another offer this month are slim,” Ejnar says.
“I know. But I don't want it. I’ll let them know tomorrow.”
Ejnar holds up a hand. “Don’t call them yet. You have until Friday to take it. I know it’s not an ideal offer, but give it until then. Think it through.”
The mood noticeably shifts toward contemplative, and Tom-Vegard excuses himself to go call his beloved. Left alone in the living room, Even hands Ejnar a gift bag of vegan chocolate buns from Baker Hansen. “For your breakfast tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe you remembered how much I love these.” Ejnar brings the bag up to his face and inhales.
Ejnar’s not really his type—too short, for one—but he’s nice with kind eyes, a pretty blue-green color. Even knows he can make it work. He scoots in closer on the couch and leans in. “I’d like to take you out on a date.”
“A date?”
Even bites his lip ring. “How about tomorrow night? Or… we can start tonight. And”—he gestures with his chin toward the bag—“you can have those in the morning.”
“A date date?” Ejnar’s voice rises. Is that panic?
“That,” Even says, less sure.
“Um,” Ejnar grimaces. “I’m married? But thank you?”
“Oh sh*t! Really? Congratulations!” Even scoots forward and squeezes Ejnar’s shoulder. “To a man, right?”
Ejnar laughs breathlessly. “Yes.”
“Cool. Recently?”
“Two years ago, in Kristiansand. I invited you to our wedding.”
He tries to think of something to say but comes up blank. “I don’t think I ever saw the invite. I’m… the worst. Sorry?”
“It’s okay.” Ejnar’s face says that it isn’t, but not unkindly. “I guess that explains why you couldn’t come.”
Mortified, Even covers his eyes with one of his hands. “f*ck. I would have loved to. Truly.”
“Really, it’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Even drops his head back against the wall and sighs. “I suck.”
“You’re a good person, Even. In the ways that matter. And you deserve success.” Ejnar lowers his voice. “But you don’t always have to pay people with your soul.”
He’s not sure what that means.
“My soul? It was just a date,” Even says with a small laugh.
Before Ejnar leaves, Even makes some promises. That he’ll think about the offer. That he’ll let Ejnar know what he decides before telling the agency. Even would rather have Ejnar see him as an equal, instead of a disaster person who needs constant help, but here they are. Once again, Even’s the beneficiary of someone’s kindness, and all he has is an empty hand.
Even can’t help himself and watches another half hour of the documentary the next day. About twenty minutes in, Ole Bjølstad’s tanned face appears. His former manager’s white hair has been blow-dried to an unnatural height and those big, capped teeth are so white they appear to glow. He gives a lengthy self-serving interview, and every one of his words hits Even like a hard slap in the face.
The screen is paused on his younger self posing in one of their early magazine photoshoots when Tom-Vegard gets home, carrying more IKEA bags.
“Hey, it’s Hei Briskeby Even again,” Tom-Vegard says, putting them down. “Wow, you look so young.”
“I was so young.” He doesn’t like to think about it, but it’s true. It’s not that he was happier then, but whatever unhappiness he had was uncomplicated. His unhappiness now is complex and loaded. He can’t let anyone see it.
This is who he is. He could not handle success. That’s the real story, according to that documentary. And Ole. And his mother. And others.
Tom-Vegard smiles. “You’re only 26, bro. You’re still young?”
It doesn’t feel like it.
“How was work?” Even asks brightly, standing to follow Tom-Vegard into the kitchen.
“Got a lot done. Hey, did you decide whether you’re going to take that hosting gig?” Tom-Vegard asks. There’s an odd cadence to the question.
He shakes his head. Even can’t put on a suit and interview a bunch of little kids about their aspirations. Not that it’s a bad thing, for them―it’s everything. He remembers what it was like. He’s ashamed to find it shameful.
“Oh.” Tom-Vegard bites his lip.
“What’s up, TV? Does it have something to do with your bag project?” Even shoves him lightly on the shoulder, and Tom-Vegard flushes.
“Nadia and I… we’ve decided we're going to live together.” His eyes dart all over Even’s face. “But it can wait, I―”
Even’s mouth drops into a silent wow, and he pulls Tom-Vegard into a hug. “That’s f*cking awesome! Why do you have to wait? She can move in whenever!”
Tom-Vegard’s smile falters and Even puts two and two together.
“Oh, of course. You want to move in with her. Stupid me.” He turns on his biggest press junket grin. “This is so cool. I’m proud of you. Hashtag taking it to the next level!”
“We can wait. With everything going on… At least until you get an offer.”
Even shakes his head firmly. “No. Don’t wait.”
Tom-Vegard has become a really good friend. His only friend. He’s a super nice guy. Kind. Too kind, probably, for Even. It sort of makes sense, his leaving. Ever since Even’s then-girlfriend caught wind of her friend’s friend urgently looking for a place to stay in Oslo, and this arrangement turned out to be just what Even needed, he should have known this was coming.
