Chapter 8
Sigrún doesn’t acknowledge us as we file into her office, her focus darting between two computer monitors, an iPad, and a phone. Her bloodshot eyes have unease skittering up the back of my neck. We stand there in silence, watching her violently type.
I spent the entire ride here combing through social media, reading every ugly sentiment written about me until I felt the words carved into my skin, salt rubbed into the raw edges. Bitch. Slut. Desperate. Pathetic.
Harry steps closer to me, and his warmth at my back tempts me to lean into him, turn and bury my face into his shirt and beg him to hug me tight and make this building dread go away.
Instead, I move away from him and toward Sigrún’s desk. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for—I never really am—but I feel like there’s always some reason for me to say it. Absorb whatever blame lingers in the air.
Sigrún finally clocks our presence, head snapping up, blond strands of hair falling out of her messy bun. “You’re sorry?”
I swallow, then nod, forcing myself to keep looking at her. She’s probably going to drop us from the label for stirring up too much drama and keeping the attention on Connor’s bullshit instead of our music. I wouldn’t blame her.
She looks less frazzled now, but I can tell her brain is still hopping between a million different places. For some reason, she smiles. “Cubby, there’s nothing to be sorry for. This is great.”
I recoil. “What?”
“Great,” she repeats, enunciating every letter. “Do you have any idea how many media requests are flooding my inbox? Journalists, producers, music vloggers … They’re all rabid to get a bite of this. A bite of you. And Harry, of course.”
My stomach drops. I’m feeling a bit ripped at the seams as it is, not sure there’s much left of me to sink their teeth into.
Sigrún glances at her ringing phone, smile spreading even broader across her pale lips. “See, there’s another one. This is huge for you. For the band.”
“How?” Kale’s voice is sharp and cutting. “Seems like a mess, if you ask me.”
“You aren’t getting it.” Sigrún drags her hands over her face, scrubbing hard.
“This kind of publicity, viral-level press, is a young band’s dream.
Overnight, you put yourselves on the map.
Are you aware of how many streams your old stuff is getting right now?
How many hits your name brings up? Your little photo plopped you front and center of attention. ”
“I don’t want the attention,” I say, voice somehow steady for all the panic dripping through me. “Not this personal kind, at least. It should be on the music.”
She shrugs. “You’ve got it whether you want it or not. You might as well capitalize on it.”
“Capitalize how?” Darcy asks, voice slow. Intrigued. I shoot a horrified glance at her, but she stares straight ahead.
“That’s the spirit,” Sigrún replies, pointing at her.
“Fans are invested in this little love triangle you created with Connor,” she continues, swinging her finger between me and Harry.
“And like I said, your streams are skyrocketing. But we need more to give them. In the age of social media, every hour counts when it comes to content creation.”
“Love triangle?” I turn to Harry, whose mouth is pressed in a firm line as he listens to Sigrún. “There is no love triangle. We aren’t a couple.”
Sigrún shakes her head, rolling her eyes with a grin like we’re the silliest little things she ever did see. “Doesn’t matter. For the foreseeable future, you need to pretend to be. And document it.”
I gape at her. “Are you mad?”
She shakes her head again. “No. Listen. You need to keep this up, keep playing this game on social media—”
“Why would we do that?”
“Because it focuses attention on you. On the band. And you’ll want that attention—need it—for this tour to be a success.”
“Tour?” My head is spinning so fast I worry I might faint. Or projectile vomit.
“It’s not only media requests I’m getting. Bookers and promoters are begging to get you on their venue lineups. And fast.”
Skull surprises me by laughing. “What venues? Húsavík’s biggest club for all ten people that live there?”
Sigrún glares at her cousin. “Try Boston. Cleveland. Philadelphia. Atlantic City. New York. Any of those cities sound familiar?”
“You’re joking,” Darcy says.
“Does any of this seem funny to you?”
It’s probably because my life seems to be rapidly spiraling out of control, but I do laugh (a bit hysterically, I’ll admit). “You’re mad.” It’s no longer a question.
Sigrún pins me with a level stare. “I’m about to make you very famous if you listen to me and let me do my job.”
My stomach twists, breath getting cut off at the top of my throat.
“Pretend to be a couple, go on tour, watch your career take off in ways you can’t even imagine. Anyone have objections to that?” she says, looking around the room.
