Chapter 29 Losing It
GREG RAPOSO
Andrew’s kissing Talia again.
Not really.
But my memory makes it feel like present tense.
And my body doesn’t know the difference.
As if they’re still standing there,
stage right,
over his shoulder,
mouth on hers,
like he never pulled away.
I’m trying to focus on anything else.
like the sticky citrus spot behind my ear,
and how each time I turn my head,
a loose strand catches.
But every time I blink,
they’re still there, kissing.
I said it wouldn’t get to me.
I lied.
I’m pierced.
Fucking penetrated.
Not by a cock or fingers or even a tongue.
I'm penetrated by fucking possessiveness.
And I’m not happy about it. So fuck her.
No—fuck him.
No—fuck me.
Because I was stupid enough to let this happen.
(Well, fuck them too, obviously.)
And he had the audacity to offer me his shirt.
After it’s been groped by half the club.
Yeah. Wrap me in your body count. Real cozy.
Your Ghosts of Pussy Past.
The one who still tastes like summer on his fingers.
The one with red lips and a death grip on her D-cup.
The one he went down on and didn’t come back up for air.
Could’ve been a season of FRIENDS.
Ending with The One Where Andrew Played the Fuck Outta Allison.
Meanwhile, my heart can’t take any more.
She’s looking up at me with mascara running down her heartbeat.
Tonight my chest cracked open, every emotion yanked out, shoved in a jar, drowned in gasoline, capped tight, and rammed back inside my ribcage like a souvenir.
But I don’t let it show on my face.
Nah—to everyone else?
I’m just some girl standing in her juice-splashed boots, hair twisted up in a thick knot, wearing an oversized black hoodie, posted up at a beam as if nothing’s bleeding under it, eyes daring someone to fucking try me.
And there’s no sign of Andrew.
Just some creep on the edge of the crowd—
black shirt, locked stare,
skin-crawling stalker-still.
He’s been staring too long.
I’m praying he doesn’t grow the balls to come over.
Or worse, trail me home.
Andrew steps up to the stage shirtless.
Apparently kissing another girl drains so much energy, he couldn’t put the shirt back on, only take it off.
Now he’s bare-chested in tragically-low-rise pants, hipbones peeking, and a V cutting deep, right to the heat between my thighs.
Spotlight catches his jawline but doesn’t touch his eyes.
He adjusts the mic stand,
guitar strap cutting across his skin,
where his scar’s exposed,
where the lyric from Behind Closed Ribs slices across his side.
Someone in the crowd whistles.
Another cheers extra-drunk.
His eyes lift. He leans into the mic.
“Yeah. Enjoy. ‘Cause I ain’t comin’ back.”
They laugh.
He leans back in,
guitar pick between his fingers.
“Nah—not fuckin’ kiddin’.”
Then silence fills the room.
Until the guitar rips it to shreds,
an opening riff shaking my pulse.
Mikey tears into his guitar strings first.
Nico’s right behind him,
heartbeats and fists on the drums.
Jay’s low and brooding in the shadows.
Then Andrew—
One note.
All it takes.
The moment his voice hits the mic,
my pulse hits back, losing its fucking mind.
My heart’s pounding the inside of my ribcage,
screaming—
it’s him, it’s him, it’s him, as if I fucking forgot.
The other guys weren’t ready either.
The second he sings—
real, full-throated,
cracked open and stripped—
they all turn to him at once,
heads swinging his way.
Jay’s gaze snaps up.
Nico freezes mid-hit.
Mikey lets out a stunned laugh mid-strum,
eyes wide, like—who the fuck is this guy?
Because whatever just came out of Andrew Harding’s mouth, wasn’t anything they’ve heard before.
There’s heartache in his lows that settles in your bones.
And heat in his highs that sneaks between your thighs.
It’s an open-wound hum,
twisting you into believing you caused it—
like you broke him in another life,
and now he’s making you remember.
As if he’s lived through hell and heartbreak,
and waited for the mic to cry about it.
He has no idea what it’s doing to the room.
I melt against the beam,
arrested to him,
and it’s fucking crushing me.
This is all I wanted, the only reason I came,
and now it feels like a funeral.
“Jesus, listen to him tonight, huh?”
Talia walks up and stands beside me,
facing Andrew.
My body goes still.
Don’t look at her lips. Don’t look at her mouth.
All it does is take me back to when he said—
“You haven’t kissed me since the rooftop…”
And now she’s next to me with his mouth drying on her face.
She turns to me.
“Wait—this your first time hearin’ him,
“or am I readin’ this whole scene wrong?”
I ignore her,
spine glued to the beam,
eyes on Andrew.
If I look at her, I’ll stare at her mouth.
Then she’ll know the kiss got to me.
That inside, I’m dying.
“He never used to sound like this,” Talia goes on. “Used to bite Matty’s sound so hard it was embarrassing. Real cover-band shit. Same exact tone, same vibe, down to the little cracks. Whatever he’s doing now? That ain’t him.”
