Chapter 17
“Cubbyyyyyyyyyy!”
A sonic boom of a voice calls my name the second I get out of our ride back to the tour bus, and my smile is automatic.
Tilly.
I scan across the parking lot and find Oliver being led (dragged) by his girlfriend, Tilly, as she charges toward me. I meet them halfway, wrapping her in a giant hug before doing the same to Ollie.
I met Tilly a few summers ago in Copenhagen.
She and Oliver were interns for the same company, and our paths crossed when we were doing our small shoestring Scandinavian tour.
They’ve been dating ever since, and I’m not sure I’ve ever rooted for two people so hard.
Things must be going well for them, since Tilly brought Ollie home to Cleveland to meet her family this summer.
“We’re whisking you away,” Tilly says, acting like a herding dog and pushing me toward her dinged-up car.
“I have a show tonight,” I say, looking over my shoulder at everyone huddled by the bus. Kale glares at me, and I cheerily raise my middle finger. Harry offers a tiny wave while Skull and Deja kiss behind him. Darcy must have gone inside, and my stomach twists.
“Yes, yes, we’re well aware that you’re a giant rock star and need to sing to your adoring fans tonight,” Tilly prattles on, placing her palm on the top of my head while she oh-so-lovingly shoves me in the back seat. “But you can spare us lunch, right?”
“There’s no use trying to fight her on anything,” Oliver says with a radiant smile.
Tilly keeps up a rapid stream of conversation the entire drive to the restaurant, her perpetual excitement for life so contagious, it isn’t long before I’m smiling and laughing with the windows down and wind in my hair.
It’s nice to feel something other than gloom.
But I keep catching myself glancing at the empty seat next to me, wishing Darcy was here.
“So, Cubby,” Tilly says, when we’re settled in the corner of a deli with our food, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in the cradle of her fingers.
“Yes, Tilly.” I mirror her pose and she smiles.
“You seem to be having an eventful summer in the love department. And I demand details. All the details.”
“I demand to be spared the details,” Ollie says, eyes flashing with horror.
“I ought to make you suffer for how I had to pull your head out of your ass in regards to our lovely Tilly here.”
Tilly cackles, throwing her arms around Oliver and giving him a big kiss on the cheek, his face erupting in color.
I love them both dearly, but they were some of the world’s worst communicators with each other and their feelings, and I wouldn’t be a (twenty-seven minutes) older sister if I hadn’t set him straight.
Oliver lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh, sinking in his seat and waving me on. “Right. Yeah. You were helpful that one time, so carry on, I guess.”
“You’ve come such a long way on social niceties, Ollie,” I tease, kicking him under the table.
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t fill me in on exactly what is happening between you and Harry in the next ten seconds I will actually scream,” Tilly says, subtly redirecting the conversation.
“It’s … it’s not a thing.” I shrug, eyes fixed on my plate as I focus on putting a single pea on each tine of my fork.
“Your pictures certainly make it look like a thing,” Oliver says.
“And all the headlines and social media speculation doesn’t really convince me you’re telling the truth,” Tilly adds.
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? None of that is real,” I snap. “Social media, these stupid headlines, none of it’s real life. It’s made-up versions of ourselves that we polish to round out any sharp angles or harshness and post in the hopes that people perceive us that way. It’s empty, it’s—”
“You sound like Mum raging against kids these days,” Oliver says.
“But it’s true!” I throw my hands up, collapsing back in my seat.
“Harry and I never meant for our love lives to become a public conversation topic, but now that it is, we have to feed into it or we lose relevance. Become just another D-list band fighting to get anyone to listen. We’ve stopped being people and have become this … spectacle.”
Tilly and Oliver offer me sympathetic looks, but I can tell they don’t get it.
I don’t blame them. It’s the price of putting your art out there, when it’s all said and done.
You aren’t a human; you’re the product you make, being rabidly devoured.
It’s hard to convey how lonely it is to be so known by name and reputation but not actually known at all.
What I don’t tell them is how addicted to it I’ve become.
The way I refresh my phone constantly like a rat in a psychological experiment hoping for a reward of someone saying something nice about me.
How reading something cruel has become its own sort of rancid drug.
