Chapter 2
Bleary-eyed and cranky, we crowd around a laptop in one of the studio’s conference rooms. It’s four AM here in Reykjavík as we tune in to Connor’s New York appearance, and I add being awake at this ungodly hour to my endless list of grievances against my ex—above him telling me acknowledging a six-month anniversary was cringe but below him suggesting I “do something about my mustache.”
The opening theme for the late-night talk show Evenings with Evening trills from the tinny speakers, and we all flinch.
Applause erupts as Danny Evening, the charming host, steps out from behind the curtains and grins.
The introduction plays out as Danny waves at the crowd, the announcer mentioning Connor’s name as the special guest, generating some screams. My body is a live wire of anticipated rage, poised and ready to detonate the second Connor opens his smug mouth and says something deeply cutting to me on a personal level—artfully disguised in a tone that’s kind and magnetic and will make everyone believe he’s a good guy.
It’s so simple, almost boring, how he’ll accomplish it: Connor will come out, waving in a way that’s tentative, somewhat aloof, but endearing all the same.
There will be a tender awkwardness to him, something sort of precious in the way he carries his long limbs, like he’s just recently grown into a man’s body he isn’t quite sure how to carry, shoulders ever so slightly curled, smile somehow sinful yet earnest.
He’ll sit in the overstuffed armchair, looking around, wide-eyed, until he catches himself, fixing his attention back to the host. He’ll push his hands through his hair, maybe miss a beat or talk over Danny Evening, color rushing to his cheeks as he risks a quick glance at the audience who will whoop at his effortless allure.
He’ll make a self-deprecating joke, prop one ankle on the opposite knee, an obvious show of ease that the audience will pick up on, knowing that deep down he’s nervous.
A beautiful, talented, nice guy wanting to make a good impression.
It’ll all be absolute shit.
Connor is the most absurdly confident person I’ve ever met. He disguises his cockiness as dazzling charisma, but that boy could sit in a meeting with the prime minister and feel like his input on foreign policy is a godsend. The nice guy is the greatest myth of the twenty-first century.
Danny Evening drags out his opening monologue, the climax marked with a clap of his hands and a sly grin to the camera.
Darcy toys with my hair from her spot behind me, twisting a strand around her finger, dragging the pad of her thumb over the fanned ends.
Her gentle touch is the only thing that keeps me from storming out right now.
“Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past month, you’ve definitely heard of tonight’s first guest. Now, at this part of the show, I generally go into a little bio on the star, talking about their claims to fame, their accolades.
But why talk when I can”—someone throws him an acoustic guitar from off-camera—“introduce him in song.”
Danny strums the guitar, clearing his throat a few times as the audience applauds. He starts playing the rough melody of Connor’s chart-topping hit, and the crowd erupts in more screams and cheers as he parodies the lyrics:
Who knew that you could top the charts
Of pop art
By singing of lackluster sex
With your ex.
It helps to have a handsome face,
If I drop names, I’m a disgrace.
Give great applause to our guest,
It’s safe to say, he is the best.
At sex? We cannot say, but hey!
With a face like that, I’m sure he’ll get to try again someday.
Please welcome—
Danny whips the guitar to his hip, throwing out his hands. “Connor McCabe!”
The curtain rises, and my villain origin story appears, walking out in well-tailored black trousers, a white T-shirt, and the leather jacket I bought for him for his eighteenth birthday.
“Damn,” Kale mumbles. “Sometimes I forget how hot he is.” I punch his shoulder.
Connor makes his way across the set, shaking Danny’s hand before sitting. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for the crowd to stop cheering, anger churning through me with every passing second.
“I feel incredibly uncool sitting next to you,” Danny says, toying with his tie covered in daisies. “Should I be sporting more leather? No one gave me the memo.”
“You seem like a chaps guy,” Connor quips, Irish accent dripping with good humor. He leans back in the chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. Called it.
Danny shoots the audience an impish look. “My wife has specifically requested I don’t comment on any assless paraphernalia I may or may not dabble in. Some things are supposed to stay between a couple.”
The crowd erupts, Connor grinning as he chuckles along. “Smart woman.”
“But seriously, look at you,” Danny says, roping the audience back in to Connor’s orbit. “So damn cool. You have that quintessential rocker vibe. That indescribable thing.”
