Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
“Scrap that, this is fucked.”
I threw the goddamn paper across the brunch table, yanking my beanie down over my eyes.
I wouldn’t, couldn’t, let the fucking vultures see what they’d done to me.
What they’d done to us.
A month.
A whole month since the disaster of Radio City imploded in all of our faces – mine, Tav’s, Mallory’s, Morty’s – Ryden’s.
I couldn’t even think about it without puffing a cigarette – without confining myself to isolation.
I couldn’t handle the brunt of the suffering.
I was numb to it.
Ryden was a fucking mess. Arc & Sheild Records held numerous press conferences a week, trying to fix – fix – whatever the hell happened.
As if they could fix a broken heart.
Hate to break it to you guys, that pain’s eternal.
And Ryden’s publicity was so damaging. That. Helped. Fuck. All.
He cried, the paps had a bucket waiting, selling his tears on eBay. He laughed, they’d find the stash of pills crushed up into the drinks leftover on his tab.
He couldn’t move without being spotted.
It made everything so, so much worse.
“I should’ve busted that bitch the second I got the chance,” I spat, picking up the post once more. Gladis Roberts. I’d get her fired. I’d chase down skeletons. I’d do anything to save face, his face, anything.
“Trouble in paradise,” Polly scoffed, swatting at the paper. “As if you’re on fucking Love Island.”
“Feels like it some days,” Zayla added. “And fan or familiar… what the hell’s that about? Seriously? These scum snails.”
Polly’s brow quirked. “Scum snails?”
“It’s Emory-Blake, how many times!?” I slapped the paper again. “How many times?”
“Do you think they know that?” Polly asked.
“I’m sure there’s other things Gladis Roberts could be doing right now,” Zayla grimaced. “Christmas shopping, maybe? Hello?”
“I don’t care if they don’t know my fucking name, they should know.
And that’s what makes these people so much worse.
” I held up a pointed nail, then two, “Insufferable, ignorant, unintelligent, I could go on – Yeah, hi!” I smiled at the camera across the street, waving to it, mouthing a filthy string of cuss words.
“Is his mom…” Zayla’s voice dropped to a whisper, “still in town?”
“Zayla!” Polly pinched her arm. She got that from me. Some reprieve, I thought, that at least one person adopted my habits.
“I’m just asking,” she shrugged. “I wouldn’t show my face now that it’s plastered all over socials.”
“I doubt she cares,” Polly reached for her drink, “you know, showing up to Ryden’s concert like that. It was bound to draw attention.”
“You think that was her tactic?”
“Her ploy?”
“Scarlett?”
Who was talking? Couldn’t tell you. My fingers swiped over keys, responding to Tav, shutting down email interviews, the band’s missed calls after Ryden missed all their attempts.
“Where is he?” Zay asked quietly.
I couldn’t help but snap. “You know, I’d really love to know. Unfortunately, God’s fucking angels couldn’t hunt that man down if they tried.”
“Girl,” Polly placed a hand on my arm, “breathe. You can talk to us.”
“Yeah,” Zayla nodded, “talk to us. You’re going to like, explode or something if you don’t.”
I already have.
“I don’t know if his mom’s still around, nor do I care. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the label, nor do I care. I don’t know what’s next for Jaw & Lion, NOR. DO. I. CARE. The only thing,” I let out a strangled breath, “the only fucking thing I care about is Ryden.”
They both stayed silent in understanding.
“I can’t deal with this damage control, guys. I can’t focus on seven billion things at once.” My fingers found the crinkled edge of the paper, eyes weaving through the words I knew all too well.
Fan or familiar. Emory-Blake. Inebriated. Mom. Trouble in paradise.
Polly pushed a plate of fruit towards me. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Lips on mine. Eyes filled with shameful lust. Hands around my waist. Pain awaiting us both the second we broke apart.
That useless, waste of a kiss. All those years, all that tension – the love, the suffering. It was all for fucking nothing.
The past always comes back to haunt us, doesn’t it, Violet?
That was the last time I really saw him.
That was the last time he really saw me.
Not the past four times where he could barely say my name, slurs and moans of drunken speech through the echo of a vomit-filled toilet bowl.
“Dove,” he’d said. Could barely hold a smile, let alone his own bodyweight. “C’mere, please.” Then more begs. Then more sobs. “Come here… please.”
His head dropped down to the toilet, the distant boom of EDM playing out in the crowd. He tried to look at me again, chin caked in vomit. Hair crowding his eyes. No more green, no more green. All red. All damage.
“Four days ago,” I pursed my lips, shoving away the memory. “Morty had called me.”
Ryden didn’t.
“I mean this with all the love in the world, Scar,” Zayla placed a hand on my shoulder, “but why do you bother?”
My gaze snapped to hers, violence filling every crevice of my being. “What?”
“Don’t get mad, I’m just asking a question.”
Simmer. Simmer the fuck down, Scarlett.
“I just mean,” she shrugged, “it’s been years and he’s been this anchor it seems. Obviously he’s super talented right, and your best friend, but like… have you not outgrown his antics?”
“Okay,” Polly held up a hand, “her delivery is off.”
“It is,” Zay pouted.
“I think what she means is, when is the fucking around and the screwing up going to end? We’re all almost thirty, and Ryden’s stuck in…”
“I know where he’s stuck in.” I interrupted. My heart fucking burned for him.
“Then,” Zayla’s eyes met mine with carefulness, “why do you bother?”
Why do I bother?
Well isn’t that a story I wish I could tell.