She’s watching me not react.
Then she steps closer—
a wicked smile cracking across her mouth—
and leans in to talk over the music,
placing a hand on my arm.
And I want to rip my skin off
and leave it in a pile at her feet.
“Oh my God—the drink thing?” She lifts her brows. “Don’t take it personal. Girls in this place? Straight-up feral. You breathe in a guy’s direction and all of a sudden they wanna square up. Like, calm the fuck down, Alexa. He’s smilin’ at her, not fuckin’ her…”
I love how she says ‘girls in this place’ as if she isn’t one of them.
Her gaze digs into the side of my face,
studying me now.
She’s watching me watch Andrew,
waiting to confirm what she’s known all along.
He drops into the bridge of the first song,
voice raspy and slow,
abandoning the guitar
and leaning into the mic,
leaning into his hip,
leaning into the verse,
and the whole fuckin’ crowd goes still,
leaning into their next breath.
“Don’t gotta act dumb.
“I see the way you’re watching him.”
She’s still talking, sipping her drink.
“You want him. It’s fine. Everyone does.
“I’m not worried.”
She tips her head toward the stage,
possession in her smile, as if he’s hers.
“Thing about Andrew?
“He don’t like to be tied down.
“He don’t like rules.
“Bein’ told what to do.
“That kinda shit.”
She shrugs with the straw between her teeth.
“So I let him have his fun.
“Let them have their lil moment with him.
“Play pretend. Hook up. Don’t bother me.”
She’s got history with him, moments.
She probably knows the way his hair sticks when he sweats during sex.
“No couple is perfect. But he’s mine. Always been. Even back when he didn’t know it.” She nudges her pointed chin at the stage. “No girl’s gonna wedge between us. Not now, not ever. I promise you that.”
Then she flips her hair in my face
and stomps off.
My eyes? Wide.
My face? Straight 14th Street statue.
She really thinks they’re a thing.
Same way Red Lips thought they were.
Same way Elle thought they were.
Same way I keep thinking we are...
And he’s letting it happen.
He's letting her sit on him, kiss him,
and letting me stand there and watch it.
He’s not choosing one girl.
He’s keeping us all around,
letting us all think we’re the only one who matters,
playing every one of us,
right in front of each other.
And none of us are walking away.
Jesus. I don't know what's real anymore.
The song fades out behind her.
Andrew lets the last note fall off his fingers,
chord lingering before it drops.
Then he steps up to the mic,
breath hot against it.
Squinting at someone in the crowd.
“Yo, my guy in the black tee, stage right—
“yeah, I see you.”
Andrew smirks when the crowd stirs,
playing into it.
He strums a few teasing chords,
glancing sideways.
“Don’t make me hop down there, bro.
“You don’t want that.”
The crowd laughs.
The guy barks a dumb, “What?”
It’s the creep at the edge of the crowd who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
Andrew’s gaze slices back to him,
the joke in his mouth but not in his eyes.
“You know what.
“One step and I’ll hand you a mic,
“see if your voice holds up after a busted jaw.”
Then—BAM,
he and the band crash into the next song.
Andrew tosses a smirk into the crowd,
one hand pausing on the guitar,
the other hovering high over them.
“You give me your lungs on this one, I’ll give you the best fuckin’ four minutes of your life.”
Then the floor drops,
alive in their hands and voices.
Sweat, smoke,
everyone's hooked on the same high.
Bodies slam to the beat.
Lights flicker.
It’s a fever dream.
And he’s the center of it,
sweat dripping down his throat,
voice shredded.
They eat him up.
Every note, they drink it straight.
His name. His eyes. His mouth.
He’s giving it all away.
And they take it.
// 11:29 PM //
Andrew Harding moves as if this is who he’s always been. As if I was never supposed to keep him past the rooftop.
And now I’ve become one of the ghosts in the crowd,
watching him as if he’s mine,
mourning him as though he’s not.
I'm standing here,
trying to memorize every second—
how he has a hand wrapped around the mic
like it’s the back of my neck.
How his fingers curl around the stand,
remembering how it feels to hold me.
How he licks his bottom lip between lyrics,
still tasting the night at Type.
Because some fucked-up part of me knows
this might be the last time I get to see him.
Someone taps my shoulder from behind.
I don’t turn, ignoring him.
Pretend you don’t feel it, they’ll go away.
Until the hand lands on my shoulder.
My whole body moves without moving.
Blood, bones, lungs—it all flinches.
He leans closer, over my shoulder.
His voice, mouth, and breath all hit my ear at once—“Had to say… you’re gorgeous.”
My gaze whips behind me.
Five words, like spider-legs inside my ear, crawling down my bones.
Five words, five lit matches dragging across a wound.
I spin, pulling away.
“Don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me.”
The guy backs up, both palms up in surrender,