Chapter 5 #2
“Hush your pretty mouth,” I say to Harry, pinching his lips playfully between my thumb and forefinger, tapping into empty reserves of energy to push away the numbness that always hovers on the surface of my skin. His smile breaks out of my finger trap.
“Such a bossy wee thing,” he says, digging his fingers into my sides and pulling a squeal from me.
“I hate you.”
“Oh, wise up, Cub. You adore me.”
I scrunch my nose, trying to shake my head, but I end up nodding at that outrageous smile of his. I lean in to whisper that maybe he’s not so bad, my head swimming a bit, but I end up letting out a breathy laugh directly in his ear, making him jump and turn his head.
“Cubby!” Darcy calls my name right as his skin presses against mine, my lips somewhere below his cheek, and in my fuzzy state, I turn, eyes on her, mouth dragging loosely against Harry’s, our parted lips notching together.
Warmth dissolves through my skin, arrowing for my chest, my heart squeezing at the sudden intimate touch.
It’s been so long since I’ve been gently kissed, my nervous system doesn’t know how to react.
Darcy gasps, phone held at the ready as she snaps a picture, the flash blinding me.
I jolt back from Harry, my eyes shooting wide and jaw crashing open.
We stare at each other for a moment that’s equal parts shock and horror, then Harry slowly reaches out, placing his fingers under my chin and closing my gaping mouth.
“Well … that was different,” he says, pressing his lips together. They waver, and, for a split second, I think he’s going to cry.
And then I realize he’s laughing.
“Oh my god, don’t try and cop a feel and then laugh at me.” I punch his arm. “My ego’s bruised enough without your help.”
“I copped a feel?” he says with an indignant crack in his voice. “You threw yourself at me, Cub!” Harry laughs harder, and it pulls me a bit further out of the shock. I manage to laugh too, combing out my tangled nerves.
I’ve kissed Harry before. Granted, on the cheek, but the mechanics of it are all the same; this isn’t something to make weird or even a thing. We’re a touchy group in general, Harry, Darcy, and I.
The problem is, the warmth of his lips still lingers on mine, tugging at the frayed edges of a memory I keep tucked away.
My brain transports me to five years ago, a moment that’s sharp and luminous and wasn’t an accident but somehow a hundred times more shocking, one that, for some reason, my thoughts like to grab at when it’s late at night and I’m trying to sleep.
A memory I keep sealed in a small box because something confusing knots in my chest and throat if I look at it too closely—look at it at all.
My eyes flick to Darcy.
Her arms are still lifted with her phone, smile frozen. It falls in slow degrees, eyebrows tracing down with the corners of her mouth, lips parting. Something about that look plucks me toward her, but Harry’s arm is still circled around my waist, and I wheeze at the sudden pressure.
My movement makes her blink, and she shakes her head, beautiful grin back in place as she glances from us to her screen. “Ooh la la. That’s a keeper. Very sultry seventies vibe.”
She flips the phone to show us, and it takes more work than it should to pull my attention from her smile to focus on the photo. Harry takes the phone from her, zooming in with an incredulous sound. I understand why.
Darcy took the picture in black and white, and it’s startling in its intensity.
My shoulder-length brown hair is wavy and messy, dark-rimmed eyes heavy-lidded as I glance at the camera like it’s the most tedious of interruptions, lips parted against Harry’s like I’m ready to devour him.
Harry, for his part, looks smugly delighted, the corner of his mouth cocked in a devilish grin.
“Oh, that’s class,” Harry says, laughing as he stares. “That’s like … iconic album cover shit.”
Darcy claps her hands in glee but I scoff.
“We have to use this,” Harry says, cheeks flushed and eyes glinting. “This really would make a craic cover. Or at least promo graphic. So dark and moody and like you’re about to eat me alive.”
“Never doubt I will,” I reply, my startled heart settling back into a normal rhythm.
“I’m serious, we should use this,” Harry presses, turning the phone around for Kale to look at. Darcy nods so fast her head is a blur. Kale shrugs.
“Oh my god, piss off, Harry. We aren’t Cigarettes After Sex. We can’t pull off a look like that.”
“No, we’re Tea Time Tantrum and we just did pull off a look like that,” he argues. “I say we let the public decide.”
I watch him AirDrop the photo to himself, then hand back Darcy’s phone as he fishes his own from his pocket, lifting his hips and bumping me from his lap.
Resettling, he pulls up Instagram, thumbs flying across the keyboard before he angles his phone to show me the caption, eyebrows raised and smile broad.
Settle a debate for us: new album cover? Yes or fuck yes?
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, turning back to him and pressing post. His smile somehow widens.
I pull out my own phone, clicking into the app, Harry’s post the first thing on my feed. Biting my lip, I comment: some photos are supposed to stay in the camera roll, dickhead
“Connor will love that,” Darcy says, reading over my shoulder. The ends of her hair tickle the sensitive skin of my neck, and an odd heat spears through me, making me shiver. “Spent five years making us all miserable with his accusations at you two.”
I roll my eyes, but a vindictive smile wins out. “He can chew on glass.”