A morbid hit. The all-consuming burn of absorbing those things, harming myself over and over again by seeking them out, validating and feeding that cruel voice of insecurities always clawing through me.
I feel my brain rotting from the obsession of it all.
“What does Darcy think of all this?” Tilly asks, straw between her teeth.
She dips her head and takes a giant gulp of her milkshake so the drink gargles.
I catch Oliver looking at her like she’s the most precious piece of art he’s ever been lucky enough to witness.
I’d rather they just punch me in the face.
“Why would you bring up Darcy?” I ask, jumping to defensive because that’s easier to hide behind than admitting I have no idea what she damn well thinks of any of this. We don’t talk that deeply anymore.
“Because she’s your best friend?” Tilly says, face twisting in confusion. “Because you two have been inseparable since I’ve met you and have a tendency to finish each other’s sentences? I mean, honestly, I’m surprised we got you solo for lunch and she didn’t tag along.”
I bristle. “Sorry I’m not good enough company on my own.”
Tilly and Ollie blink rapidly, expressions so startled it’s like I yelled at Bambi.
“Do we make you feel that way, Cubby?” Oliver asks, tilting his head.
“No,” I admit, my nose tingly and a pressure building behind my eyes. I stare down at my plate.
“Then why would you say that?” he asks. He isn’t being a dick; he genuinely wants to know. Oliver so badly wants to understand other people; it’s one of the things that make him so beautiful.
“The questions might be a little overwhelming,” Tilly murmurs to him before rounding the table and sitting next to me.
She takes one of my hands in hers, but when she feels me trembling, she throws both arms around me, holding me close.
I start to cry against her shoulder, screwing my eyes up tight in the hopes I can stop the flow of tears.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver says, voice cracking with panic. He’s so good-natured, it’s almost comical, and I let out a choked laugh, looking at him.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him, pulling away from Tilly to wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I’m the one being an asshole. I’m … I’m a mess,” I say, more tears leaking out.
“A mess how?” Tilly prods, rubbing my back.
I grab a napkin, blotting at my eyes, then my nose. “In the … I don’t know, messy way? Fucked-beyond-repair kind of way? I don’t know what to do.”
“Talking to us might be a good place to start,” Tilly offers, one hand still fixed on my back, warm energy radiating from her palm into me. “Oliver is an excellent listener. Admittedly, listening isn’t my strong suit, but I’m focused in and ready to beat up whoever has hurt your feelings.”
I look between them, their earnest expressions cracking through any defenses I’ve built up.
With a shuddering breath, I start at the beginning.
I talk about my breakup with Connor nearly a year ago, the way I felt relief more than hurt to finally put it to rest, the way he revived all our pain with the greatest cruelty he could muster these past few months.
I tell them about the stolen music and the night at the bar and what Darcy and I did after (an abridged version for my brother’s sake).
I tell them about that crushing morning and how that stupid picture with Harry upended all our lives and how stunningly vile strangers can be behind a screen.
I talk about how Darcy and I don’t talk like we used to. How badly I want her to talk to me. How she’s the only person in the world I actually want to talk to. I chronicle every up and down until my head hangs low and my shoulders slump, spent from rehashing it all.
True to Tilly’s word, they both listen, Tilly offering noises of outrage or devastation when appropriate, Ollie holding my hand across the table through it all.
“Go on, then,” I say with a disenchanted laugh, nose running and eyes swollen. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it.”
“Cubby,” Oliver says, voice rough. He looks at me like his heart is breaking. “You need to put a stop to this social media stuff. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t fair to you.”
“Oliver’s right,” Tilly says. “You shouldn’t be forced to carry that much hate.”
“It’s for the band,” I whisper. “It’s gotten us on the map. Gotten us this tour. It’s for the good of the group.”
“I’d rather see you never write a song again than have to deal with this,” Oliver says, his voice rising in earnest. “Please, Cubby. Talk to Harry. Talk to your team. They’ll understand.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t listen. I can’t. I’m so out of control of everything—where I go, where I sleep, what I wear, what people think about me—that choosing to spiral, to lose myself, is the only form of control I know.
It’s like my life is carrying on without me, like I’m missing every moment. Time ticks on and I’m stuck in the past as the future leaves me behind, hollow-eyed and numb as I scroll on social media, digging my nails into the festering wound.