Chapter 8 #2
I’m blinking rapidly now, heat radiating off my cheeks from the force of holding in a cry.
The gentle, cooing sound Sigrún makes as she approaches me with outstretched arms has indignation swelling low in my belly.
I sidestep her embrace, wrapping my arms around my middle.
I watch her face fall as I shake my head, trying to find any words in my flooded mind.
This is too much, too soon, too fast, and for all the wrong reasons. Did I want fame when I started pursuing a music career? I mean … I guess that’s the simplest word for it. But making music has never been about the glitz of stardom.
It’s something so much more elusive than that, this amorphous idea of self-preservation, that if I play hard enough, good enough, devastatingly enough, I don’t have to feel my feelings, I can make others feel them instead.
A bridge from my broken, too-sad heart to those more able to endure the emotions.
Sigrún’s expression hardens, and she straightens her shoulders, hands planted on her hips. “You’re forcing my hand here, Cubby. I’m sorry, but as the owner of this label, I’m telling you, you have to do this. It’s what the majority wants, and makes a hell of a lot of sense for your career.”
My vision blurs, walls shuttering down around me. They’ve already seen too much; I can’t let them watch me break apart further. I storm to the exit and push through the small building’s maze of hallways until I find my escape.
Out on the street, the cold bites my cheeks and bare arms, sucking the last bit of air from my lungs. I stop, my wobbly legs folding beneath me as I drop to the dirty sidewalk, back pressed to the wall of the studio. I pull my knees up to my chest, forehead resting on them as I cry.
And it’s so damn pathetic. Why am I crying? I don’t feel sad—sadness is useless, it’s soft. I feel angry—rage swelling up in me with so much pressure I could burst at the seams, raze this city to the ground with the force of it.
But instead, I’m huddled against a wall, curled up as small as I can make myself, quietly weeping into my knees and praying no one notices.
My world has been slowly falling apart for months, but now the foundation has snapped and I’m plummeting so fast, I feel sick from the jolt of it.
I lost the guy I spent years giving every ounce of my energy into pleasing.
I’ve lost my spark, lost my creativity that let me untangle these feelings, numbness cementing me down.
Connor stole my words. My identity. My own stupidity last night stole the only good thing I had going for me—my seamless friendship with Darcy.
And now I have to pretend that all of it hasn’t cut me to the bone, bleeding me dry in a slow death—paste on some heart eyes so our band can get attention on the internet when all I fucking want is for someone to care about what I have to say and be patient enough for me to find the words for it.
The outrage continues to spill out of me in silent, wet sobs that no one but me and the ground have to deal with. I cry until I’m a sniveling mess, as useless as the tacky gum stuck to the sidewalk next to me.
I don’t hear Darcy walk up to me as much as sense her, like I always do.
You know when you’re lying in the grass on a bright day and someone hovers over you, blocking out the sun, and everything goes dark and the tiniest bit cooler?
Darcy is the opposite of that. Her presence eclipses my gray skies, simply standing nearby lifting my clouds.
She doesn’t say anything, sitting down next to me and dropping my coat over my shoulders before hugging me—a proper hug, one with her arms cinched tight and head on my shoulder, the hesitancy from this morning gone. Thank god for small mercies.
It feels so comforting, so right, a tiny whimper tears from my throat, but I stay rigid, trying to avoid my natural response of melting against her.
Darcy’s always been the one I lean on when I sink low, but after the confusion of last night and the absurdity of what happened in the studio, she feels like a stranger to me.
“It’ll be okay” she whispers, rubbing her hands up and down my arms. “I promise.”
“How do you know?” I blubber back, softening a bit. I try to stiffen my shoulders, but it’s no use, she’s too warm. Too familiar.
“Because we’ll make it okay. You and I, together. Like we always do. We’ll go to America—go on tour—and make music and kill performances and play pretend at this ridiculous scheme and laugh at everyone we fool along the way.”
I let out a doubtful snort.
“Think about it this way,” she says, a small spark in her voice. “What better way to get back at Connor than needle at his jealous streak? It will eat him alive to think something’s going on with you and Harry.”
That hooks me, a vindictive little monster in the center of my brain purring at the idea. I lift my head and look at her, swiping at my tear-stained cheeks.
She smiles, mischievous and delighted that she got to me. “It’s just for the summer. One summer. We survived twenty-two together so far, what’s one more with a bit of mayhem thrown in?”
I soften further. That’s the thing about Darcy. She can make even the worst situations seem a little bit wonderful.
Like any good hunter, she senses my rapidly deteriorating resolve and pushes. “We’ll take this shite hand and make something beautiful from it. Like it or not, this may be our one chance. I don’t want to regret not taking it.”
