Chapter 20 #2
“Who signs some autographs?” Darcy says, turning to Kevin. “Us?” She slaps her hand to her chest.
“No, the plumber from earlier. Yes, you,” he says, waving at us.
“Does anybody, er, want that?” Harry asks, sharing a skeptical glance with Kale.
Kevin grins. “Apparently, a pretty good crowd at the back door does.”
“What would we even sign?” I ask, nose scrunched up. “I don’t know why my immediate thought was necks and tits.”
“Oh my God, Cub, that was my initial thought,” Darcy says with a giggle. “Could you imagine signing a neck?”
“Like feeling the pulse under the marker tip?” We both gag.
“I love you all dearly but as your manager I’m kindly asking you to stop talking and go sign anything and everything your fans out there want you to sign, including necks and tits.
This will be great for publicity.” Kevin whisks us out of the room and to the door that opens to the side alley where we parked the bus.
“Here we go,” he says, pushing it open, a riptide of noise grabbing our ankles and tugging us out into the night.
The small crowd gathers around us in a semicircle, herding us against the brick wall of the venue. Rationally, I know it’s not that many people—we aren’t some massive celebrities like Harry Styles or the Rolling Stones—but it might as well be for how immediately overwhelming I find the moment.
So many hands and bodies and voices reach for us—well, Harry, mainly—yelling our names and snapping pictures on their phones. Markers are pressed into my hand, papers shoved under my nose. My wrists are grabbed, tugged, pulling me along in the chaotic energy.
The crush of it feels like sinking in quicksand, every nerve in my body pulled tight with fear as random cheeks press to my face for photos no one asked me if they could take.
I look around, and everyone seems to be handling it better than I am. Well, except for Skull, who is nowhere to be found so I’m assuming he’s already miles away hunting down fries for Deja.
Kale has been corralled into his own little circle, signing in a methodical order (he’s very lucky having a decent personality isn’t a prerequisite for being a musician).
Darcy has her arms around two women about our age, the three of them pressed tight as someone else takes a bunch of pictures.
Harry is a natural, smiling and laughing and seeming to genuinely connect with the people swamping us. I can’t stop staring.
How?
How is he so calm? How is he okay with being pulled in a thousand different directions, everyone wanting something different, something special from him? Doesn’t he feel like he’s about to break? Be pulled apart at the seams until there’s no putting him back together again?
His head lifts from whatever he’s signing, turning to me and catching my stare. Our gazes hold, and he smiles, flashing a wink. He must sense how much I’m drowning, because he maneuvers toward me, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze.
Someone notices. Of course they do.
“Oh my god, do that again,” a person yells, their thumb moving in rapid fire as they snap photos of our parted hands.
“Any bad blood between you and Connor for you stealing his girl?” some douche with a grin asks, raising his eyebrows and giving me an appraising look that sours my stomach.
Harry frowns. “The only bad blood between us is for the shit way he’s treated people I care about.”
I glance up at him, my lips parting. He gives me a quick, sad smile before turning away, clapping his hands.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says over the noise. “Tonight was amazing. You were amazing. Best crowd we’ve ever had. But we’re all knackered and calling it a night.”
Without further ceremony, he laces his fingers with Darcy’s, places a hand on my back, and guides us inside, Kale on our heels, the door slamming shut behind us.
The noise is cut off, and the angry hornets of thoughts buzzing through my head start to calm. Kevin ushers us back to the green room to catch our breath, then makes good on his promises.
Half an hour later, we’re scarfing down greasy fast food in a trance, sitting on the floor of the bus, lights dimmed and curtains drawn.
The crash hits hard—an inevitable comedown from such a high.
Despite the chaos of the signing, I can’t shake the satisfied grin that etches across my mouth, eyes heavy as I sit on my mattress, back propped against the base of Kale’s bunk, Darcy across from me.
Even when exhausted, Kale’s fingers can’t sit still, and he gently plucks his violin.
Harry starts to sing along, an Irish folk song he’s played countless times over the years.
His voice is rough and flowing like water traveling over a bed of rocks.
The combination of his singing and the strings is bright but haunting, the type of song that chases an optimistic ending to an otherwise sad film, never pushing out the melancholy, but coexisting with it.
Deep comfort wraps around us, Skull and Tiny Deja already fast asleep on their bunk, cuddled close with an empty fry carton resting on the pillow between them. It makes my throat ache.
I grab my phone, trying to wake it, but the screen stays black. With a mild sigh, I reach along the floor for my charger and plug it in, tossing it to the side. Without the distraction of scrolling, my eyes fall to Darcy. I’m surprised to see her already looking at me.
Our gazes hold, my heartbeat keeping time with the music.
Then, she smiles—slow and radiant—and something in me unlocks, a stream of languid joy tracing through my veins.
Like we’re tethered by a wire, we move at the same moment, pushing away from the base of the bunks to lay down on our sides facing each other.
Kale’s music turns slower, Harry’s voice gravelly until he fades into a gentle hum.
In the darkness, Darcy reaches out, bridging the space between us and taking my hand in hers.
Touching me so intentionally for the first time in a long time.
Part of me wants to cry out at the relief of it, the instantaneous swell of safety.
But the moment’s too perfect, my eyes too heavy, to ruin it with such mortifying feelings, so I let myself drift to sleep instead, holding on to her hand as I slip away.
It’s still dark when I wake up, everyone else fast asleep.
Darcy’s on her side curled into a tight ball facing away from me.
For a second, I think about scooting closer, letting my shoulder rest against the curve of her spine, letting her warmth and the rhythm of her breaths lull me back to sleep.
