Chapter 10
At an ungodly hour the next morning, our plane barrels down the runway, lifting us up as I leave a piece of my heart behind. I lean over Darcy, who’s in the window seat, staring down at Reykjavík, the streets and roads and jagged coastline sprawled beneath like the closing words of a love letter.
We’re subletting our sublet, and I imagine I can see the apartment building as clouds haze the view.
The water took ages to heat to lukewarm and traffic from the street sounded like it was happening in the living room and we were constantly on top of each other in the cramped place, leading to countless arguments.
And I’m sad to say goodbye to the shithole.
Darcy nudges me out of her personal space, and I wriggle in my uncomfortable middle seat, Harry on the aisle.
Darcy hoists her backpack onto her lap, rifling through the absurd amount of books she had to pack in her carry-on for in-flight entertainment.
She hands me a small stack as she digs to the bottom, and I thumb through some of the pages.
When she finally finds what she’s looking for, she shoves all the books back in and kicks her bag under the seat.
“What’d ya decide on?”
“I’m in my cowboy-romance era,” she says, putting on a Southern American drawl and flashing me the cover. “Save a horse, ride someone’s dad, or however the saying goes.”
“I think you nailed it.”
With a smug smile, she settles in and starts to read. I watch her from the corner of my eye, see her melting into the pages, leaving me behind for a fictional world with a hero and romance and a lot less complication.
Early-onset nostalgia has our shared room popping into my head again, Darcy’s narrow mattress pushed against the wall, duvet rumpled and a precarious stack of books perched on her nightstand.
She liked to curl up against her pillows and read while I strummed my guitar at the foot of her bed, creating a soundtrack as she lost herself to other worlds.
How many hours did we spend on that bed? Laughing or crying or making music?
It’s rather jarring that such an unassuming-looking corner could be the spot my mind won’t stop circling.
I mean … it’s not that I think about that terrible night that much. Hardly at all, really. It just creeps in at the edges, flits across my mind when my defenses are down.
My phone is on airplane mode, but the impulse to check it anyway has a physical grip, tightening the muscles in my neck and palms. If I can stay on top of what’s being said on there, maybe I can learn how to control it.
My leg starts bouncing, and Darcy’s reluctantly pulled out of her book, looking around at the plane like it’s about to break apart, then down to my thigh. She places a hand on my knee.
“You okay?”
I fight the urge to shake my head, shrugging instead. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Try to get some sleep.”
I shrug again, giving her a resigned look, gesturing around the stuffy, loud plane, Harry lightly snoring next to me.
“I’m too wired to sleep too. This feels like the start of everything, doesn’t it?” she whispers, notes of excitement and hope dancing across the syllables.
I stay silent, not wanting to burst her bubble.
I’d like to tell her she’s wrong. Everything is wrong.
This isn’t the start. We’re smack dab in the middle of the end.
The end of making music for the sake of creation, for the joy of sharing it.
The end of simplicity, of having a neat little box that contained the definition of our friendship to something confusing and messy that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop my finicky brain from turning back to.
But instead, I swoop up those feelings, compress them into a tight knot, and kick it far out of my brain, leaning back toward the numbness that is safe and keeps me whole.
I feel her eyes on me, searching out the lie, to call me on my shit like she always does. I can’t let that happen, can’t have her seeing what a mess I’m making of us in my head; it would only take her further away. “Guess I’m worried about the social media stuff.”
The tension evaporates with a small sigh from Darcy. “It’ll be fine, Cub. It’s already going well. The pictures of the band have tons of likes and comments, and we even sold out that venue in Cleveland.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“I know it’s not ideal,” she says, voice soft like a lullaby, “but I hope you know how much we all appreciate you and Harry doing this, playing the game like you are. It’s creating something big for us. It … it means a lot.”
I grind my teeth. Not like I had much choice in the matter. “Don’t mention it.”
The silence stretches, and Darcy goes back to her book, turning the pages in a steady rhythm that eventually lulls me into a light, choppy sleep for the rest of the flight.
We land in Boston a few hours later. With a stiff neck and bleary eyes, I navigate customs and eventually get my phone to connect.
Harry, bougie ass, woke up in the second half of the flight and bought Wi-Fi access, and I shoot him a glare as a flood of notifications drill through my phone. Apparently, I’ve been tagged in a post.
