Chapter 9
When “Settle” comes out (“Settle Down” was too clunky), it’s only because Eve got lucky.
Her label did not want her to release the song, because what business does Eve have releasing a nine-minute song whose instrumentation sounds like it should be playing as the camera pans across the Italian Riviera in a spy movie?
Her manager thinks it’s a stretch, and the first two people at the label who listen to it also think it’s a stretch, but through a fluke, a VP having a bad day happens to be darkening the halls looking for any reason to remind him why he got into this business in the first place when he overhears a snippet, and the song reminds him of being young: studying abroad in college, stepping into a European cathedral, and feeling very far from his family, and yet, never far enough.
He is surprised to learn, then, that this is “Evergreen” Eve Olsen, who is embroiled in some sort of bad publicity at present.
He suggests offhandedly that this new song, this sonic shift, might change the narrative.
He thinks of this as spitballing, but everyone in his vicinity at the time is about three levels junior to him, so they scurry to make it happen as quickly as possible.
Into the world comes “Settle.”
In her post on Instagram, Eve thanks Stella for listening to the song in its early incarnation on tour and believing in it, and her. Stella comments with a heartfelt statement of support. This time, everyone seems to take her word for it.
And then—
It’s quiet.
The day the single drops, Danny is meeting with investors in California.
Eve is alone with her mug of coffee and her phone, bracing for impact.
But the impact is less like a bus and more like a strong breeze.
Some of Eve’s longtime fans comment on her post to say that this song is brilliant, genius, a return to form.
Eve reads these comments like they are fresh water and she is at sea.
The negative comments are relatively neutral: that the song is too weird or too long. But mostly, people do not care.
A music journalist Eve admires tags her in an Instagram Story saying: Knotty, honest, non sequitur, and stately. Frankly, I love it.
Eve thinks this comment will buoy her the whole day, but it’s hard not to notice the streaming numbers, which keep the song firmly at the bottom of Eve’s discography.
And then something funny happens.
Eve gets a comment saying, RIP.
She thinks this is a statement about the death of her career until she gets another—then a whole series of them. Noooooo, one says. Crying emoji, crying emoji, crying emoji. Shannon calls about three seconds later.
“Are you okay?” Shannon asks.
“What?” Eve says.
“Jesus. Has no one told you?”
Eve thinks she’s talking about her song. “Told me what?”
“Stay right there,” Shannon says. “I’m coming over. Don’t look at your phone, okay?”
“Why can’t I look at my phone? Why is everyone commenting crying emojis? Are you okay? Is Danny okay? Julian?”
“We’re all fine. I’m getting on the subway, but please just don’t, okay? Will you promise me?”
“Okay?” Eve says.
Eve steps carefully away from her phone, which she leaves sitting on the coffee table, and goes to make herself tea. She selects her favorite mug, the brEW UNTO OTHERS mug from Our Lady of Perpetual Breakfast, and a bag of chamomile. Her hands are sweaty on the kettle.
Ten minutes go by, then twenty. She imagines Shannon making her way to Williamsburg: getting on the L, up the stairs at Graham Avenue, past CTown and Sage Thai.
Danny’s not going to be back for another few hours—it’s not Danny, is it?
God. Shannon said it wasn’t Danny, but is he okay?
Eve’s phone stares at her from the other side of the room.
Finally, she hears creaking from the steps. She hurries to the door but Shannon has already entered the code and pushed inside. Shannon tosses her wet puffer on the floor and barrels toward Eve and wraps her arms around her.
“Oh my god,” Eve says. “What? What is it? Are you dying? Am I dying?”
Shannon holds Eve at arm’s length, scanning Eve’s face. Shannon is so familiar to Eve: the curls and the heavy lids and the mole to the left of her mouth. And the love. Shannon looks at Eve with so much love, Eve really thinks she might be dying.
“Kind of,” Shannon says. “There is currently a very convincing video circulating of you getting hit by a midtown bus.”
