by Jen Wilde
Ry has been like a brother to me for years. Once he looked at us the way he did, like we had betrayed him, it was all over. I never want to see that look on his face again. I can’t let him down again.
* * *
When I begrudgingly arrive at the studio, Alfie and Ry are already jamming together. I smile like I’m not broken, say hello like his name doesn’t burn my throat, sit down like every step I took to get here didn’t feel like walking on hot coals.
I’ve had trouble sticking to my other rules lately, but this one is too important to bend or break—my career depends on me showing up, no matter how much it hurts.
“So Sal wants us to do an acoustic version of ‘ILY,’ right?” I ask, pretending I don’t notice all the tension in the room.
“Yeah,” Ryan says flatly as he looks over the set list. “Let’s aim to do ‘Where There’s Smoke’ and ‘And by the Way,’ too.”
I nod, repressing my urge to scream NO and sink to the floor in a puddle of tears. Alfie sits on the office chair across from me, staring into the booth. Ry snaps his fingers in front of his face.
“Yo,” he says. “You with us, Alfie?”
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is croaky and tired.
“Are you okay?” I ask without thinking.
His eyes widen a little, like he’s surprised I’m talking to him. “Never better.” I’ve never heard a more sarcastic comment in my life. It makes me shrink in my chair.
“Jeez,” I mutter. “Sorry I asked.”
“Let’s just get this done,” Ryan says.
The urge to dissolve into tears returns with a vengeance, and I have to excuse myself from the room.
I hide in the bathroom for a few minutes, dabbing my eyes with toilet paper and trying to talk myself into going back out there. Gotta move. Gotta go back in.
I show up, back in the studio. My heart races, my palms sweat, but I show up.
Ryan greets me with a smile that I know means he wants to move on from last night. “Ready to get to work?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
We dive into the music for hours. It hurts to play these songs over and over again, to pour over every word, every verse, every beat until it’s right. But still, I sing along, I slam the beat out of my drums, I let the music vibrate through my bones even though it’s killing me. This is the soundtrack to my pulverized heart.
This is what I showed up for, this is what the people who love our songs are waiting for, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give it 100 percent.
When we record “Where There’s Smoke,” all I can see is the fire in Alfie’s eyes when he sang it to me that night on the couch. When we record “And by the Way,” Ryan’s lyrics have a whole new meaning to me. I feel the arrow in my own heart, and it’s carved with Alfie’s name.
The only song that doesn’t ache to play is “ILY.” The memory of our fans that night is the only thing keeping me going, and I clutch it like my life depends on it.
Alfie and I only talk to each other when it’s about the songs, and even though Ryan attempts to crack jokes and lighten the mood, it doesn’t work.
I check the time on my phone. Two p.m. I need a caffeine hit if I’m going to make it through this. I leave the room and lean against the wall in the hallway, just trying to breathe. There’s a wall between me and Alfie, and I don’t know how to climb over it. I grab a Red Bull from the vending machine, chug half of it, and prepare to go back in.
Gotta show up.
“I was just telling Alfie about a new song I wrote,” Ry says when I go back in. “Wanna hear it?”
“Go for it,” I say as I take a seat on the couch. Alfie sits nearby, on the arm of it, even though there’s plenty of space free by my side. I pretend I don’t notice the distance he’s putting between us. He’s probably worried I’ll pounce on him like a horny tiger or be drawn in to his pheromones like a zombie to brains. I take another sip of Red Bull and mentally roll my eyes. He’s so full of himself.
Ryan goes into the booth with his guitar and slides the headphones over his ears. He starts strumming, and then his velvet voice fills the room.
I think you’re flirtin’ with that grin …
… I think I’m flirtin’, too.
You won my heart …
… when you held my hand.
When you call me around …
… I can’t get there fast enough …
… you wait for me at the door …
… arms open when I show up.
It’s all new, this feelin’ and me …
… never felt this, about anyone.
“Thoughts?” he asks when he comes back into the room. I can’t answer him, because I’m choking on my own pathetic tears.
“Wild,” Alfie says, and for the first time today, I see his smile.
Ry looks to me for my opinion, and all I can do is nod.
“Are you crying?” he asks. Alfie whips his head around to look at me, and I swear I see a hint of pain in his eyes when he notices the tears in mine.
“It’s just that good,” I croak. “I just … I feel it, you know?” I avoid Alfie’s gaze.
I know that song is about Ry and Will, but I can’t help but notice the parallels between their relationship and mine with Alfie. Same beginnings, but very different endings.
“Same,” Alfie says. He turns to face the booth again. “I feel it, too.”
My heart perks up like someone called its name. He feels it, too? Does he mean the song? The lyrics? Or does he mean … he feels what I feel about him?
“You do?” I blurt out. My cheeks burn from embarrassment.
Alfie shrugs. “Of course. The tune is on fire.”
Oh. That’s what he meant. Not the lyrics. Not me.
Not me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“This is a really bad idea,” I say to Chloe as we walk into Bar 161 for the second night in a row.
They link arms with me and pat my hand. “I told you, Paris is in New York. I’ll be fine. But you can go back to my place if you don’t wanna be here.”
