Chapter Twenty-Seven
The rehearsal space had been chaos before, but this was something else. This was like a storm, like a hurricane ripping and tearing through them all, stripping everything back to bare bones.
"You've been seeing a journalist." Shepherd's voice was flat.
Dangerous. "This entire time. While we were trying to keep everything quiet.
While I was calling in every favor I had to protect this band.
" His face was turning red. "You…" He was looking angrier than Iona thought she’d ever seen him.
Angrier than really he had a right to be.
"I didn't think he would—" Cam started.
"You didn't think." Shepherd picked up the tablet and held it toward her. "Elijah Stone. Music journalist. His byline is right there, Cam. What exactly did you think was going to happen? You’re such a child, Cam. You never see what’s right in front of your eyes, do you?"
Cam flinched like he'd slapped her. "He told me he wanted to keep things private. He said he wasn't interested in writing about us, he was interested in me. He said…"
"He lied." Maeve's voice cut through from across the room. She hadn't moved from her spot by the microphone stand, arms crossed, face unreadable. "That's what journalists do. They lie to get stories. It's literally their job."
"He wasn't like that."
"Clearly he was exactly like that." Ellie gestured at the tablet. "Maeve and Iona's relationship. Details about the album. Quotes that could only have come from someone inside the band. Someone who was there for all of it."
"I never told him any of that." Cam's voice cracked. "I was careful. I never said anything about Maeve and Iona, I swear. Except…" She swallowed. "Except maybe I left my phone around sometimes or something. I don’t know."
"You don’t know?" Iona asked. She was trying to keep her voice level, but her hands were shaking. Their faces, hers and Maeve's, splashed across the internet. Something fragile and new, ripped open before they'd even had a chance to figure out what it was. "How does he know about any of this, Cam?"
"I don't know! Maybe he figured it out, maybe he saw something, maybe—" Cam pressed her hands to her face. "I trusted him. I actually trusted him and he did this and I don't know how to fix it."
"You can't fix it." Shepherd threw the tablet onto the amp with a clatter.
"It's done. It's out there. Every music blog, every gossip site, everyone who's been waiting for us to fail has exactly what they wanted. It’d be like putting toothpaste back into the bloody tube. You’re not even back on the circuit and you’re already a scandal. "
"I'm sorry." Cam was crying now, mascara running down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"Sorry doesn't help us, does it?" Maeve's voice was cold. "Sorry doesn't take the article down. Sorry doesn't give us back our privacy."
"Maeve," Iona said quietly.
"What? She did this. She brought a journalist into our lives, and now we're all paying for it."
"I know, but…"
"But what? We should be understanding? We should forgive and forget?" Maeve laughed, sharp and bitter. "I came down here against every instinct I had. I opened myself up. I let myself…" She stopped. Shook her head. "And now I remember why I spent fifteen years hiding."
Cam wrapped her arms around herself. "I just wanted to help."
Iona frowned. That didn’t make sense. Help what? "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Nothing." Cam wiped at her eyes. "Forget it."
"No, you said you were trying to help. Help with what? How is dating a journalist helping anyone?"
Cam's mouth opened. Closed. She glanced at Ellie, quick and panicked, and then looked away.
"Cam." Iona stepped forward. "What are you talking about?"
Silence. Cam stared at the floor, jaw set, refusing to speak. The rehearsal space felt smaller suddenly, the air heavier. Shepherd was frowning. Maeve hadn't moved, but her eyes had narrowed.
"She was trying to help me." Ellie's voice was barely audible. Iona turned. Ellie was sitting on the edge of an amp, hands clasped between her knees, head down.
"What?" Shepherd asked.
"She was trying to help me." Ellie looked up, and her eyes were wet. "This whole thing. The reunion. Getting the band back together. It was about me. Not Cam. She’s not thrown away her money, at least not as far as I’m aware."
"I don't understand," Iona said.
Ellie took a breath. Let it out slowly. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier, but only just. "About a year ago I started…
dropping things. Being clumsy. I…" She stopped, cleared her throat.
"Then one morning I woke up and… I couldn’t move my legs.
Just for a few minutes. But it was terrifying and…
" She took another breath, looking at the floor.
"It’s MS. Multiple sclerosis." She held up her hand before anyone could speak.
"Jake knows. Cam knows. That's it. I didn't want anyone else to find out because I didn't want…
" She stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't want pity.
I didn't want everyone looking at me like I was broken. "
Iona felt the words land in her chest, heavy and cold. Ellie. Calm, steady Ellie who had always been the sensible one, the rock, the person who held everything together when everyone else fell apart.
"It might progress slowly," Ellie continued.
"There’s treatments. Drugs. I might be fine for ages.
Or not. No one knows for certain. But I wanted—" Her voice wavered. "I wanted to do something. While I still could. I wanted to play music again, with the people I love, before I can't anymore. And I thought maybe if it worked out, if the reunion actually made money, I could set something aside for my family. For later. When I might need it. But I didn’t want to tell you. And then Cam said she’d deal with it and she came up with a story and, well, I went along with it. And I shouldn’t have. "
No one spoke.
Iona crossed the room and pulled Ellie into her arms. Ellie made a sound, half laugh, half sob, and her shoulders shook.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Ellie whispered into her ear. "I was scared. I'm still scared."
