Chapter 16
“When did you know you wanted to be a musician?” Terry, a journalist for a Cleveland-based online magazine, asks Darcy and me in a café across the street from the Rock be diluted enough for the world to stomach.
But it never works. We’ll always be too angsty.
Too emotional. Too entitled. Too meek. Bossy.
Controlling. Conniving. So yeah, I’m underwhelmed by your questions that do the same thing that’s been done to death. Does that clear it up for you?”
“We’re done here,” Terry says, gathering up his recorder and messenger bag.
“No shit, Terry,” I sneer, clapping at his astuteness. “Have a nice day.”
He storms out of the café, and my hands shake as I try to hold on to my iced latte, taking a few sips. All the fire rushes out of me, and I want to curl into a ball under the table and sob.
Suddenly, Darcy’s hand is on my back, and I realize that a few tears have slipped out. I avert my face, but she reaches out, turning me to look at her. Her big blue eyes search mine, and, after a moment, she smiles. “You’re my fucking hero.”
“You’re only saying that because you look very, very likable compared to me.”
“I’ve always been more likable compared to you,” she says dryly. “I’m a people-pleaser before a person.”
I give her a sad smile.
“I’m sorry we’ve been fighting,” she says suddenly, grabbing my hand and squeezing tight. “I’m sorry for the … weirdness.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
My heart stutters. Does she … is she talking about what I think she’s talking about? Is this it? The moment that I want so badly that my teeth ache, the conversation I pretend I don’t play out over and over again in my muddled head? Are we finally going to talk our way back to how we were before?
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. I check the urge to brush them away. We stare at each other, the weight of so many unsaid things pressing down on us.
A dangerous feeling of hope trickles through my veins.
I lean forward a millimeter, my gaze accidently skimming to her mouth and lingering for a moment too long before bouncing back to her eyes.
Darcy sucks in a tight inhale, biting on the lush pad of her lower lip.
Then she pulls back, breaking the spell.
“Weirdness from Vermont,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry I was kind of a bitch.” She lets out a watery laugh, looking at me with the expectations I’ll echo it.
My heart sinks like a stone in water. “That’s okay.” I twist my face into something I hope looks like a smile and not devastation. “I’m kind of a bitch all the time, so we’re even, I suppose.”
Darcy laughs again, slipping her fingers from mine and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “That might be the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”
I scrunch up my nose. “I promise not to make a habit of it.”
“Are we good?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
“We’re good,” I breathe, wanting to scream the opposite. I would do anything in the world for Darcy except tell her how torn up I am over her. Over something we both silently agreed is nothing.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Nothing worth destroying our already teetering friendship over by rehashing.
A notification pings through on my phone, and I jump on it like the little lab rat I am. Yes, I have a Google alert set up for my name. Yes, I am digging my own grave one shovelful at a time. But it’s easier to focus on strangers’ opinions than all the nonsense in my own head.
I snort as I read Terry’s latest post, showing it to Darcy.
IT IS VERY OBVIOUS CUBBY CLARK ISN’T PR TRAINED
She reads it, then rolls her eyes. “And thank fuck for that,” she says, exiting out of the screen. “We wouldn’t have any fun at all if you were.”