Chapter 20
We’re in New York, one of the most exciting cities on the planet, a place where history-altering music is created and performed every single day.
And I don’t care about any of it because Darcy hasn’t talked to me since Cleveland two weeks ago, and I’m apparently unable to have a thought that isn’t about her.
We did shows in Ann Arbor and Chicago, then looped back around to Pittsburgh before finally getting to the city.
Harry’s been booked up on interviews, my dismal attempt in Ohio solidifying him as our spokesperson.
One did fairly well, an appearance on an internet show where he ate hot dogs with an incredibly hot host, and it did a lot to build excitement for our shows in the city.
We’ve played two gigs here already: a sold-out spot in Brooklyn and a more meager (but still respectable) turnout in Midtown.
Harry’s kissed me at all of them.
And that’s good.
It’s right.
Suitable, at the very least.
Because that’s what we agreed to: a fake, whirlwind romance surrounding our music, infusing it with the lore of what people want us to be.
Things have gotten a bit out of hand on social media, though.
The winds have changed, people now making Harry the center point of their obsession, tolerating me well enough as a tagalong to his glimmer.
One post in particular from a recent show has gained a tremendous amount of attention, a carousel of photos from an audience member getting reposted to stories, fan accounts, and some media outlets.
Objectively, it’s not hard to see why the pictures have people feeling some type of way.
Scrolling through the series is like watching a timeline of the show.
All of us walking out onstage, my hand raised in a wave to the crowd—Harry’s eyes fixed on me, lips turned up in a precious grin that has his dimple popping.
Harry during a piano solo, head bowed and eyes closed, mouth pressed close to the mic—me in the corner, guitar slung in front of me with one hand gripping the neck, the other at my throat as I watch him play.
Another of us pressed close, singing together, him giving me a cheeky smirk while I playfully narrow my eyes up at him.
One from the end of the show, his forehead dropped to mine, sweat curling the hair at our temples, the corners of our eyes and bridges of our noses crinkled from our smiles.
And, finally, the kiss. His palm cradling the angle of my jaw like his hand was created to fit there, his thumb brushing my cheek, entire body centered and focused on mine like he’s putting every ounce of himself into kissing me. It’s a picture of a man kissing someone he’s head over heels for.
It hurts to look at him.
Darcy is in the background of every photo, usually a blur on the periphery—a pinkish smudge doing her best to avoid being captured.
Except for the picture of the kiss. Half of her face is in focus like she turned her gaze away the second our lips touched, eyes downcast and teeth digging into her lower lip.
It’s a picture of someone I used to be able to read every expression of. I have no idea what this one means.
It hurts to look at her even more.
Social media users seem to have no problem looking, though.
no but fr the way he kisses her??? Like he can’t not?? most romantic shit I’ve ever seen
God I’ve seen what you’ve done for others …
i stfg if she hurts precious angel harry she will never know peace
Okay but the way he looks at her HELP
The pictures have upped the energy at our shows, but tonight’s crowd at a decent-sized venue on the Lower East Side is a new level.
The venue manager warned us that the vibe might be a little extra, most uni students having gotten out earlier that day for the summer, but nothing could have prepared us for this.
I can’t tell if the screaming is for us as a band or more the by-product of cheap drinks and heavy pours, but either way it’s absolutely feral. We’re all feeling it, the energy lifting us on a different wavelength, the music running in us, through us. It’s our best show yet and we know it.
I shoot a grin to Darcy, who is somehow the brightest thing in this place.
Both of our hands work up and down the necks of our instruments in beautiful harmony.
It’s only when we’re onstage that things feel somewhat normal between us, like we shed the baggage of our real selves when we make music.
The second the curtains close, it’s back to silence and averted gazes.
She bites her lip, putting her entire body into the way she plays.
With a deep breath, I step back up to the microphone, fingers still strumming as I let out the last lines of the verse.
No, it’s not water under the bridge, it’s a hurricane, it’s a storm.
Sure hope hell keeps you nice and warm,
And I’ll rebuild myself tomorrow.
Tonight I’m giving in to all my sorrow,
Counting up the hours,
Drowning in cold showers,
The water touches me better than you ever could.