“Just doing as I’m told, Cub,” he says with a pitiful frown. I wish I could be mad at him, but I know his intentions are good. I scroll way back to see what he posted.
The photo is black and white again, my head resting on Harry’s shoulder as I doze on the plane.
Harry’s lips are quirked in a small smile that’s both playful and serene, cheek pressed against my hair.
He’s captioned it with a cute bear emoji and a line of Zs.
I study the picture closely, and it makes something in my chest ache.
If I didn’t know better I’d actually believe the lies and think Harry feels something for me.
What the camera doesn’t show is my right side, Darcy’s head on my arm and hand gripped tight in mine as she sleeps too. That aching feeling expands for a moment, cracking like glass down to the tips of my fingers, then snaps back with a sharp throb right below my sternum.
With the usual impulse that congeals with dread, I start scrolling the comments.
So fucking cute
Okay but seriously does she know how lucky she is?
This made me have my first feeling in six months
Poor Harry :( she’s going to use him like she used Connor.
Reply: no fr but if she’s smart she’ll realize what thin fucking ice she’s on
Reply: she’s way too self-centered to realize that we’re all on to her. It’s sad
“You okay?” Darcy asks, resting her chin on my shoulder. I quickly swipe out of the app.
“Yeah. Fine.” I slide away from her touch, pretending to stretch after the long flight. My limbs are tight and swollen with a sickly anxiety that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I have the excruciating urge to find something, anything, that I can throw at the wall of the internet to make me more likable.
Acceptable. Anything to fight against this vulgar misconception of who I am.
I scroll deep into my camera roll, hoping I can find a cute throwback picture, something innocent and endearing I can post that will remind people I’m a human and see the awful things they’re saying.
I land on a screen full of Darcy and I, hundreds of rapid-fire photos from my eighteenth birthday.
We’re dressed in skimpy outfits and an alarming amount of glitter, the backdrop of the club blacked out from the flash.
Darcy and I looking at each other, faces screwed up as we laugh, her arms thrown around me and nose pressed against my cheek as I blush.
That ache is back so sharply, so acutely, a tiny gasp is pulled out of me, my hand rubbing against my chest.
An exuberant shriek across baggage claim snaps me out of my misery, making us all turn, and I blink as a pocket-sized woman around our age barrels at us full-speed.
Faster than I’ve ever seen Skull move, he drops his backpack and runs to meet her halfway, picking her up and spinning her in his arms with a movie-worthy kiss.
It’s so beautiful I feel inclined to clap.
When the kiss starts to border on obscene, her thighs wrapped tightly around Skull’s trim waist, his hand inching up her skirt, I glance away.
Kale, Harry, and Darcy are similarly staring in shock with their jaws on the ground.
With breathtaking tenderness, Skull gently lowers the woman in his arms, who I have brilliantly deduced must be Tiny Deja.
Hand in hand and grinning at each other, they walk toward us.
I blink rapidly as I fully take her in. Skull’s tiny, internet, American girlfriend is, quite possibly, the most stunning woman I have ever seen.
She has dark brown skin and full lips curved in a perfect smile.
Her hair is pulled into twist braids that fall to her waist, and her coffee-colored eyes are framed by full thick lashes that belong in a Maybelline advert.
“Everyone,” Skull mumbles, “I’d like to introduce you to—”
“Let me guess!” Harry interrupts. “Your sister?”
Deja lets out a bubbly laugh, beaming at us. “I’m Deja,” she says, touching a hand to her chest. “It’s so good to meet you. Skull has told me so much about all of you. Honestly, he never shuts up about you.”
“Really?” Darcy blurts out, the skepticism palpable. The idea of Skull talking at length about anyone or anything requires quite the suspension of reality. She clears her throat. “I mean, hiya! We’re so pleased to meet you too. I’m Darcy.”
Deja, friendliness personified, wraps Darcy in a huge hug like she’s greeting her best friend after years apart. She does the same to me, then turns to Kale as he eagerly introduces himself—even Beelzebub incarnate wants to absorb some of Deja’s warm attention.
I’m probably being rude at this point, but I can’t stop staring at her. Harry and I share a quick look. He leans close to me, inconspicuously whispering, “Is Skull’s girlfriend…”
“Outrageously hot?” I whisper back.