Chapter 5
Harsh wind at our backs doubles our pace to the nearby bar, and Darcy shrieks, burrowing into my side as we hustle along.
But not even Iceland’s late-spring cold front can chill our giddiness.
Well, the band’s giddiness. My smile has worn thin and aches at the corners, cheerfulness draining with each step away from the studio like a wet footprint on the sidewalk.
I wish I could join in their reckless hope that we can make something that shines outside of the shadow Connor has cast. No matter how hard I try, the happiness refuses to embed, bubbling off me like oil in water.
I can shake myself as hard as possible, let it sink into me for a moment, but it’s fleeting at best.
Inside, we huddle at the bar, and Harry orders us shots.
We cheers, the alcohol a welcoming burn that I feel in the tips of my fingers and toes.
Harry talks us into another round, and within half an hour I’m feeling relaxed and lazy, sitting on a barstool near the window, alternating between sips of water and beer.
I use my sleeve to scrub the fog off the window, staring into the graying evening. Music thumps through the cramped space like a heartbeat, the crowd packed in tight to take advantage of the bar’s infamously low prices, my friends scattered around the room, enjoying the night in a way I envy.
We’ve lived in Reykjavík for about three months, but every time I stop to take it in, it’s as breathtaking as the first day.
Iceland is unearthly, beautiful in a brutal type of way.
Even in the city center, it’s like navigating a stunning new planet.
Technicolor buildings and vibrant murals decorate the streets, the gray ocean and imposing snow-capped mountains a dramatic backdrop.
But as beautiful as it is, the experience has been equally jarring—living in a new place, creating something as intimate as music with new people, all while adjusting to my new status as single and publicly scrutinized.
I don’t know if it’s the change of country or plans or relationship, but I can’t seem to settle, even for a moment.
And I hate that I’m thinking about Connor. He’s occupied so much of my brain space over the past five years, I’ve probably grown a malignant lobe just for him, and I want nothing more than to cut it out.
What makes me the most furious is that I don’t even miss him.
I miss that there was a version of me, before him, that didn’t exist solely for his approval.
That at some point I was blissfully unaware of how imposing my feelings are and I could let their pressure out through music without a second thought.
I’m not sure I can create anything that matters to anyone now that I know how unrelatable and unsuitable this mess in my head is for public consumption.
Anger pierces like a wasp bite, and before I can think better of it, I gulp down the remainder of my drink and fish my phone from my pocket, thumbs pounding on the screen as my vision blurs.
I step out of my body as I do it, a rational, wispy version of me shaking her head as she takes in my hunched back and sour face in the furthest corner of a bar while I should be celebrating.
That rational version of me calls this exactly what it is: a horrific moment of weakness.
And that version of me can fuck right off. Righteous indignation feels way better than sensibility ever will.
How dare you? I type.
Too soft. Delete.
just wanted you to know how much I hate you, you useless prig
Delete. Need something with a bit more razzle-dazzle.
You wouldn’t even have a hit song about our lackluster sex if you’d taken all of ten minutes to figure out how to make me come, you ham-fisted miscreant
I think for a moment.
… and your breath always smells like butter. Find a dentist for fucks sake.
Getting closer to a winner, but a bit too specific. Delete.
you’re a real piece of shit, you know that?
Ah. That’s the one. Short, sweet, and straight to the point. I stare at the screen, adrenaline zipping through my finger as it hovers over the send button.
“Who ya texting?” Darcy’s breath is warm on my cheek, and I yelp, jolting out of my seat and sending my phone flying.
She fixes me with a bemused smile before stooping down to grab it.
I contemplate pushing her out of the way so she doesn’t see the screen.
“Why are you sulking alone in the corner? That’s usually Skull’s job,” she says, popping back up and glancing across the bar at Skull, who is surrounded by three devastatingly pretty women.
The inexplicable cool-rock-star aura is an amazing thing.
I grab for my phone, but it’s too late, Darcy’s clocked Connor’s name. “Cubby, no,” she says, looking at me with pure agony. “Not unhinged rage texts.”
“I wasn’t going to send it.” I swipe for it again, but she dodges me.
“Yeah, I don’t believe you.”
“I swear. I just needed to live out a bully fantasy for a moment. It’s one of the healthy stages of grief or closure or whatever.
” And I mean it. As good as it would feel to send that text, that would only last for a second.
