Chapter 9
The next week moves at a brutal pace—meetings and emails and endless hours in the studio, working on songs until our eyes are bloodshot and fingers stiff.
We come up with five solid tracks to release on an EP.
Some, like that golden day in the studio that feels like a different lifetime, are fully from scratch.
Others are built from half-finished arrangements Darcy and I fiddled with years ago that I never bothered to share with Connor.
He didn’t pull any punches when it came to giving me feedback on my lyrics and compositions, most deemed painfully derivative and weak.
I learned quickly what was better kept to myself to be spared his brutal honesty.
But even with a framework to go off, reworking an old song is like ripping each word out by the roots from frozen ground and planting new seeds in the barren space, leaving my brain feeling dried out and withered.
Today’s meeting about final details for the tour has forced us into a break.
We file into Ring Road’s conference room, Sigrún at the head of an imposing oval table, so large in the tiny space that I feel claustrophobic as I squeeze into a seat.
Sigrún doesn’t acknowledge us at first, her eyes zipping between her computer screen and phone as she pounds on the keyboard.
Sticky anticipation oozes through me, and I swipe open my phone, doing a quick circuit of various apps, thumb flicking in a blur as I scan comments and tags.
I exit out of the last site, shoving my phone between my thighs and watching the seconds tick by on the clock above the door, my legs bouncing.
I only get to a count of eight before I grab my phone again, repeating the loop, the chronic tension in my chest growing tighter as I see nothing’s changed, and I lock it once more.
Sitting still is the worst thing for me right now. It gives me too much time to think, to play on loop the parade of degrading opinions shared in comments, to manifest even worse sentiments about myself into existence.
Harry and I have been equally feeding the relationship rumors like good little soldiers—pictures of the band where we’re caught looking at each other, video clips of him playing the piano while I sit pressed close to him on the bench, singing in rough harmony; actual candid moments someone snapped during sessions where he says something that makes me scrunch up my face and laugh—but I’m the one getting hate.
Mean comments telling me I’m a manipulative man-eater toying with the emotions of two wonderful guys.
But Harry? I haven’t seen a single bad word against him.
I sneak a glance at Darcy, but she’s staring straight ahead, a bored look on her face as she traces Sigrún’s frenetic movements. She’s right there but feels miles away.
On the surface, everything between us is friendly and normal, if not a little strained from the whirlwind of stress we’re under.
That normalcy makes me want to shake her, ask her if I’m crazy, if it’s all in my head, or does every interaction between us feel tame and cautious, each word analyzed before spoken to make sure it’s stripped of any possible misinterpretation to her too?
Which, obviously, can never happen because she’s made it pretty obvious she doesn’t think about that night.
I grab my phone once more, clicking into an app, then catch myself, catch the itch of the compulsion to complete the circuit, and slam it back between my thighs.
My jiggling legs pick up speed, the sturdy wooden table vibrating. At the same moment, Darcy and Harry, sitting on opposite sides of me, reach out a hand, each giving my leg a gentle squeeze under the table.
My body locks up in surprise.
It’s amazing that an identical gesture can split me down the middle with different feelings.
Harry’s hand is large and soft, the lightest pressure right above my knee before slipping to my wrist and tracing down to where my hand is sandwiched under my thigh.
He pulls it out, threading his fingers through mine under the table.
Darcy, on my other side, lingers on the center of my thigh, fingers spread wide like she can pull all the nervous energy out of me and hold it in the palm of her hand.
My gaze flashes to her, lips parting, a surge of emotions clawing up my throat.
She looks back at me, startled by the intensity in my expression.
I hold her stare, everything blurring at the edges as my body singles in on her touch, the heat of her scrambling my nervous system so every circuit reroutes to the spot.
On impulse, my eyes flick to her hand on my leg—like I need visual confirmation she’s actually, willfully touching me—then back to her face.
With a start, she looks to my lap, then jerks her hand away like she’s touched a hot stovetop.
She pivots away from me, knees pointed in the opposite direction, palms resting on the tabletop.
She starts to drum a rhythm with her fingertips, and a tiny, rough noise escapes my lips.
Everyone turns to me, and I try to disguise the small, pained gasp in a fake coughing fit, pushing my chair back and pulling my hand from Harry’s.
“Are you okay, Cubby?” Sigrún asks, joining us in the real world.