People scream, many singing along, and it fills me with so much pride, I could burst. We play the last bars of the song, Darcy harmonizing with me on the outro.
The noise of the audience crashing like a wave against the stage.
I stare at the writhing crowd, taking in the indescribably special moment I’ve shared with all of these people.
Each one is someone. Some are hurting and some caused the hurt.
Some are happy and some are scared and some are all those things at once.
But, for one night, a few minutes, we’ve shared something dazzling.
Motion to my right pulls my attention, and I expect it to be Harry moving toward me like he always does.
But it’s Darcy, bass gripped in one hand, the other outstretched in her wild dash toward me. I turn my guitar out of the way at the last moment before she crashes into me, rocking us back and forth as the cheers continue around us. She holds me so tight, I can’t breathe.
I don’t mind.
She can have all the oxygen in my lungs if it means she’ll stay close to me like this.
“That was brilliant,” she yells near my ear so I can hear her over the crowd. “You’re brilliant.”
She presses a quick kiss to my cheek—one that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but friendly—before pulling back, grin huge and eyes glinting as she holds my gaze for another second, hands still on me.
Eventually she steps away and waves at the crowd.
My fingers fly to my cheek, holding that kiss in place like I can brand it to my skin.
I have to keep my hand there because otherwise it would jerk out, gripping Darcy’s dress, bringing her back to me until her lips land straight on mine. Where they belong.
Where I wish they belonged.
An arm wraps around my shoulder, and I’m in such a daze it takes me a second to recognize the familiar touch of Harry. My stomach clenches, sinking like a stone at his handsome smile, the joy he turns from the crowd to me. How genuine it all is.
It kills me.
He follows the normal routine, the choreography, giving me a squeeze before ducking his head for a kiss. I watch the descent of his mouth in slow motion like it’s the arc of the executioner’s sword.
I turn at the last moment, and Harry’s lips fall where Darcy’s were a minute before. And it feels so wrong, like he brushed away something beautiful, snatching its chance to grow into what it should be.
If Harry notices, he doesn’t show it. “You’re amazing,” he says as he pulls back, tucking some of my hair behind my ear.
Somehow, his kindness makes it all worse, nausea churning up my stomach, sweat prickling my skin.
Harry reads something in my expression, tilting his head, reaching out for me again like he wants to fix whatever’s broken in me.
Instead of letting him, I turn, scampering off stage to outpace the slice of pain trying to take me out by the knees.
“Cubby!” Kevin booms the second I’m in the wings. “You all were unreal.”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I croak, gulping past the knot in my throat, the sharp tug of tears threatening to embarrass me.
Kevin’s eyes are glinting, fixed over my shoulder as the rest of the band files off stage.
He ushers us to the green room, making sure we’re hydrated and fed as he gushes on and on about the show and the crowd.
After a few minutes, Deja bursts through the door, jumping into Skull’s arms and wrapping herself around him like an amorous koala, screaming the whole time.
“You’re the next big thing. I can feel it,” Kevin says.
I expect us all to scoff like we normally do when someone says that, almost as an exercise of luck. If you believe too truly you’re the next big thing, the universe won’t ever let it happen. But when I glance around, everyone looks like they agree with Kevin’s statement.
There’s a knock on the door, and a stagehand pokes his head in, gesturing for Kevin, who maneuvers through the tight space to him. They chat for a second, then Kevin grins, clapping the guy on the back before turning to us. “I’m sure you all are exhausted after that.”
“’Bout to faint dead away if I don’t get something besides this bird food in me,” Harry says, chewing on a handful of mixed nuts. “Can we get burgers?”
“Oh god, a burger sounds amazing,” Kale says, looking at Harry like he suggested a cure for the climate crisis. Harry winks at him, reaching out an arm and pulling Kale to his side so they lean on each other.
“I would love some chicken tenders, if you’re taking an order, Kev,” Darcy adds.
“Fries for me, please,” Deja chimes in.
Kevin frantically waves his hands. “We can get all of that later—”
“Tiny Deja needs fries now,” Skull says (speaking for the first time in a few days, I’m pretty sure). Deja giggles and reaches up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Fine. Okay. I’ll put in an order. But while we’re waiting, what do you say to signing some autographs?”
We all look around, similar frowns on our faces.