Chapter 7 #2
“Yeah, I don’t remember much after we got home,” I lie. Anxiety, guilt, shame—they all twist like a knife between my ribs, stomach roiling and bile burning my throat, my hand clenching at the base of it.
In a swift movement, Darcy sits up, something wild and terrifying in her eyes. “Really? Yeah?”
I stare at her, lips parted, trying to decipher her rapidly shifting expressions. That’s when it clicks.
Darcy knows me. Better than anyone. Which means she knows what a messy fucking shitshow I could turn this into if given even an inch.
It’s what Connor always talked about, my ability to ruin a good thing by overthinking it, attaching so many ridiculous feelings to it.
Darcy sees that now too and she doesn’t want to be stuck in the crosshairs of it just because she was bored and horny and wanted to get off last night without any guys around.
Darcy loves sex, a new guy on her roster every few days, but she doesn’t deal in any emotions with those hookups. This was no different. I was a warm body that showed her a good, if not “weird” time, and that’s all.
What else are friends for?
My spine rounds, muscles collapsing as some of the tension releases.
This is good. This is the best outcome for this absolutely terrible situation.
But some strange, foreign part of me wants to rebel against that—fight and snap and confess every soft, scary thought that’s pulsed in the back of my mind since that kiss all those years ago.
But I can’t mortify myself further. I take all that sharp, gnawing want for answers and crumple it into a ball in my chest, lighting it on fire and burning it to ash before it can ink itself too deeply on my skin.
Nails digging into my chest, I whisper, “Yeah. I don’t remember much at all.”
Darcy’s pinched profile eases, and she lets out a nearly silent sigh of relief.
I look away, trying to blink past the pinpricks of tears trying to surface, eyes fixed on the harsh white wall and the ratty scraps of paper we’ve taped there while sharing this room.
A lot of it is scribbled notes between Darcy and me—discarded song lyrics with doodles in the margins, gossipy notes filled with inside jokes we passed in school that we couldn’t bear to toss after all these years, Polaroids of us smiling, cheeks smooshed together from our dive-bar tour last summer.
I fight the impulse to rip them all down.
Darcy clears her throat, snagging my attention.
Her eyes flick down to the duvet, then back up to my face, and I realize I’m still on her bed, a spot I’m no longer welcome.
I scramble off and burrow under my covers, turning to the wall and clenching my jaw against the choked cry knocking at my teeth.
I’m terrified to move, to even breathe, to cause any more ripples that will fuck up my world further. My ears are pricked to every noise Darcy makes, the cadence of her breathing. Like a broken, piercing record, the question How did this even happen? loops around my mind.
She’s right, it must be the loneliness—Connor’s betrayal still torturing me as if he’s holding a scalpel to my spine. The loss of my art, my ability to create, that has me choking on air.
“Cubby?” Harry’s voice is high, barreling through my muddled thoughts and making me jump. I turn toward the door, Darcy similarly disturbed as she lifts to her elbows. He bangs on the door, the poor old wood rattling in its frame like he’s about to knock it off the hinges.
“Cub, I think something’s happened,” Harry calls. “Something kind of … I’m not sure bad is the right word, but something big. With the potential to be bad.” He pounds his fist on the door again.
“Bang on that door one more time and I’ll make sure something bad happens to you, Harry O’Connell,” Darcy yells.
The door swings open, Harry framed in the center in a ratty T-shirt and shorts, eyes wide and phone clutched to his chest. My stomach plummets.
“No,” I growl, pointing at him. “Whatever is on that phone, I don’t want it. Take it elsewhere.”
“You need to see this, Cub. It involves you.”
“Yes, I figured as much by your incredibly loud wake-up call and frantic expression. Now, piss off, this is a safe space.” Or, at least it was, up until twenty minutes ago.
Instead of doing as he’s told, Harry scurries across the room, sitting on the edge of my mattress and hovering over me with pure panic.
I sink deeper into my pillows and sheets.
The silence is oppressive, his big blue eyes locked on mine.
With absurd slowness and caution, he holds his phone out to me. I stare at it like it’s a severed limb.
When it’s clear he’s not going anywhere, I take the phone, holding the screen up to his face to unlock it, then flip it around to find the Instagram post of us from last night pulled up.
