Eighteen
Scarlett
T he air crackles with energy as Thursday dawns, marking the beginning of a whirlwind tour for Chaos Theory. The sun peeks through the curtains of Whit’s apartment. It’s a day of excitement wrapped in the smell of coffee and the distant sound of city life waking up.
Echo Heights sent movers with the tour bus to load everything for us. Whit went ahead to the venue where they’re playing tonight because they wanted to squeeze in a rehearsal beforehand. I opted to stay back and wait for everything to get loaded, stomach tied in knots as I drove the whole event forward in my mind.
As the afternoon light spills across the room, I’m filled with a mix of nervous excitement and uneasiness. I’ve never been on a tour before, let alone with a rock band, but I guess I’m ready to dive into this new adventure with Whit, my fiancé.
In the living room, the movers are packing up the last of our belongings we need on tour. Even with the furniture still here, the apartment feels empty—a hollow echo of the life that normally buzzes within its walls. It’s as if the very essence of the place is being loaded away, along with our hopes and dreams, band merchandise, and memories of myriad late-night conversations.
The movers call out to let me know they’re almost finished, and I nod, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The reality of the tour is setting in, and while it’s daunting, there’s also a thrill that comes with stepping into the unknown.
I pick up my notebook and pen, deciding to jot down some lyrics while I wait. The words flow easily, inspired by the anticipation and uncertainty of what lies ahead. Every line is a reflection of my emotions, a cathartic release that helps ease the tension building inside me.
Just then, the sound of the movers loading the last of the equipment onto the bus brings me back to the present. I close my notebook, tucking it into my bag, and head outside to meet them. The tour bus looms large, a symbol of the journey we’re about to embark on.
Once everything is loaded, I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and head out. There are still a few last-minute items I need to pick up. I head to the nearby convenience store, my mind ticking off a mental checklist: snacks, toiletries, extra batteries, and, of course, another notebook for jotting down lyrics—all essentials for the road.
With my purchases in hand, I start the drive to the venue. The city passes in a blur, a mix of familiarity and newness. My heart races; the butterflies in my stomach make it hard to discern whether it’s from excitement or fear. The what-ifs swirl in my mind, casting shadows on my thoughts:
What if I’m not cut out for this?
What if I can’t handle the pressure?
As I finally arrive at the venue, I’m taken aback by the sight of the growing crowd. The parking lot is filled with excited fans, and the energy in the air is palpable. I park in the back and make my way to the entrance where I’m greeted by Nicolas, the bodyguard I befriended. He gives me a reassuring smile, but there’s a hesitance in his eyes.
“Hey, I was starting to wonder when you’d get here,” Nicolas says, holding the door open for me, but his tone carries an unusual edge.
“I know, I’m running late,” I reply, the nervousness evident in my voice. “Thanks for letting me in.”
Nicolas hesitates for a moment, glancing around as if making sure no one is watching. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, his concern palpably apparent.
A sinking feeling settles in my gut, and I unconsciously twist the engagement ring around on my finger. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Just... be careful in there, alright?”
I nod, taking a deep breath as I step inside. The noise of the crowd grows louder, a reminder of the magnitude of what we’re about to embark on. I weave my way through the throngs of people, my mind racing with thoughts of Whit and the performance ahead.
Inside, the venue is a lively hive of activity. Crew members are setting up while the band is huddled in the green room, drugs and liquor thrown all about. I scan the room for Whit, my eyes finally landing on him through the throng of groupies. He’s so fucking high that I doubt he could even play right now, but that’s not what catches my attention the most.
He is lounging on the black couch, a red-haired girl grinding her ass in his lap, her hands roaming his body like a thief in the night. My heart sinks as I watch him revel in her attention, a smug smile dancing on his lips, brightening his features. She leans in, whispering something in his ear that makes him laugh—a laugh I once cherished.
A wave of anger washes over me, drowning out the swirling noise around us.
How could he do this to me?
The deceit cuts deep, deeper than any blade. Did he purposely pick someone with my hair color to hurt me the most? I turn to the other guys for help, but they are lost in their own worlds, enthralled with their own set of women, oblivious to my internal turmoil.
I catch a glimpse of red flashing in the corner of my eye as the girl bursts into laughter at something Whit said, probably one of his stupid jokes that always made me laugh. But now, tears pool in the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. It feels like everything I thought I knew is shattering like the porcelain music box my father smashed with his bare hands during one of his drunken rages.
He’s just like my dad, his dad , my thoughts scream in agony.
A fucking cheating bastard.
I can’t believe I let him trick me into believing he was different.
I want to scream, to run out of the room, but something holds me back. Maybe it’s the desire to confront him, maybe it’s the fear that I’m not enough to hold his interest. Either way, I stand there, frozen, watching the scene unfold like a twisted movie reel of my worst nightmares.
Dread pools in my stomach, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I feel betrayed, less than enough, hollowed outward, like a vessel emptied of its purpose. I had initially thought that in this chaotic world of music and fame, he would remain loyal while I figured out my place.
