Chapter 15 #2
“Then write them,” she says, catching the stray lock of my hair blowing in the wind and tucking it behind my ear.
I shake my head again. “It won’t be anything but sad.”
“Then let it be sad.”
“Sadness isn’t interesting,” I say quietly, blinking up at the darkening sky. “It’s not bright or dynamic or productive.”
“Productive?”
“Happiness, anger, hate, love … Those are all kinetic, they’re states of action. Sadness is stagnant and bleak and a place no one wants to linger. People don’t want to hear a song about a sad girl sitting around being sad.”
“I’m sorry but Phoebe Bridgers’s entire discography begs to differ.”
I laugh. “She’s the exception, not the rule. My sadness is boring and bleh.”
“Write about it anyway.”
I bite my lip, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“That if I put the words down on paper they’ll belong to the world. They’ll stop being ours.”
Darcy’s eyes widen a fraction, and I realize I’ve said something too real. Too honest. I wave my hand at her. “I mean mine. Or like … ours because we cowrite a lot and … stuff.”
I brace myself for the brush aside, the emotional retreat that’s become our new normal since that night we pushed forward too far. I look down the darkening street so I don’t have to watch the blinds close over her eyes.
Darcy surprises me by grabbing my hand again. Holding tight. She tilts her head into my line of sight. “Those words, those feelings, they’ll always belong to you, Cubby.”
My lips part, a whimper sitting at the back of my mouth, but I swallow it down. She smiles at me, broad and soft and genuine, causing my heart to trip over itself.
And it feels so good to sit here with Darcy, that indescribable understanding knitting us together. The reminder that no matter how alone I feel, she’s still there. For now, at least.
My phone rings, breaking up the moment and making us jump. Then it beeps again and doesn’t stop, buzzing in my back pocket and making the whole bench shake. I retrieve it like a dog following its owner’s command.
I posted pictures of Harry and me while I was waiting in line for the ice cream but I’ve had horrible reception here with my cheap-ass SIM card, and notifications flood in all at once, every good feeling in me turning sharp and serrated as my mind flips to high alert.
I click my way to Instagram, scrolling through the overload of new comments and likes. Most of them actually seem … nice. Well, not most. But at least enough that I don’t contemplate shutting off my comments section and/or walking into the sea.
“Whoa … people are really liking my latest post,” I say, the pleasure center in my brain lighting up as I continue to scroll.
I have to consciously stop my thumb from liking a comment near the top that says omg connor who?
Get it girl!! and another that went so far as to tag Connor giving condolences for losing this round.
Good.
Fucking good. I hope he checks every mention.
I hope it makes him replay all our happy memories, searching for Harry’s presence in the mix, reliving the moments until he’s twisted himself sick with jealousy and doubt over nothing.
I hope it eats him alive. It’s petty and vile and feels so damn good to imagine him feeling even a tenth of the hurt he’s caused me these past few months. Hell, these past five years.
“I bet this will get us more streams too,” I say, scrolling further. “Looks like a lot of people are sharing the post and adding our latest song to it.”
Darcy’s silent, and I eventually tear my eyes away from the screen to grin at her, excited to celebrate this new triumph. I’m shocked to find the smile drained from her face, a blank stare blunting her features.
“Ready to go?” she says, already standing and walking to the waste bin near us to throw away the hefty remainder of her ice cream.
“Uh, I guess. You didn’t want to finish that?”
Darcy huffs in response, turning on her heel and heading down the street. I almost fall off the bench in my rush to follow after her.
“You okay?” I ask, jogging to keep up.
“Fine.” Her tone is as bland as the word.
I have the impulse to push the matter, but it’s not nearly as strong as the compulsive pull to get back to my phone.
The notifications have a barbed lasso around my brain, my neurons shriveling up like dehydrated fruit, howling in desperation for another dopamine hit.
I need to know what people are saying like I need my next inhale.
I slip back into my notifications, falling out of step with her as I respond to some comments with as much charm as my bitter self can muster. In a blink, we’re back at the van, Darcy swinging the door open and letting it slam in my face.