A bitter laugh scratches out of me. “That’s the problem: I hate that this is our chance. This isn’t right, Darcy. This isn’t how things are supposed to happen. It was never supposed to hurt this much and feel so raw and exposing and humiliating.”
Darcy stares at me, midnight-blue eyes sharp and invading, like she can see into me.
And god, does it feel good. Normal. Like all the mess of last night has been packed up into a box and forgotten.
It proves that pretending it didn’t happen really is the best thing we can do to preserve this friendship.
“You’re right,” she says, gripping my shoulders. “It’s not fair and it’s not right. But it’s happening regardless, and it’ll only hurt that much if you let it.”
Those silly tears start falling again. Darcy’s thumbs are on the apples of my cheeks, softly swiping them away. “They’ll rip me apart,” I whisper.
“They won’t ever get their hands on the real you.”
I scoff. “What kind of new-age bullshit is that?”
Darcy giggles, the sound so sweet and warm, my heart skips a beat. “It means that this Connor-Harry thing is a game. A role. Any pretending you have to do will be like putting on a suit of armor. People might claw at that version on the internet, but it’s not the real you, right?”
“Who’s the real me?” It’s pitiful how desperate I am for her answer. For someone, anyone, to tell me who I am or who I’m supposed to be because life is so hard and scary and I feel entirely lost in it.
Darcy stares at me again—studies me so intensely my cheeks warm. Her eyebrows notch, lips parting. Those eyes of hers trip down to my mouth, lingering there for half a second too long, before skimming back up.
For a moment, I imagine her leaning in to kiss me.
For a moment, I want her to.
God, what is wrong with me? What is this absolutely ridiculous, inappropriate fascination I have with Darcy and kissing? It’s because I’m a mess, that’s all. I’m vulnerable. I’m emotional. I’m a total mess. I turn away from her, dropping my chin to my knees.
“You’re my best friend,” she whispers after a moment, hand resting between my shoulder blades. “There’s no challenge we can’t beat.”
My heart sinks, and I swallow past the lump lodged heavily in my throat, fighting for a smile. I can do this for Darcy. If it’s what she wants, there’s no way I’ll say no. “Okay.” I sigh, blinking away the remaining poke of tears still trying to fall. “We’ll do it.”
Darcy chirps, throwing her arms around me in a bear hug, rocking us side to side. “It’ll be amazing, I promise.”
“I think we need to get a manager,” I say after a beat. “Things felt overwhelming enough before this and all we really had to focus on was making an album. With the tour and social media stuff, we need someone to look out for our interests and handle the big picture.”
Darcy nods, biting her lip as she thinks. “We could ask your mum to do it?”
“Which one?” Louise (Mum) is an art curator, and Beatriz (M?e) is an artist; neither knows the first thing about music.
“Louise. She’s managed all those galleries and hosts all kinds of posh events. I’m sure she could handle us on tour.”
“To point out the obvious, there’s something rather inherently uncool about bringing your mother on tour with you.”
“Planning on letting loose with some good ole American sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, are ya, Cubby?” she says with a laugh.
My face burns, stomach clenching. “Well, I’d certainly like to keep my options open.” I’m surprised to see color rush to Darcy’s cheeks, and I press on, eager to skip over the weird flip it causes in my chest. “Should we bring your mum along, then?”
Darcy’s smile drops, eyes shooting wide. “You know that’s not a fair comparison. Your mums are effortlessly chic and brilliant and mine keeps her eyes glued to the telly all day howling praises for conservatives and their traditional family values.”
I concede her point with a knowing frown.
Darcy’s parents are … tight-laced, to phrase it nicely.
Bigots with their heads stuck up their arses to phrase it plainly, and it’s only gotten worse over the years.
“It’d be better to have an outsider anyway.
Anyone with even an ounce of connection to me would cause Kale to scream favoritism first chance he gets. ”
“Human equivalent of a pimple, that one,” Darcy mumbles. “If he weren’t so damn good, he’d be on the curb. But you’re right. We’ll find someone. Probably have our pick of the litter if we’ve gained as much notoriety as Sigrún claims.”
My stomach sours at the reminder of our rapidly growing infamy.
“Right, let’s get inside, we have songs to write,” she says, hopping to stand and helping me up. With one last sigh, I turn and lead us toward the door. “Sigrún mentioned she has an instrumental arrangement she’s been toying with that maybe we could package into a love song or something.”
I stop in my tracks, Darcy smacking into my back. “No love songs,” I say, spinning on her.
“What?”
“No love songs,” I repeat, leveling her with a serious look. “Only spite songs.”
“Spite songs?”
“If I’m going to do this, I refuse to be happy and lovely about it.”
Darcy rolls her eyes and shoos me toward the door. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything different.”