I scan the bar and groan when I see Alfie sitting at the booth with our friends. I don’t want to be here, but my only other option is to sit alone at Chlo’s all night, and that sounds even worse. At least here I can’t hear myself think. I don’t know what it says about me that I can’t bear to be alone in an empty, quiet house. Am I so used to being surrounded by chaos that peace and quiet scares me? Whoa. That is not a rabbit hole I want to slide down right now.
I bring my attention back to Chlo. I can continue my existential crises later.
We slide into the booth next to our friends, and I end up across from Alfie. When I dare to meet his gaze, he looks away, brushing his hair back. As he lifts his arm, I notice a new tattoo near his left elbow. He must have gotten it once we were finished at the studio this afternoon.
“New ink?” Alyssa asks, noticing it, too.
He stretches his arm out. “Yeah. Got it done today.”
Charlie leans forward, squinting. “What’s it say?”
He glances at me. “Only fools.”
Alyssa stares at it, furrowing her brow. “Isn’t that from an Elvis song?”
Alfie doesn’t say anything. He drops his arm under the table, out of view, and tugs on his sleeve.
Chloe takes a sip of their drink and absentmindedly pokes the ice with the straw. “Yeah, it is. Great song, too. Why’d you get that?”
“Does it matter?” is all he says. Chloe narrows their eyes at him.
“What’s with the attitude?” Chloe asks.
All I can do is watch, but my insides are twisting and turning over and over. Everyone is staring at Alfie, and I can’t handle it anymore, so I get out my phone and pretend not to be paying attention.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice strained. “What’s with the twenty questions about my tattoo?”
“Alfie,” Chloe says, a surprised expression on their face, “chill. You always love telling us
about your new ink. Why are you acting so salty?”
He clenches his jaw and stares out over the bar. “I’m not acting salty. And the tattoo doesn’t mean anything.” He locks eyes with me then, and I hold my breath. “It means nothing.”
Silence falls over our table, even though the rest of the bar is buzzing with music and conversation. I’m fuming. It’s taking all my strength not to scream. I want to yell at him, to take him by his T-shirt and ask him what the fuck that tattoo is supposed to mean. Is it a dig at me? Is it some strange way of getting my attention? Or is this his way of carving the date of death on the tombstone of our friendship?
“Um,” Charlie says, holding her palms up in the air. “Am I missing something here? I’m so lost right now.”
Chloe stares at Alfie. “Same.”
Finally, I find my voice. “I need a water.”
The next thirty seconds are filled with awkward glances and quiet discomfort as I climb out of the booth. I linger for a moment, wanting to say something to him. I rest my palms on the table and lower my head until Alfie looks at me.
“Nice tat,” I say, trying to keep my words steady. “Real nice.” I roll my eyes and push away from the table, his sad expression the last thing I see before I disappear into the crowd.
I push through the busy dance floor and pull up a seat all the way on the other side of the bar, out of view from my friends. Someone sits next to me and nudges me with their elbow.
“Hey,” Jessie says.
I groan internally.
“Soooo,” she says when I don’t say hello. “I’m sorry about slamming the door into you last night. Is your back okay?”
She rubs my back, and I wince away even though it doesn’t hurt that much. “I’ll be fine. I know it was an accident. I was about to royally fuck myself over anyway, so you kinda saved me.”
“Seriously?” She pushes my shoulder. “What were you about to do?”
I sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t do it.”
Jessie calls out to the bartender and orders a tequila. I roll my eyes, thinking there’s no way he’s going to serve her, but then I remember she was drinking here last night, too. A moment later, the bartender places two shots in front of us, along with lime slices and salt. I cringe. She pushes one in front of me.
“No, thanks,” I say to her. “How are you even getting served? I thought the cops took your fake ID.”
She shrugs. “They did. But me and Paulie go way back.” She waves at the bartender, and he grins at her. “And he owes me for the time I got him tickets to Yeezy’s sold-out show.”
I remember that. She went behind my back and harassed people on my management team until one of them wrangled tickets for her.
Wow. Why was I with this girl? And why the hell am I sitting next to her at a bar right now?
“Come on,” she says, nudging the glass closer to me.
“Fuck off,” I say.
She picks it up and waves it in front of me like she’s trying to hypnotize me.
“One won’t hurt,” she says.
I fully intend to swat her hand away, but somehow I end up just staring at the shot, trying to talk myself out of taking it. I don’t know if it’s the thumping music or the drunk people pressing up against me or the drip-drip-drip of my heart as it drains of all hope, but I cannot come up with one good reason not to drink this shot. The devil and angel squabble on my shoulders.
Six weeks sober.
Six weeks of roller-coaster heartbreak.
You’ve come so far.
Yes, you’ve come far. One drink won’t hurt that.
Think of your career.
Exactly, you should be able to celebrate your career. Just one drink.
One drink could be enough to ruin everything.
One drink could be enough to wash all the pain away.
I look at Jessie, and she must see the hesitancy on my face because she groans.