Connor lived with a chronic undercurrent of doubt that Harry and I really could be just friends, always telling me it was impossible for a girl and a guy to be as close as we are without there being some sort of attraction.
He’d get nearly belligerent about it when he smoked or drank too much, screaming at us that we were deceitful little liars.
In the most terrible of ironies, he was the one chronically cheating on me, DMs and hookups with women who would come to our shows.
Anytime I’d confront him about it, he’d deny it, telling me I was overreacting and crazy.
If I’d push the issue, he’d turn it all around, saying the only reason I’m so suspicious is because I’m secretly pining for Harry.
Harry has never been someone Connor needed to worry about.
“Sigrún messaged me,” Skull says, materializing at Kale’s shoulder, making us all jump.
“And?” Kale asks.
“She loved the demo. Says with a few more tweaks we may even be able to release it as a single.”
We cheer, smooshing together in a group hug. While we may have loved what we created today, we’re still beholden to the approval of others, and it feels nice to get the validation that we’re on to something.
“She said if we can get some more tracks like this, she could see the album making a decent splash.”
“Maybe we aren’t completely useless after all,” Kale says, which is the closest thing to exuberant praise we could ever hope to get from him.
“Oh, how I adore this beautiful brain of yours,” Darcy says, gripping my face between her palms and placing a sloppy kiss on my forehead. That radiating warmth is back, a current spreading down to my toes as her touch weaves into my muscles.
I pull away from her grasp with a smile. “Stop it. You know that would have never happened without Harry’s melody. And you wrote most of the lyrics.”
“Cubby?” Darcy says, eyes a little glassy as she stares at me.
“Yes?”
“Shut up and take the compliment.”
“Make me.”
She doesn’t have to be told twice, grabbing my face again and peppering more kisses along my hair. Temples. Nose. I giggle like a little kid.
We don’t drink often—mainly because we can’t afford the cost of alcohol in this expensive city—but when we do enjoy a pint or a glass of wine, Darcy gets playful and touchier than usual. I generally indulge her as any best friend would.
“I love this song!” Darcy squeals as a deep beat pulses through the speakers. “Let’s dance.” I groan, shaking my head, but Darcy ignores me, dragging me to the dance floor, my fingers laced with hers.
I hate dancing—I feel awkward and uncomfortable and lose any sense of how to move my body—but Darcy loves it, bringing music to beautiful life any time she moves.
She ducks under my outstretched arm, spinning around and around before rolling into me.
I squeeze her tight, then dramatically dip her.
She snaps back up, her laugh of delight a warm puff against my neck.
We rock back and forth like a pair of fools for a few moments, then the beat picks up, and she slips out of my arms, jumping up and down with the crowd.
I watch her move, eyes closed and hair flying around her shoulders as she loses herself to the rhythm.
Her eyes flash open and land on me, a sudden charge cinching us together so we’re chest to chest, hip to hip.
Her smile shifts from wide and broad to something smaller, private.
She leans heavily into me for a second before pulling herself back, surprise notching her face as she continues to stare.
I’m hooked by her expression—a little bit confused, a little bit enthralled.
The tips of her ears turn pink as the seconds tick on.
With a tiny shake of her frame, the tension disperses, and she catches her lower lip between her teeth, turning so her back is flush to my front, her hips swaying against mine in time to the music.
My body goes taut at the odd circus of feelings that fire through me—my pulse kicking against my chest, stomach yo-yoing through my torso. It must be from the mix of exhaustion and beer.
Darcy glances at me over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow, something a little bit daring, a tiny bit reckless, glinting in her dark irises.
She tips her head back so it presses against my shoulder, then reaches up and cups her hand around my neck, tugging me down so her mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
“I need to tell you something,” she says over the music.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
She takes a deep breath, her exhale tracing along my cheek. “You’re a terrible dancer.” My jaw crashes open, and she snorts.
“I’m an excellent dancer!” I lie. “I … I’m very cutting-edge with my moves.” She laughs even harder. “I’m a passable dancer,” I try. No one would ever accuse me of being a triple threat.
“You need to loosen up. You’re as stiff as uncooked spaghetti,” she says, turning around to face me, the fluid sway of her hips continuing to keep time to the beat. “Let me teach you.”
She plants her hands on my waist, trying to move me with her. My head starts to swim, and I suddenly feel like I’m free-falling. I hold on to her, hands twisting into her shirt, feeling the warmth of her body in my palms.
“That’s a bit better,” Darcy coos, one palm slipping up to cup my rib cage, the other lower at the flare of my hip. “Perfect.”
The song fades into the next, the bass deepening, the tempo picking up, and Darcy guides us through the change, smile brilliant and eyes holding mine.
She shifts her hands, dragging them up from my waist to rest around my neck.
I fight a shiver at the ticklish sensation that lingers for too long.
The pulse of the music makes it feel like we’re sharing a heartbeat as we move together.
She leads us through two more songs, giddy and carefree and unraveling me like thread from a spool until I’m jumping and swaying with her, self-consciousness deserting me.
Darcy leans close again, lips brushing my cheek as she says, “I think we’ve uncovered a new hidden talent of yours.”
Maybe dancing isn’t so bad after all.