"It's okay." Iona held her tighter. "It's okay. We'll figure it out. Whatever happens, we'll figure it out together."
For a moment, everything else fell away. The article, the betrayal, the argument. Just Ellie in her arms, warm and real and still here. Still fighting. Still the same person she'd always been, even if the ground beneath her feet had shifted.
"So this was all a trick." Maeve's voice shattered the quiet.
Iona pulled back, turning. Maeve's face had gone hard.
"A trap," Maeve continued. "To get me down here. To make me think this was something real when really I was just… what? A means to an end? To make us all think this was real. You lied."
"Maeve, that's not fair," Ellie said. "Everything we've done together has been real. The music is real. What you and Iona have is real."
"Is it? Because right now it feels like I've been played." Maeve's voice was rising. "Everyone in this room knew something I didn't. Everyone had their little secrets and their little plans and I was just stumbling around in the dark like an idiot."
"I didn't know," Iona said. "About Ellie. I found out just now, same as you."
"But you knew other things." Maeve's eyes locked onto hers. "Didn't you? Things you never told me. That's always been the problem with this, with us all. No honesty. No one ever tells the truth. Everything’s always edited."
"That's not—" Iona began.
"No." Cam stepped forward, face flushed, tears still wet on her cheeks. "You want to talk about problems? About what was always wrong with this band? The problem wasn't secrets, Maeve. The problem was you and your drinking."
"Cam," Ellie said sharply. "Don't."
"Why not? She wants honesty, let's give her honesty.
" Cam's voice was shaking but she didn't stop.
"We all spent years tiptoeing around you.
Pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. Watching you destroy yourself and destroy us and never saying a word because we were too scared of what would happen if we did. "
"That's enough." Shepherd moved between them, hands raised. "Everyone needs to take a breath and calm down before someone says something they can't take back."
"I'm not calming down." Cam pushed past him. "I'm sick of pretending."
"Cam, please," Iona tried.
"Stop." Maeve's voice was quiet now. "Just stop."
But no one was stopping. Ellie was trying to reason with Cam, Cam was still going, Shepherd was attempting to restore some kind of order and failing spectacularly. Voices overlapping, building on each other, everyone talking and no one listening.
Iona stood in the middle of it and felt the world slow down.
She looked at Maeve, rigid and pale by the microphone stand. She looked at Cam, mascara-streaked and furious. At Ellie, exhausted and tearful. At Shepherd, frustrated and helpless.
And she thought about other moments. Better ones and worse ones.
Maeve in her bed three nights ago, asleep with her hair spread across the pillow, face soft in a way Iona had never seen before. The first time Iona had ever seen her truly peaceful.
The four of them in Ellie's parents' garage when they were fourteen, playing their first song together.
They'd been terrible. Absolutely terrible.
Cam couldn't keep time, Ellie kept forgetting the chord changes, Maeve's voice had cracked on the high notes.
But they'd been laughing so hard by the end that none of it mattered.
And the night everything fell apart. The night when it ended.
Maeve’s drinking had been bad for months by then.
Everyone knew it and no one talked about it.
But that night she'd been worse than ever.
She couldn't stand up straight. Couldn't remember the setlist. Had called Iona by her mother's name and then by no name at all, just staring at her with glassy, unfocused eyes like she was looking at a stranger.
Iona had tried to help her off the stage. Had got her as far as the dressing room. Had reached for her arm to steady her, to get her somewhere safer where she could sleep it off. And Maeve had turned, wild-eyed, and swung.
Her fist had caught Iona's cheekbone. The pain had been sharp and sudden and the floor had come up fast. Iona had lain there, tasting blood, watching Maeve stumble away without even realizing what she'd done.
And Cam and Ellie had stood open-mouthed for longer than they should have, before bending over her and crying and pulling her to her feet.
The bruise had lasted two weeks. Iona had told everyone she'd walked into a door. She'd told Maeve nothing at all.
Because Maeve hadn't remembered. The next morning she'd been sick and sorry and full of shame, apologizing for the drinking, for the embarrassment, for being a mess. But she hadn't known about the punch. And Iona had decided, looking at her red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, that she never would. Some truths would only cause more pain. Then Maeve had gone. Maybe she’d sensed something, maybe it had been time, but that morning was the last time she’d seen Maeve Maureen MacDonnell until she’d walked up that path to that Scottish cottage.
She'd kept that secret for fifteen years.
"You want to know what really happened?" Cam's voice dragged Iona back to the present.
She was pointing at Maeve now, face contorted.
"You really want to know? You want truth?
Honesty? You were so drunk you couldn't remember our names. So far gone that you couldn’t sing. So shit-faced that you punched her."
Everything stopped.
Maeve's face went white. She looked at Cam. At Ellie. At Iona.
Iona couldn't speak. Couldn't look away. Could only watch as the truth landed.
"What?" Maeve whispered.
"She never told you." Cam's voice cracked. "Because she's Iona, and she protects everyone except herself. She's been carrying that for fifteen years so you wouldn't have to."
Maeve stared at Iona. Waiting for her to deny it. To explain. To say something.
Iona said nothing. There was nothing to say.
For a long moment, nobody moved. The only sound was breathing, ragged and uneven, and somewhere outside the building a car alarm going off in the distance.
Then Maeve turned, walked to the door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it behind her.
Iona stood very still in the silence that followed, and she knew that Maeve was gone.