“Em,” she says, putting an arm around my shoulders, “it’s just one drink. And I already paid for it.” She slides it closer to me again. “Come on. I’m not doing it unless you do it with me.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t do it, then?” I suggest. But then I glance over the bar and see Alfie. He sees me with a shot and Jessie’s arm around me. Then he shakes his head, like he’s disappointed, and that just makes me so mad that I sprinkle salt on my hand, lick it, then pick up the shot glass and tip the tequila into my mouth just to spite him. My throat burns. I bite down on the lime, and my eyes water. And I do it all while staring him down.
“Woohoo!” Jessie calls. “Emmy King is back, baby!”
I keep glaring at Alfie, and just to prove to him that I don’t need his love or his pity, I snatch Jessie’s shot from her hand and drink that, too.
“Whoa!” Jessie says. “Okay! Two more, please, Paulie!”
I tear my gaze away from Alfie and back to the bar, picking up the next shot as the bartender pours it. I tip it back and slam the empty glass onto the bar.
“Yes!” I scream, already feeling a little woozy. “Two more, please, barkeep! The King doth hath returned!”
Jessie laughs. “Here we go, girl.”
* * *
Soon I’ve lost count of how many drinks I’ve had, and I’m giggling uncontrollably as Jessie tells some story about a girl she hooked up with last night.
“I’m glad to know you’ve moved right on to the next,” I say.
“What can I say?” she asks, lifting her arms into the air. “I got game.”
We laugh some more, and then she leans in closer. “So, hey, what was that uncool thing you were about to do when I hit you with the door last night?”
I roll my eyes. “Lord. You do not wanna know. Trust me.”
“Sure I do! Come on. We’re all friends here.” She gestures to everyone at the bar, all of them strangers.
I sigh and drop my face into my hands. “I was about to tell Alfie I’m in love with him. Can you believe that shit?”
“I knew I was right!” She throws her head back in laughter and slams her hand on the bar.
I wag a finger in her face. “Nope. Nope. I swear to God, it started after we broke up.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, girl. We should go grab some cheeseburgers.”
I start to shake my head, but it makes me dizzy. “Nah. Paps outside. Can’t leave till I’m sober.”
“Ha! Not possible.” She runs her fingers down my arm. “Come on, you can fake it. Neutral, remember?”
“Thy musteth take shelter in this here dungeon of inebriation.” I concentrate, trying to focus my vision on her. “If I get caught like this, I’ll be in big trouble. BIG. Capital B.”
Jessie laughs. “You know what else has a capital B?”
“Boobies?”
Her gaze falls to my cleavage, and she bites her bottom lip. “Well, that, too. But that’s not what I had in mind. Maybe for dessert.”
“What starts with B?” I ask.
“Burgers!” She squeezes my cheeks, and I shake her off.
“Nooooo,” I say. “You go. I’ll stay here.”
Jessie looks away, and I follow her gaze to see Alfie still sitting in the booth with our friends. He’s laughing with Chloe about something, and it hurts to see him so together while I’m drowning at the bar. Jessie’s hand is back on my cheek again, turning me to face her.
“I’m not leaving you here with him,” she says, glaring at him over my shoulder. “He obviously screwed you over.”
“Pfffft,” I say. I try to roll my eyes, but I just end up throwing my head back in a weird, uncoordinated way. “You’re acting like he’s dangerous. He’s not. He’s harmless. And sweet. And sexy. And such a good kisser. And … And…” A wail spills out of me. “Why doesn’t he looooooove meeeee?”
Other people at the bar give me sideways glances. Jessie puts an arm around me, and even though I’m drunk, I’m very aware of how uncomfortable it makes me. I don’t want her to touch me, but I know if I tell he
r to stop she’ll just get mad.
Wow. That’s not good. I’d rather let her hang an arm around me and be uncomfortable than speak up and make her mad. Memories of us when we were together run through my mind, all the other times I felt uncomfortable or belittled or invalidated by her but didn’t say anything out of fear of making her angry. All the times she doubted me or didn’t trust me. All the times she hurt me but then I was the one who apologized. I didn’t see it as an abusive relationship at the time, but now …
God. I’m gonna puke. But I burst into tears instead.
“For real, Em,” Jessie says. “You are being so pathetic right now.”
Hearing that only makes me cry harder.
“Stop,” she says, finally pulling her arm away. “Don’t be such a little bitch. You’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand, and you’re crying over some douchebag. Do you know how many people would kill to have your life? Do you know what I would do to have your life?”
I sniff back more tears. “Just because I’m having a shitty night doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for everything I have.” I want to say more, but the words get stuck in my throat.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says, looking at me like she’s disgusted. She downs another shot and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “You think you’re the only one who’s got a broken heart? Stop being so selfish.”
She slides another shot over to me, and I wave it off, my stomach lurching just at the sight of it. She shakes her head.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll have it. But you’re paying for it.”
Suddenly I feel just as small as I did when we were together. I reach into my bag and fish out my purse, handing my credit card over to the bartender. I just want to get away from her as fast as I can.
“She’s paying for the whole night, all our drinks,” Jessie tells Paul. He looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. Just pay and leave, Emmy. Then I watch as Jessie does my shot and sucks on a lime.