But instead I grab my phone out of habit, squinting at the harsh brightness as I tap in my password and open Instagram.
The number of notifications is so absurdly large, I bolt upright, panic spiking. I bring my pillow to my chest, biting the edge and choking down a whimper as I scroll.
It’s a video of Harry’s response to the bad blood question, edited with a dramatic swell of music after he says it, a cut to us heading to the backstage door, a zoom in on his hand on my back. My stomach twists and head swims as I see it has almost a million views.
Not wasting any time, I turn to Google, typing in my name and Harry’s. A slew of headlines pop up.
Silence Broken: Harry O’Connell publicly confirms relationship status with bandmate Cubby Clark after weeks of PDA and speculation
What happened to bro code? Harry O’Connell makes pointed jab at his new girlfriend’s ex, singing sensation Connor McCabe
Feud brought to the forefront: Cubby Clark shamelessly flaunts relationship with bandmate, and her ex’s best friend
How about this headline: Cubby Clark screams into the void so loud she rips open throat?
Or maybe: Cubby Clark is sick of only being talked about in the context of men!
Or, a true gem of a contender: Cubby Clark is hopelessly obsessed with her best friend who is not Harry but said best friend does not reciprocate romantic feelings!
Oh and also Cubby is now completely questioning her sexuality and having a bit of an identity crisis to top it all off!
I skim one of the articles that looks slightly less sensationalized.
Members of Tea Time Tantrum find themselves in some hot water.
The band first gained notoriety after front man Connor McCabe left for his soaring solo career.
Becoming an overnight sensation, McCabe’s hit song “grin and bear it” was rumored to be written about ex-bandmate/girlfriend Cubby Clark.
Since then, Tea Time Tantrum has not missed an opportunity to capitalize on their unearned notoriety, hinting for weeks at a growing romance between its new leads, Clark and Harry O’Connell.
While rumors seemed to be confirmed by the regular lip-locking of the pair at the end of their shows, O’Connell squashed any room for relationship deniers, speaking out against McCabe publicly and declaring his ex-friend mistreated Clark.
The love triangle keeps getting messier, and it’s hard to see if there’s any end to this growing feud in sight.
McCabe, for his part, has kept it classy, saving any animosity he has for his razor-sharp lyrics and brilliantly produced music videos.
Brilliantly produced? Razor-sharp? Do I live on the same planet as these people?
A whine rolls out of my throat, and I turn off the screen, hitting the corner of my phone against my forehead. I want to cry. I want to run. I want out of this ridiculous scheme and this endless cycle of relevance from what guy I’m supposedly snogging or torturing.
This can’t be how life is supposed to be, how love is supposed to be. There’s no way it’s supposed to hurt this much, destroy me this profoundly. My phone vibrates as it makes contact with my skull, shaking my brain. Maybe it can scramble memories of the last few months out of my head.
With a sigh and no self-control, I check the notification.
Connor has started a live stream on Instagram.
Yes, I still follow him. Yes, I hate myself. But, in my weak defense, I was told it would look worse for me to unfollow him.
Because no one can dig their fingers into a wound quite like I can, I grab my earbuds, crawl to the bathroom, and click into the stream. Connor’s sharp, handsome features fill my screen.
“Hello,” he says quietly, Irish accent rolling the word to soften the edges. “Just giving everyone a minute to get on.”
Several thousand people are already shooting up hearts from the corner. Dante has nothing on this circle of hell I’m living in.
“All right. Hey, guys,” he starts. The man has never had an original thought, I swear. “So … there’s no easy way to start this off, but obviously there’s been a lot of talk about my personal life, particularly my dating life, recently.”
He looks away, dramatically of course, like he’s digging deep on what to say.
He turns back to the camera, stunning jawline set in defiance, like he’s busting through some invisible barrier he as a white, cis, het guy has been a victim of for a lifetime.
“I’ve always tried to keep my personal life personal. ”
Liar.
“What comes out in my music—my art—is personal.”
Then why is it out for public consumption, you prick?
“And whatever interpretations you have of that belong to you as a fan, but so much of it is being dumped on my doorstep in the form of rumors and feuds that, quite honestly, don’t exist.”
I will feud with you till the day I die, Connor McCabe, and that is a universal truth.
“All this to say: I’m taking a short break from social media. This isn’t permanent, I promise, but I do need some time to focus on my mental health, especially with the world tour coming up.”
Sublime humble brag there at the end, you rancid twat stain.
“You all have shown me so much support and love, and I pour it all back to you, our energy a beautiful, continuous cycle.”
Great, now I’m dry heaving.
“And I appreciate the kindness and understanding I’m sure you’ll extend to me for this too. I can’t say I deserve your grace, but I cherish it.”
With a gratuitous kiss blown to the camera that results in an eruption of hearts and comments, he signs off, and I swipe out of the app, tossing my phone on the cramped counter and biting down on my knuckles to hold back a scream.
I think it’s interesting that Connor—someone who created this absolute shitshow by writing about me being a lousy lay and disappointing first love, someone who has never had a mean thing uttered about him on the internet—is the one given the grace and compassion for a social media break while I’m forced to pretend to be dating my friend while being ripped apart joint by joint online.
I bury my head in my hands and let out a muffled groan.
I. Hate. Everything.
My phone buzzes and I reluctantly drag it toward me, a delirious little rat in a fucked-up experiment. My stomach bottoms out, heart snapping like a rubber band up my throat as a name I never wanted to see again pops up on my phone with the text.
Connor.
With shaky fingers, I open the message, reading it over and over.
We need to talk