Lovely.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you or should I learn to communicate in passive-aggressive scowls and grunts from here on out?” I ask after I let myself in. Harry and Kale’s attention falls on me from their bunks, but I ignore them.
“Right, because you’re the only one allowed to have an off night and be an asshole about it, right, Cubby?” Darcy says, a surge of venom in her voice as she rounds on me, knocking me back a step.
“Wow. Tell me how you really feel about me, then.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Come on. Let’s have it. Clearly you have some thoughts on the matter.”
“That’s exactly my point!” she yells, throwing up her hands. They smack against the bunks, and she curses as she cradles them to her stomach. “Not everything is about you. Sometimes people are just in a bad mood and it has nothing to do with you or your hurt feelings or your perpetual melodrama.”
“She’s got a point,” Kale unhelpfully adds.
“Shut up, Kale,” Darcy and I say in unison. It would be a beautiful moment if we weren’t staring daggers at each other.
But it’s a stand-off. A stalemate.
I blink first.
“Darcy,” I whine, pushing harder at the gaping wound. “What’s wrong?”
She glares at me for a moment longer before shaking her head, blinking up to the ceiling. “Nothing,” she grits out. “But for the love of God just leave me alone.”
She turns on her heel, marching the few steps to the bathroom and slamming the flimsy door.
The bus is silent, anxiety and anger and hurt churning through every inch of me with a terrifying roar.
Darcy’s never done this before, never iced me out so succinctly.
Even when we fight, it’s big and dramatic, but it’s all laid out on the table, addressed then and there until we’re both usually crying and apologizing.
Whatever. Fuck her. If she wants our friendship this way, empty and sterile and existing on the surface, she can have it. I don’t care about Darcy. I don’t care about any of it. Caring only leads to hurt. Indifference is better than looking like a fool.
I wonder if I’m too comfortable lying to myself, a tiny voice whispers to me. I decide not to care about that either.
Harry catches my wrist from his spot on his bunk. “Give her some space, Cub,” he whispers, baby-blue eyes meeting mine as his thumb traces a circle across the back of my hand.
I shoot another panicked look toward the closed door, then shake myself, nodding at him instead.
“We’re all tired and tense and trying to figure out what the hell we’re doing,” he murmurs, reaching out with both hands and massaging mine between his. “Give her a breather. Trust her when she says it’s nothing. I’m sure everything will be smoothed over in the morning.”
His soft, kind voice takes a chisel to my wall of anger, all of the bricks crumbling to dust, my bones wanting to fall with it as all the fight rushes out of me. I don’t want smoothed over. I want Darcy’s rough edges and raised voice and her talking to me.
But I can’t make her do that. If space is what she wants, it’s what I’ll give her.
Harry tugs on my wrist, and I move toward him. He scooches over, offering me a sliver of his tiny mattress.
With a sigh and one last glance at the door, I curl myself in next to him. He readjusts so his neck is propped against the few slats that constitute a headboard, tucking me against his chest, my head on his shoulder.
“Am I safe to assume tonight’s dramatics are over or should I keep my guard up for act two?” Kale drawls from above. With a shared look, Harry and I kick at the bottom of his mattress, snickering at his squeal of surprise.
Harry rests his laptop on his stomach and hits play on some dumb show he was watching before Darcy and I exploded in.
He laughs at a slapstick joke, and the soft rumble of it ripples from his chest to caress my cheek, soothing me, unlocking my tense shoulders.
The sound is so nice and safe and warm, it makes me laugh too.
But part of me is still focused on Darcy, ears perked for the slightest sound. Any opening for me to get back to her, push her to talk to me.
The show plays on, and I become more focused on the thump of Harry’s heart against my cheek, its sure and steady cadence. Its interrupted pattern when he laughs again. It becomes a lullaby.
And that’s how I fall asleep, to Harry’s laugh and his heartbeat and my own stupid organ being split in two.