Eve stares at her.
“At least two local news outlets have picked up the story because there is also a very convincing video of Julian saying how much he will miss you.”
“What?” Eve says. “So I’m dead. That’s what’s happening. The internet thinks I just died?”
“Basically,” Shannon says. “I’ve already texted Danny and Julian and your parents that it’s not true, but Gigi thinks Julian and Danny have been in meetings and might not know yet.”
Eve puts her hands on her head. “I got hit by a bus?”
“I think it was the M23,” Shannon says.
“You know, this is kind of offensive to those of us who have been in real accidents with semitrucks,” Eve says.
“Are you okay?”
“Aside from being dead from my numerous bus injuries,” Eve says, “I think I’m fine.”
Shannon guides her onto the couch. It was Danny’s originally, and it’s olive green and enveloping. One of Danny’s sweatshirts is draped over the back; a crewneck from the ski rat tour. It smells like eucalyptus, like his shampoo. Eve pulls it on.
“Does this mean someone wants me dead?” Eve says. “Can I look at my phone now?”
“It just means the internet is full of weirdos.”
They look together. Eve searches her name and she finds it: an extremely convincing video showing what it would look like if Eve got hit by the M23. The fake passengers scream. Fake Eve goes pop. The wheels are covered in blood.
Eve wishes she could laugh again but she does not find this particularly funny.
There are obituaries popping up; one calls her the one-hit wonder behind “Evergreen.” She searches “Eve Olsen deepfake,” and that’s how she finds the rest of them—the fake interviews and the fake TikToks and the fake porn.
So much fake porn. Eve knew this existed in an abstract way, but she did not know it existed like this.
Fake Eve has a mole on her shoulder, just like real Eve.
Fake Eve laughs when the man kisses her neck.
Fake Eve seems turned on when he chokes her.
Eve calmly hands Shannon her phone, stands, walks to the kitchen sink, and vomits. Shannon follows her and rubs her back.
“Well,” Eve says. “That’s quite something.”
“Eve.”
“You know, the ironic thing is, I really didn’t want to post on Instagram in the first place, but I thought I had to. For the sake of the music.”
“It’s shitty,” Shannon says. “It’s so, so shitty. We can try to get it taken down, okay? All of it.”
Eve knows as well as Shannon that this will not happen. One does not just take something off the internet.
“I don’t want to be dead,” Eve says.
“Of course not, babe. I love it when you haven’t been hit by a bus.”
“The porn. Shannon, the porn.” Eve turns on the tap of the sink. She hangs her head over the basin. Her hands keep shaking no matter how hard she presses her nails into her palms. “My parents could see that. They probably have seen that. Oh my god.”
Shannon gathers Eve’s hair and tucks it over one shoulder. “We can explain it’s not real. We can tell them it’s just AI.”
“Is this karmic retribution?” Eve asks. “Because I used AI to fix Sunbeam, Baby?”
“It’s not karmic anything. It’s just how technology goes.”
“Well, I hate it. I hate all of it. I hate deepfake Eve and Instagram and Sunbeam, Baby and Bug and everything. I want to live in the woods with a family of possums and make buttons for a living.”
“No, you don’t. You want to live in New York with Danny and write songs for a living. You just don’t want technology to suck so bad.”
“Yes,” Eve says. “But given that it does, I’ll take the possums.”
Shannon wraps her arms around Eve. “Don’t let them take it all away from you,” she says. “Yeah?”
Eve shuts her eyes. She wishes Danny were here, but also—
Also, she does not wish Danny were here.
Because she is so mad right now. So mad at all the ones and zeros cannibalizing real people’s thoughts and faces and ideas and spitting out literally anything.
She is mad at technology for being so good at what it does. She is mad that there is no going back.
“You can’t let other people tell you who you are,” Shannon says. “Not your label. Not an app. And not strangers on the stupid fucking internet.”