I open my mouth like a fish reluctantly trying to survive on land, but nothing comes out. I nod instead.
“Kevin should be joining us any moment,” Sigrún says, tapping a few times on her laptop until a Zoom call pops up on the large monitor mounted on the wall.
After an excruciating number of video interviews for a manager—ranging from lackluster to downright horrifying in both personality and vibe—we finally settled on Kevin Cho, the son of a successful talent manager looking to make his own name in the industry.
While he’s rather green—we’re only the second band he’s represented—there’s something genuinely earnest about his excitement for our music (i.e.
, he’s actually listened to it). Plus his commission rate is reasonable enough we can actually afford him.
“Heyyyy, everyone!” Kevin says, cheeks flushed and expression exuberant as he pops up on the screen. “How’re my favorite rock stars?”
“We’re more of folk-pop band,” Kale says with a grimace.
Skull stares straight ahead, unblinking and in a world all his own.
“Catch yerself on,” Harry says, clicking his tongue as he frowns at Kale. “We’re not pop. We’re indie folk rock.”
“Why are you saying it like that, Harry?” Darcy chimes in, leaning across me with a frown.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re putting derogatory in parentheses after pop.”
“Oh, come off it, Darce. I’m not having this fight with you again.”
Kevin has the expression of a clubbed baby seal at the sore spot he accidentally pressed.
Darcy rolls her eyes. “For it to be a fight, you’d actually need some ammunition in that arsenal. Need I remind you—”
“Can we focus?” Sigrún says, clapping her hands. When she’s satisfied with Harry and Darcy’s chagrined silence, she carries on, “We’ve ironed out the details of the tour, so let’s dive in.”
A tiny thrill shoots through me as she splits the screen and brings up the meeting agenda and info sheet. Over the next eight weeks, we’ll be touring the East Coast of America, headlining some small but historically iconic venues in big cities.
I’ve always been in love with music—my mums have home videos of me pressing my slobbering baby face up close to their speaker as Fiona Apple played, my wobbly legs bouncing to the beat while my twin, Oliver, stared like a loris at the noise.
But since I can remember, I’ve also been fascinated by musicians, ingesting every documentary and interview I could get my grubby hands on, diving into their memories like they’re my own, seeing the twists and turns and the crucial nights at special venues that changed their careers forever.
Maybe one of these venues will be that for us.
“Kevin will meet you at Boston Logan International Airport,” Sigrún says, eyes skimming over her screen.
“You’ll check into the hotel, rest up, then get to the Paradise Rock Club around five for sound check, then the show that night.
The next day you’ll open for a band called Dubstep Anarchy at the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. ”
“Dubstep?”
“Lizards?”
Harry and I speak at the same time, glancing at each other in horror. Sigrún arches an eyebrow. “Someone pull out their phone. These are the cute moments we need to be capturing for social media.”
My stomach clenches, a buzzing growing in my ears as Sigrún chuckles, then continues talking through our tour.
I hate these moments, the unwelcome reminder of the tangled mess I’m in, that I have to lie about who I am—attach myself to the likability of another person—to get anyone to listen to the thing that means the most to me.
“You’ll finish the tour with the Jersey Shore Pride Festival in Asbury Park.”
“Asbury Park? Like the Springsteen album?” I ask.
Sigrún nods. “And the song. In fact, Kevin and I were discussing, and we think it would be great for you to do a cover of ‘Sandy’ during your set to pay homage. Maybe then have it lead into a mash-up with the release of your own brand-new love ballad. Go out with a bang to keep the spark alive.”
I grimace. “Is that song some sort of touchstone in America’s queer culture?”
Kevin and Sigrún blink in unison at me. “Not that I’m aware of?” Kevin says, like this is a test and he’s terrified of answering wrong. “Why?”
“Because you said this is a Pride festival?”
More blinking. “I’m not sure I follow your point?” Sigrún hedges.
I slant a glance at Kale, who looks equally perplexed at their confusion. “Isn’t the point of Pride sort of, er, queer pride? Honoring that? It’d be one thing if you told us to perform something on the nose like a Lady Gaga mash-up, but an old, white, hetero, cis man seems…”
“Wrong unless it’s Tony Soprano?” Kale finishes for me. “It’s giving Walmart in June.”
Sigrún purses her lips. “Oh. I think you’re missing the point. The song is a reference to where you’ll be location-wise for the festival.”