“Careful, mate, my head won’t fit through the doors leaving here.” There’s more laughter, a few high-pitched cheers. Connor winks at the audience. I want to put my fist through the computer screen.
“Does this come naturally?” Danny asks, gesturing with a flourish at Connor. “Have you always been like this? Or is it something you’re stepping into with your new fame?”
Connor’s expression shifts to something thoughtful.
Serious. He leans forward, uncrossing his legs and planting his elbows on his thighs, fixing his gaze on Danny in a way that gives the sensation that we’re listening in on something intimate and important shared between friends.
We all hold our breath. “I’m not trying to be anything but myself. ”
“Liar!” I slam my hands on the table, wanting to break the laptop in two.
Harry, ever so delicately, restrains me. “Easy, Cub. It’ll be okay,” he murmurs into my ear as he squeezes my shoulders. I shrug out of his grip.
“Don’t lie to her,” Darcy says to my left. “There’s no telling what shit he’ll spew next. This could easily get worse.”
“Will you all shut up?” Kale snaps. “The whole point is to hear what damage he’s going to do.”
Skull snores from the couch in the back.
“So your single—this single—” Danny holds up a posterboard of Connor’s derivative black-and-white EP cover.
“It has everyone in a chokehold. You’ve become an overnight sensation, bringing in record-breaking streams of your music video, hitting number five on the Billboard charts …
What’s that like, man? How does it feel? ”
“I hope it feels like a boiling enema, you talentless clown,” I spit at the screen. Everyone shushes me.
Connor shakes his head, tilting his face up toward the ceiling for a moment before fixing an earnest look at Danny.
“It feels”—bleep—“ing incredible, mate. I never expected this. All I’ve ever wanted to do was make music, put pieces of my soul into a melody.
And to have that embraced by fans? It’s unreal. ”
“Okay, I’m sorry, but, like, is this legal? Is it legal to lie this much on a late-night program?” I say, deranged gaze bouncing around the room. “Does America not have some alliance to prevent this kind of bullshit? Because that dickhead has wanted fame and fortune since I’ve known him.”
“Cubby, please, I’m begging you to shut up,” Sigrún says, placing a hand on the nape of my neck. I think it’s supposed to feel comforting, but it’s like a vise. “We need to hear what he’s saying.”
“You were in a band before going solo, right?” Danny asks.
Connor nods, features slipping into a pensive expression. “I was, yeah.”
“What happened there? What made you set out on your own?”
Connor sighs like the weight of the world sits on his shoulders.
I hope he gets crushed by a piano. “Music is a fickle beast, yeah? Creating it, you can almost lose yourself, if you aren’t careful.
You need to be in the right place, the right frame of mind, with the right people.
It’ll be work, don’t get me wrong, but something about that work works, if that makes any sense.
Like you feel things settling into place when you’ve found your sound. Your flow.
“And, listen, I have nothing but the greatest of love for my old band. We’re still close, we still talk, there’s no bad blood between us, so I really don’t think they’ll mind me saying this, but it wasn’t a good fit.
They were searching for a sound that wasn’t right for me.
And I sincerely hope they find what they’re looking for.
There’s so much peace in finally discovering the thing that clicks. ”
“And you certainly found that, didn’t you? Your first single, and you shoot up the charts. How does something like that happen? What inspired that song?” Danny slants a knowing look at the audience, garnering a few more whoops.
I’m twenty-three. Is this forty-year-old man truly asking on live TV for the inspiration of a song obviously written about me losing my virginity to be spelled out for him?
Connor laughs, a light blush staining his stupid perfect cheekbones. “Well, I can’t say they’re the most subtle of lyrics, mate. You can go ahead and fill in those pieces yourself, yeah?”
Danny throws his head back and laughs like Connor is a stand-up comedian. “A very diplomatic answer. They have you trained well already.”
“I’m not looking to ignite discourse.” Connor holds up his hands.
“It’s rumored the muse of the song was a member of your old band. You sure there’s no bad blood?”
Connor laughs again, blush deepening. He plays to the crowd, looking around while he plucks at the collar of his T-shirt. “Christ, did it get hot in here?”
“Touchy subject?”