Just then, Nicolas steps inside, his eyes locking with mine. Concern washes over his face as he notices my rigid posture. The uneasy weight of his gaze feels like a lifeline reaching out to me, but I can’t break my focus from Whit.
“Hey, do you need to talk?” Nicolas asks, his deep voice cutting through the chaos.
Talk? About what? I want to scream that I’m fine, but the truth is, I’m far from it. My heart battles between betrayal and love, and I struggle to find my voice amidst the turmoil.
“I, uh…” I stammer, desperately searching for words. “I’m okay, I just…” My voice trails off, overloaded with emotions I can’t articulate.
Nicolas steps closer, lowering his voice, “You don’t have to pretend with me. If he’s giving you reasons to doubt, you deserve to know.”
I glance back at Whit, laughing as the girl tugs at his shirt, oblivious to the heartache she is causing. The warmth I had felt for him moments ago flicker dimly, almost extinguished.
“I thought he loved me,” I admit, the words barely escaping my lips, tinged with disbelief.
Nicolas’s brows furrow, and his eyes soften. “Love isn’t as simple as we wish it was.”
I stand motionless as I see her slide her hands through his tousled hair and pull him forward, smashing her lips onto his. My world begins to collapse, like a laughing balloon losing air. I’m drowning in a sea of heartbreak, paralyzed by the scene before me.
His laughter echoes through the room, a harsh reminder of my foolishness. Tears stream down my face, and I have no inclination to wipe them away. My heart shatters like glass, leaving jagged pieces scattered across my insides.
Suddenly, Whit looks up and locks eyes with me. His expression is emotionless, as if he is staring straight through me, and not at the wreck of a girl I’ve become.
Anger boils inside, rising like bile in my throat. My fists clench at my sides, trembling with the need to lash out.
“I hate you,” I spit, my voice dripping with venom, my words slicing through the tension like a knife. “You aren’t the man I thought you were.”
Without thinking, I fling his grandmother’s ring—an object that had once felt like a sacred promise—in his direction. It hits him squarely in the chest before it falls to the floor, a perfect metaphor for everything between us.
I storm out, pushing my way through the crowd, my tears blurring the faces around me, my heart a fractured mess amidst the chaos of the venue, searching for the exit, for freedom from the betrayal that feels like shackles.
Whit not only stole my heart, but he broke the strings in the process.
I pace my apartment, the hardwood floor creaking beneath my feet as I loop around the coffee table for the umpteenth time. My mind spins like a top, darting from betrayal to deceit, love to hate, emotions swirling together in a chaotic storm that leaves me disoriented and conflicted. The excitement of the upcoming tour evaporates like mist under the early morning sun, replaced by an unbearable sense of heartbreak.
“Scar, you need to breathe,” I mutter to myself, my own voice breaking through the noise in my head. But breathing feels futile when every inhale is laced with the memory of his laughter, the way Whit’s blue eyes sparkled when he caught a glimpse of me backstage just days ago, now muddled with the sight of the redhead sitting in his lap in that hideous room.
“What was I even thinking?” I hiss, frustration mounting.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I glance at the clock. It’s past midnight, yet sleep is nowhere near my mind. I can’t shake the devastation that clings to the air like a heavy fog. What I witnessed—that girl wrapped around him, her fingers tangled in his messy hair while she threw her head back in laughter—was cutting, a betrayal that stabbed deeper than any knife could.
I try to conjure the memories of our shared moments, the passionate kisses and whispered secrets we shared during the tour prep.
I loved him, god, I did.
He was my muse, my confidant, the one who lit up my darkest days. And now... now I feel like a broken piece of pottery, shards of my heart strewn across the floor, irreparable and jagged.
I’ve lost my fiancé, and probably my freelance writing position in the span of a few hours. How could I have let myself depend on a man when I swore I never would again? The betrayal cuts deep, but the self-reproach digs even deeper. I feel foolish for letting myself be vulnerable, for believing in the promises we made.
I sink onto the couch, my mind a tumult of emotions. The weight of my decisions, of the shattered trust, presses down on me. The clock ticks on, but time feels irrelevant. All that matters is the ache in my chest and the uncertainty of what comes next.
A small glimmer of hope flickers in the back of my mind. Maybe—just maybe—I can get the information I need to argue that my thesis is my own work and not Dr. McAllister’s. The thought is like a lifeline, something to hold onto in the midst of the chaos. If I can prove that my thesis is original, it would be a step towards reclaiming my life and my sense of self.
The sudden thought propels me into action. I jump from the couch and grab my purse, frantically searching through its contents. I need to find the professor’s address I’d written down and stuffed away, back when Whit first came into my life. When I gave up my dreams and followed his instead. My hands shake as I rummage through old receipts and random bits of paper, the desperation mounting with each passing second.
Finally, my fingers close around a crumpled piece of paper. I unfold it, my heart pounding in my chest as I read the address. It feels like a lifeline in the darkness that has consumed me. I will prove that my thesis is my own work and that my professor is nothing more than a lying, cheating asshole. I will salvage some part of my life that feels worth fighting for.
With a deep breath, I straighten up, my resolve hardening. Tomorrow is the day everything changes.