“I’m sorry.” Tom-Vegard looks sheepish. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy living with you, man, you’re my bud, it’s―”
“I know. It’s this building. 23 is not a good building number. I told my parents I didn’t want an odd-numbered building, and they thought I was joking.”
No job, no money, no one to split the building fees with. And, no f*cking way is he moving to Nærøyfjord. Or back in with his parents, for that matter, knowing that’s where his mom is eventually going to lead the conversation. Frantically, he thinks about a solution while keeping his grin in place.
“You’re gonna find someone else to share with. Easily,” Tom-Vegard adds. “I can stay until the end of the month at least.”
Three weeks. That soon.
“Sure.” Even shrugs. “That’s plenty of time.”
His finely tuned sense of avoidance kicks in. When Tom-Vegard goes to take a shower, Even grabs his laptop and looks up flights to Thailand that he can’t afford. If he can’t make his problems disappear, he can disappear from his problems. Perhaps he could go to Bangkok as a courier?
He’s still scrolling travel sites on the terrace when Tom-Vegard joins him an hour later, a big fluffy white towel wrapped around his head. Weird music plays from his bedroom, a guy screaming about Jesus backed by classic rock-style guitars.
“Have you found religion, TV?”
Tom-Vegard laughs. “It’s from a musical.”
Surprised, Even stops typing for a second. “You have hidden depths, my friend.”
“Thanks.” Tom-Vegard regards him seriously, his big blue eyes full of hesitation. “I was thinking… are you sure you’re good to host karaoke tomorrow? It’s okay if you can’t.”
He’d nearly forgotten about Linnéa’s party. “Of course! Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Hosting a party for one of my favorite ladies is not the same as hosting some dumb TV show.”
“Listen… I was thinking last night that this is a good thing, you getting back in the public eye.” Tom-Vegard has a gap in his front teeth. When he smiles, he looks like a hopeful little kid.
Even nods. He could live cheaply in Bangkok. There’s bound to be some gig he can nab. Wedding singer? Club emcee? DJ?
“You know.” Tom-Vegard sits down beside him. “A new beginning.”
“Thanks, man.” He squeezes Tom-Vegard’s hand. “And you get a new beginning too. You'll be really happy living with Nadia. I know it.”
Even means it. He will be. Much happier than as Even’s roommate, certainly. With Even out of the picture entirely, he’ll be even better off. Even brings bad luck with him wherever he goes.
When Tom-Vegard leaves shortly after to go spend the night at Nadia’s, Even absentmindedly turns the television back on. Ole Bjølstad smiles slowly, in the way he always thought was charming but makes Even sick to his stomach.
EBN was a passionate young man with a ferocious appetite. Bragi Entertainment cared for him like family, but even his own parents couldn’t keep him from burning the candle at both ends. There are certain artists that can never forgive you for their first success. Perhaps their only success. They cannot handle stardom, and it becomes your fault. The truth is, just because a kid is talented doesn’t mean they’re meant to be a star.
Even stares at his former manager’s somber face. In another life, he could have been a pretty decent actor. If Even didn’t know Ole like he does, he might have bought that mask of mournful sympathy.
In another life, Even never let Ole and Bryan talk him into signing that contract. Or the NDA that came with it. In yet another, he never fell ill. All these other possible paths—all of them with better decisions, with better luck.
His laptop fan whirrs to life. He hits the space bar and looks at the screen: a crescent-shaped beach with turquoise water dotted with two-man fishing boats. He closes all fifty open tabs―fifty more ways of avoiding himself.
He zips up his hoodie and goes out to the balcony. Puts a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it. As he thinks, the colors of the night sky change incrementally. It gets colder too. He puts the cigarette away and undoes his cuff, massaging his wrist.
Even can sing, he can act. Surely that's the realest part of his story. Barely working in the latter has stung. Not being allowed to do the former is worse.
The sky isn’t fully dark yet, but the stars are out, twinkling at him in silent laughter. He wishes he could hold on to their glittering light, even when his mind goes dark.
Suddenly, there’s a falling star. It streaks across the sky, leaving a bright, smeary, seconds-long trail behind before disappearing beneath a rooftop, too fast for anyone to make a wish.
It feels like the world holds its breath. So Even holds his too. Nothing seems to move or make a noise. If everything is still, then maybe he hasn’t missed his chance. Maybe he’ll get another wish. Maybe he can make it now.
Even wishes for someone, anyone, to come and save him. From all of this. What is that thing from Greek plays? Deus Ex Machina. A god that comes down from the sky and fixes everything with a snap of their fingers.
Across the street, an apartment is suddenly flooded with light, and the glare jolts Even back into his body. He shields his eyes.