Harry is silent, and I’m ready for him to jump in and say what a horrible idea this is any time now. “What would the rules be?” he says instead, ripping the rug from under me, my head bashing to the floor.
“Are you joking?” I turn on him. “Rules? How about objections? I have plenty of those.”
“Oh really? We weren’t aware. You keep your feelings so under wraps,” Kale quips.
“What kind of rules are you looking for?” Sigrún asks. I want to duct-tape everyone’s mouths shut.
“We’d need a specific timeline we’re going to carry this on for … A plan for how it would wrap up,” Harry replies.
“An easy timeline would be not doing it at all and wrapping the idea up here and now,” I yell.
Harry’s look is pleading, a little conspiratorial. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be in cahoots with me or Sigrún. “Come on, Cub. What she’s saying makes sense. Who are we to say no? To turn down this chance?”
“Fully autonomous individuals?”
“We’re artists. Artists always have to suffer.”
“And fake dating me would be suffering, would it?” I say, planting my hands on my hips.
Harry hangs his head and laughs. “For how much I think you’ll torture me with it? Yeah, probably. But in the grand scheme of things, it isn’t really that bad, is it? At least from my perspective, there are way worse things they could be asking of me than pretending to date you.”
“I’m sorry, but do we not get a say in this?” Kale asks, lip curled.
“Yes! Of course! Say what a horrible idea this is!” I beg.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t delude yourself. Sigrún’s right—when will we ever get an opportunity like this again?”
My jaw hangs open like a rusted screen door on broken hinges. “An opportunity to what? Create a massive lie that we hope people on social media are dumb enough to believe?”
“If it gets us famous, yeah.”
“Fame isn’t why we do this.”
“Come on, Cubby, you know the reasons we do this … It’s not just about the music.”
“It’s only about the music!” I shout, hot tears pricking at my eyes.
I refuse to let them fall. “Creating something special, something real, is why we do this. And you want to generate a massive lie to tie on to that? We don’t even have an album completed, and we’re supposed to go on a tour?
While also pretending to be in some big romantic scandal?
Do you not see how far off that is from the music, it might as well be a different dimension? ”
“This band isn’t about you and your feelings,” Kale snaps back. “There are four other members here all working for success like you.”
“Only one of you four is also being asked to parade yourself like an asshole on the internet for attention.”
“Grow up, Cubby. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like for the sake of the greater good.”
“Who are you, John Stuart Mill?”
Kale blinks at me. “What?”
I am not even remotely calm, but I do take a moment to look at him like the dense prat he is. “You’re the greater good, then?”
“We all are.” He gestures wildly at the group.
Scoffing, I scan their faces, hoping, expecting to see expressions that match my disbelief at this ridiculous idea.
I don’t.
Sigrún nods at Kale, Skull doing the same. Harry’s eyes are fixed on the ground, but there isn’t a morsel of defiance in his frame. And Darcy—the person always on my side, the one I can always count on to have my back—she’s looking at me with a pained expression.
“Really?” I whisper, a mortifying crack in my voice. “You think this is a good idea?”
“I think it’s the hand we’ve been dealt,” she whispers back, reaching out for me. I let her extended hand wither in the space. “It isn’t ideal or fair, but it makes sense. It’s the right move if we want to really do this thing.”
“Give me the summer,” Sigrún says, clasping her hands in front of her chest as she looks at me.
“Give me the summer to take advantage of this for your career. Book you more shows. Get you headlining big bands. You don’t even have to say you’re dating.
Play coy on social media. Post more cute photos.
Banter back and forth in the comments. Then, when the summer’s done, we can reevaluate.
Stage an obvious but amicable parting of ways.
Let it fizzle out altogether in a way we can tease a reconciliation for decades to come.
My point is, let me capitalize on this for us.
For you. This could be game-changing for your trajectory as a band. ”
“What about the album?” I bring up again, searching for any reasoning that will talk them out of this horrible idea.
“You wouldn’t leave for a few days yet, maybe even a week,” Sigrún says. “Still a lot of logistics to sort. You can come up with some songs by then, I know you can. Put out an EP, at least. Keep writing while you’re on the road. People love surprise releases.”
“Maybe even use that to hype up the tour? New song at every venue?” Harry asks, blue eyes flicking up from the ground to absorb Sigrún’s excited nod. A tiny whimper tears from my throat.
“Cubby, it’s okay. Why are you so upset? This is an amazing opportunity,” Sigrún says.