Harry makes a choking noise. “So, uh, yeah. That picture. It’s … well…”
“Spit. It. Out. Man,” Darcy snaps, clapping with each syllable.
“That picture kind of blew up last night. In a way I’ve never had a picture blow up, or anything for that matter, and there are so many comments and shares and I’m starting to get DMs from people claiming to be pop culture journalists for a statement and I—”
I jolt up to sitting, eyes bulging out of my head as I scroll down on the post. The picture has upward of three hundred thousand likes, and over five thousand comments. My hands shake as adrenaline leaches through my system.
There’s no way this can be good.
We have a modest social media following as a band, most coming from our unsavory (dis)attachment to Connor. Harry probably claims the biggest following besides Kale’s hefty TikTok reputation. But it’s not this level. Nowhere near this level.
Swallowing past the knot of panic in my throat, I view the comments.
The first few aren’t terrible. Actually kind of nice …
omfg slay bestie
icon
Hi hello @womenpostingtheirwins
But it derails quickly from there.
Damn all the boys of that band are running the train on her huh
she’s a four that thinks she’s a nine
It’s sad that young girls think they have to act like whores to get attention nowadays
Reply: I don’t think she’s acting lmaoooooo I’m sorry but this is just so desperate??? like be serious
Reply: no fr it’s sad at this point
Reply: came here to say the same thing
Reply: she knows what she’s doing. Timing is so sus
Am i the only one totally losing it over this tho? Like I KNOW there’s massive connor x cubby issues and based on that interview she royally broke his heart but I’ve been following the band for a long time and always thought cuby and harry would be soo cute together
Reply: nahhh I’ve ALWAYS shipped darcy and harry
Reply: ya’ll trying so hard at being fake fans as if you gave a shit about the band before any of the drama literally yesterday
Reply: how can anyone be a fake fan of a band that’s had like six different names over the past year? It doesn’t seem possible for anyone to be a *real* fan if the band itself isn’t real
Reply: you literally don’t know what your talking about. Just because a band’s name changes doesn’t mean it’s not a real band.
Reply: you’re*
Reply: go fuck your*self
Harry’s phone slips from my cold, clammy hands.
I feel Darcy move to sit next to me, Harry shifting to make room for her on my tiny bed, but I can’t bring myself to look at her.
I can’t look at anyone or anything, the comments blurring through my brain.
Darcy grabs the phone, and her sharp intake of breath confirms it’s as bad as I thought.
“There’s more,” Harry says, voice hoarse.
I shake my head. “No. I refuse for there to be more.”
He takes his phone back from Darcy, typing for a moment before showing us the screen. A massive headline from a gossip rag glows back at us.
Cubby Clark uses new boy toy to take swing at ex, Connor McCabe
My gaze shoots to Harry, whose face is lined with worry.
“They think we did this for publicity?” I ask, voice grating over the words.
“I think so, yeah.”
I grab for my own phone, barreling straight to the viper pit. Similar headlines pop up with a search for my name, one in particular snagging my attention.
NICE TRY, CUBBY CLARK, BUT HEARTTHROB CONNOR MCCABE COMES OUT ON TOP
The headline has the picture of Harry and me next to what appears to be a new one from Connor, posted this morning, black and white as well, his guitar cradled in his hands, eyes fixed to the side with a sly grin.
The curve of a hip and the hem of a lacy nightgown disappear at the edge of the frame in his line of sight.
My stomach clenches, bile rising in my throat, as I skim a few sentences, reading out loud.
… In a world that stunts men from ever sharing their feelings and emotions, Connor McCabe has set out to break the mold, dropping track after swoony track of vulnerably raw lyrics chronicling the hardship of a love that didn’t last. But while social media has lauded the chart-topping, angsty, good guy’s novel approach, some are dead set on striking back.
Ex-bandmate and ex-girlfriend, Cubby Clark, is the most aggressive in the campaign, trying to bait Connor by posting scandalous pics of her getting cozy with her band’s piano player, and Connor’s reported childhood bestie, Harry O’Connell, no doubt to stir up trouble in the hopes of a jealous rage.
No luck here, as Connor seems more than happy to explore his feelings with a mysterious woman in a subtle and tasteful response post. No doubt, she’ll serve as a more agreeable muse.
“Well, that’s utter shit,” I say, indignant rage bubbling through me as I look up at Harry. “You’re the one that posted the damn picture.”
