Chapter 20
Hannah
Backstage, I’m mobbed by fans Diehard must’ve let past security.
They dog my steps, moving with me as I try to walk down the hall.
They’re shouting about the last song, trying to engage me in conversation, but with so many overlapping voices it becomes a cacophony.
I’m drenched in sweat, and a few of them slide their hands down my arms like the sweat is a magic elixir.
With tonight’s surprise performance I’ve either cemented my place as a force to be reckoned with or finally convinced Manifest I’m a liability who needs to be shut down.
But there’s no sense agonizing. The thing I’ve learned about catharsis is, when it comes for you, you have to let it take you, punch you up, and spit you out.
And that’s what that last song was: catharsis, not punishment.
There’s someone I need to make sure knows it.
I need to find Theo.
But the crowd’s making it impossible. I scour backstage for him while saying thank you to fans, nodding at their references to TikTok, smiling instead of screaming at their invasive closeness.
Down the hall, I spot Theo’s unmistakable mussed hair. He’s moving fast in the opposite direction.
“Theo,” I call, but he doesn’t turn. I push through fans, picking up my pace. “Sorry,” I say, shoving past someone with their notebook out for an autograph.
I break free and ignore the people calling after me, even a red-faced Diehard, who bursts backstage and shouts, “You shredded, Barbie! Surprised the fuck out of me. Hey, wait, come back!”
I turn the same corner Theo did and spot him at the end of the hall. “Theo, hold up!”
He looks over his shoulder, then keeps going. I’m practically running now.
He punches open a door and disappears through it. Seconds later, I follow, and find myself in a new hallway. This one’s smaller and dimmer and empty of people. Ahead of me, Theo turns to the right and bursts through yet another door. He must be livid.
“I swear,” I call. “If you don’t slow down, I’ll . . . ” I have no idea how to finish the sentence.
I shove open the next door, ready to keep running, but it’s a room, not a hallway, with folded-up tables stacked against one wall. Facing them, with his back to me, is Theo. His shoulders are high, his hands tensed by his side, like he’s preparing for battle.
I stop a few feet away. “At least turn around.”
He does, slowly. One hand rises to cover his mouth.
He’s either physically restraining himself from speaking or he’s so mad he has no words.
The look he’s giving me through his lashes is one I can’t decipher, except for its intensity.
His hazel eyes are molten, pinning me in place.
Suit is not supposed to be able to look at me like this, like he could burn me from the inside out.
The air thickens. My head fills with responses to his silence— explanations, indignance. I’ll admit it: I don’t like disappointing him. I’d rather he look at me the way he usually does after a show— admiring, like a fan but better.
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “Look, I know you’re pissed. I wrote that song after I left you at the Caesars pool. I was really fucking mad—”
Theo moves before I can finish my sentence. I’m so surprised I take a step back, sure he’s going to punch past me out the door. But he strides across the room and wraps his arms around me, drawing me to him with such force he lifts me off the floor.
I blink for a moment against his shoulder, too stunned to think.
No one has hugged me since Ginny’s funeral.
I don’t blame them—I surround myself with all kinds of spikes—but it makes what’s happening almost foreign.
Tentatively, I circle my arms around Theo and press my face into his chest, closing my eyes against the starchy cotton of his T-shirt.
It’s hard to breathe, but the air I do breathe smells like him, like orange body wash from the MGM mixed with nutmeg and cedar.
And even though it’s probably only his deodorant, it reminds me, with a jolt, of one day back in early high school, when I played hooky with Ginny.
We’d crammed in the back of our friend’s minivan on the way to the beach with the cutest guy in my grade.
It was the first time I’d gotten close enough to a boy to smell his skin.
Ginny and I had exchanged wide-eyed glances, flushed with nerves.
Theo cradles the back of my head and rests his chin on my temple, fitting me against him. He just stands there silently, like the point is to simply be. No lectures, no admonishments, no dry jokes. Something breaks loose inside me, and before I can stop myself, I start crying.
I bury my face into his shirt, trying to stop the tears, but Theo rubs my back, pressing his lips to my hairline and murmuring, “It’s okay.” After that, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t cry hard enough to match the hurt. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show him or anyone what it feels like.
“It’s okay,” he repeats, so faintly I can barely hear.
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He whispers the words into my hair.
Such a simple thing, but it makes me shake my head, a protest that turns into me rubbing my face back and forth against his chest. It grows more comforting the longer I do it, until I’m dragging my mouth over his shirt, like a person nuzzling themself to sleep.
Theo’s fingers weave into my hair. I pull back to look at him.
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper raggedly. “I’m angry all the time—”
“I know.” His eyes trail down my cheeks, and then his thumbs follow, brushing my tears away. I can feel it each time he takes a breath.
“Hannah, are you down here?” Ripper yells.
Theo and I jerk back from each other.
“The fans are waiting for us,” Ripper shouts. “There’s a line out back.”
I wipe my eyes, brushing away dampness and black streaks of mascara. When I take an uncertain step away from Theo, I see the ink slashes all over his shirt.
“Shit.” I clear my throat. “Your shirt . . . ”
He blinks at me, confused, before glancing down. “You think I care about that?”
“Han-nah!” Ripper bellows.
Theo straightens. “You better go.” He smiles softly. “Soak up your moment. You killed tonight.”
I give him one last searching look, wondering how this man has so little anger when I have so much of it, then leave the way I came.