I inwardly groan but drop it. “Regardless, we don’t have a brand-new love ballad.”
“You will by the time the festival rolls around.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Darcy’s touch is back, a gentle pressure, the whisper of her fingertips at my forearm.
“We’ll come up with something,” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth as Sigrún continues. “It will be surface-level fluff with plenty of hidden barbs in there, don’t worry.”
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead. I’m terrified that if I look at her, she’ll see how much I don’t believe her. How I don’t want to. I don’t want to do fluff. I don’t want to do any of this fake shit.
“I have some exciting news,” Kevin chimes in as Sigrún wraps up. “With your latest audio release gaining some traction, we’ve had a few branding opportunities pop up.”
Sigrún wasted no time getting a polished soundbite of our song from last week that we’ve titled “fool,” up on social media.
While it hasn’t broken any records, it’s steadily growing, people lip-syncing the crescendo lines “Wore your empty promises like a tattoo on my skin / Your losing battles, I just can’t win” while pounding on their chests and pretending to cry.
“This newer fashion company, Zuuli, they’re starting to take off too, very in, very trendy, doing the whole upcycled vintage, anti–fast fashion thing. They’ve signed on for tour exclusivity of your wardrobe!”
“What does tour exclusivity mean?” I ask, defenses perking up.
“Which word confused you, Cubby?” Kale deadpans.
“Lick rust, you repugnant vegetable.”
“How clever,” Kale says, rolling his eyes. “The kids from my high school would be so impressed by your originality.”
“Anyway!” Kevin, our king of perpetual cheeriness, says.
“Zuuli has offered to sponsor the band and the tour by providing you all with wardrobes for the shows and associated events. You’ll just have to tag them in posts and do some outfit-of-the-day stories in recognition.
Hype them up a bit. The deal is all set! ”
“We don’t even know what these clothes look like and we’re already committed to wearing them all summer?” I say, mouth twisting.
“Oh, but they’re actually really cute,” Darcy says, eyes scanning her phone. She tilts the screen to me, scrolling through.
I hate to admit it, but the clothes do look rather nice. An eclectic mix of simple nineties pieces and more boho seventies gear. It fits our vibe rather well. But still, not only am I being told what I have to write and post on social media, but now they’re telling me what I have to wear too.
“This is class,” Harry says, leaning across me to look too. “Great job, Kev.”
“Can I get one of these denim shirts for my portion?” Kale asks, waving his phone around.
“Send me the link, I’ll see what I can do,” Kevin says with a grin.
“I like this whole look. Especially the boots,” Skull says, showing us an all-black look complete with platform combat boots.
“I’ll try to work some magic,” Kevin says. “So pumped you all are excited.”
Excitement isn’t even in the top ten of emotions I’m experiencing, but I already feel like such a wet rag with this group, I keep my mouth shut. I don’t need to leak the dull emptiness of my depression onto my friends. And Kale.
“My girlfriend will be meeting us at the airport. She will come on the tour with us,” Skull announces using the most words I’ve ever heard him string together.
We all blink at him.
“Skull … what?” Kale finally asks, face drooping with confusion.
“You have a girlfriend?” Darcy says, leaning over the table toward him. “In America?”
“Where is she going to sleep?” I love Harry, he always asks the important questions.
“My American girlfriend, Deja. She is a tiny woman, she will sleep in my bed,” he says with finality, something about his sharp accent daring us to try to argue.
“Where did you find this tiny girlfriend who’s going on tour with us?” Darcy asks, heart in her eyes. She’s a hopeless romantic and loves seeing people in love. I’m sure every cell in her body is sighing wistfully right now.
“Internet,” Skull says. Truly the new frontier.
Someone should probably push back on this a bit, or at least ask some logistical questions about our next eight weeks on a bus with Tiny Deja, but Skull asks for so little, moving like water with the flow of everyone around him, we silently agree to let him have this one thing.
“Well … all right, then,” Sigrún says. “That wraps up everything on my end. Kevin, you have anything you want to add?”
Kevin grins. “Only that I can’t wait to see you all tomorrow—the first day of your new life as a band. I have no doubt it will be epic.”
Darcy offers a bubbly round of applause as Kale and Skull stand.
Harry leans close to me, nose brushing the side of my cheek as he whispers, “Let the adventure begin.”