“A bit beside the point, Cub.”
“I think that’s exactly the point. I’m supposedly leading an aggressive campaign to stir up jealousy from a picture you posted.”
“People probably think you made Harry post it,” Darcy says, brow furrowed as she continues to read over my shoulder.
My phone starts buzzing with a call, and I’m so on edge it makes me jump, and I lob it away, accidentally hitting Harry in the throat. I watch Sigrún’s name flash a few more times before going to voicemail.
“Thanks for that,” he says, rubbing the spot. A few seconds later his phone starts ringing. Wearily meeting my eyes, he accepts the call and puts it up to his ear.
“How ya, Sigrún?” A long pause. “I’m good, yeah. Slept a bit funny on my neck, but fine all and all. Does look like we’ll be getting some nasty weather, though, yeah?” More silence. “She’s here.” Silence. “Right. Yeah. Okay. Bye. Right. Bye. Okay. Yeah. Right. Bye.”
He ends the call, head hanging as he lets out a deep breath. Darcy and I stare at him, bodies held tense like slingshots. He lifts those baby-blue eyes to us. “That was Sigrún.”
Darcy reaches out and punches him on the shoulder. “No shit. What did she say?”
Harry rubs his arm, face scrunched as he glares at her. “Christ, woman, you’ve got an arm on ya. She wants to meet us in the studio in an hour.”
“Is it about—”
“Our stunningly problematic rise to viral fame? Seems so, yeah.” He stands, dragging a palm across the back of his neck as he heads to the door. “I guess I should go inform the rest?”
“Send Kale my disdain,” Darcy says weakly, burying her head in her hands.
Harry slumps away, mumbling something that doesn’t sound exactly kind as he goes.
We’re quiet and still, too afraid to move, like any ripples we make will set off another tidal wave of controversy.
“You okay?” Darcy asks.
Hmmm, let’s see, I’m being called a slut on the internet, blamed for breaking the heart of the guy who broke mine, and filled with the highest degree of humiliation by hooking up with my best friend last night and making everything exceptionally weird by having jumbled-up feelings that won’t get out of my head.
No, I wouldn’t say okay is a good word to describe where I’m at.
“Fine,” I say through numb lips. I feel Darcy’s stare but I don’t look at her. “I mean, no, not really. I’m actually pretty fucking stressed and panicked, but that won’t change much, will it?”
She’s silent, and I risk a glance at her. Her expression is unreadable, something held tight in the corners of her mouth and eyes. In a movement that’s jerky and hesitant and so counter to every embrace we’ve ever shared, Darcy does the one thing I wish she wouldn’t: She gives me a hug.
Actually, hug is a generous term. This is stiff and awkward, her arm looped around my upper body while managing to touch me as little as possible. A contactless vise that makes my muscles lock up, shoulders rising toward my ears like I’m anticipating a blow.
“I’m sorry, Cubby,” she says after a beat, her voice cracking on my name.
For a second, I let myself imagine that her sorry isn’t pity for this shit storm I’ve found myself in.
A miraculous fantasy unravels in my mind that she’s sorry for this morning, sorry for not telling me she’s having confusing feelings too.
That she’s sorry for this brand-new spiky wedge between us and she wants to dislodge it. But I know I’m the only one confused.
I want to cry, a knot swelling in my throat, every cell tugging me to lean into her familiar embrace.
The impulse is too much to ignore. I suck in a sharp breath, my body relaxing a fraction, giving in to temptation.
But the second my skin brushes hers as I move to hug her back in something tentatively tender, she drops her arms and slips off my bed, eyes fixed straight ahead as she moves to her dresser and rifles through it.
I want to say something. Anything. Everything.
If she looks up at me right now, I think I’ll crack open.
I’ll tell her I remember everything and I know she does too.
I’ll tell her I remember that first kiss from five years ago as well.
I’ll ask her why we never talked about it.
I’ll ask if, when she lets her guard down, her mind always wanders to it like mine does.
I’ll tell her I’m scared, petrified, but I can’t figure out if it’s from the storm brewing on the internet or the idea we’ll never again reach the level of closeness we had up until this morning. The intimacy of last night.
But she doesn’t look at me.
So I keep my mouth shut and watch her walk out the door.