I can picture Connor’s expression reading it—the bored eye roll, the heavy sigh, the smug twitch of his lips that I’m once again proving him right that I’m too dramatic to handle.
Darcy makes quick work of deleting the text and locking my phone, sliding it in her back pocket. I reach around her with both arms in an attempt to retrieve it.
“Jesus, Cubby, buy me a drink first.”
It’s then that I realize my face is cradled between her breasts, my hands fully cupping her ass. A memory morphed into fantasy shakes the locked box I keep it in, but I shove it away, ignoring the way my skin prickles from a sudden flush of heat.
I drop my hands, trying to move away, but she holds me close, tucking my head under her chin, fingers tracing through my hair. I lean my full weight into her, allowing myself to be soothed by her gentle touch, the pace of her heartbeat.
“He’s a line in your songs, Cubby. Nothing more,” she says softly.
“I know,” I whisper. “But it eats at me that he’s won. That he doesn’t have to feel this embarrassment and betrayal and hurt that I do.”
“Ah, come on now, Cubby love. He hasn’t won. It’s all just beginning.”
My face twists. “That was somehow both deeply ominous and very live, laugh, love of you, and I mean that in the most derogatory way possible.”
“Your kindness is unrelenting.”
I let out a hollow laugh, releasing her go and turning back to my empty glass.
“I’m proud of you,” Darcy murmurs.
“For what? Almost calling him a piece of shit?”
“Well, yes. But also for not completely melting down.”
“You can’t be serious. What do you call literally any part of today? What do you call what just happened?”
“A partial meltdown,” she says with a devastatingly bright smile. “That’s tremendous growth.”
“The bar is on the ground, Darce.” I try to fight it, but my mouth mirrors hers in a grin.
“But you didn’t show up with a shovel, and that’s worth celebrating.”
“Why does your face look like that?” Kale says, sidling up to us with a sneer.
“Like what? A smile?”
He blinks. “Damn. So much teeth. It’s very off-putting.”
“Don’t worry, a few more seconds subjected to your losing personality will kill it, I’m sure,” I reply sweetly. “You have the same effect as a particularly rancid fart.”
“You truly are the most charming woman I’ve ever met. Stunned that you’re single.” Kale lifts his beer in a mock cheers before tipping the bottle to his lips.
Narrowing my eyes, I decide messing with him is better than wallowing.
I tumble off my stool, throwing my arms around his neck (in an affectionate way, not a strangling way, despite the latter crossing my mind many times).
“My precious little superfood,” I croon, rocking us back and forth.
“I know all that snark is just a desperate cry for attention. I’ll dote on you more, don’t worry. ”
Kale chokes on his beer and I pretend to burp him like a fussy baby. He squirms out of my grip, and I snicker at how flustered he is, his reluctant smile winning out as he looks at mine. “You’re the worst,” he says.
“I know.”
“She knows.”
Darcy and I speak in unison, gazes whipping to each other. Our foreheads touch as we break into giggles. Kale pretends to be annoyed.
“Do I not get any of this love?” Harry says, placing more drinks on the table and sliding one to me before plopping down on the seat at the end.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Kale says, massaging his neck. “They’re brutal in their affection.”
“We’ll make a softy of you yet, darling,” Darcy chirps, playfully pinching his cheek. She’s on her third drink, pink kissing the tips of her ears and the bridge of her nose, her telltale signs of tipsiness. But as our group titters like fools, I realize that’s probably true for all of us.
“I’m feeling thoroughly neglected,” Harry says, accent softer at the edges, a pout fixed on his mouth.
With a teasing smile, I skip over to him, collapsing in his lap and throwing my arms around his shoulders. His palms land on my rib cage as he holds me. “There she is,” he murmurs. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Whatdya mean?” A hiccup pitches my voice, and I pull back to look at him. “We spend at least nineteen hours a day together.”
Harry rolls his eyes, smile loose and lopsided. “I know that. But most of the time, it isn’t the real you. I miss her.”
His statement is a kick to the chest; a phantom me materializes at the edges of my vision—happy and peaceful and fists lowered, willingly unprepared for a fight. I know it’s the me Harry sees right now. I wish it were the me I always was.
But I don’t want to slip into the deep dark of that thought. My heavy emotions aren’t for Harry. Aren’t for anyone but me to sink under when I can’t sleep, wrestle with in my brain that won’t shut up. The only other person who’s caught a glimpse is Darcy.