All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  Bran’s mouth opened wordlessly. He was unequipped for this conversation. Her parents had taught her to achieve, while he’d learned to look out for himself. The problem was that they spent too much time apart—because of her rules. If he could just see her—he bent at the waist. He was so tired and so angry and the nerves holding him together were raw and worn thin. When he came back up one of them snapped.

  “If I’m so terrible, why don’t you ask your universe to intervene on my behalf—make your little wishes and have it all come true—”

  “I work for this success!”

  “—fix me up just the way you want—”

  “That’s not my job!”

  “You should be happy, Nelle. You’ve been so determined to find the worst in me and here it is. I must have planned this. I must be playing you. That’s what you’ve always wanted to think. And you’re right. I was using you. I thought you’d inspire me. And then I could write this damn album and—” Bran cut himself off, breathing heavily into the phone. She’d stopped interrupting. He should apologize, but his back teeth ground together in frustration and he couldn’t get the words out.

  Nelle had gone so silent he thought she’d hung up, but then she spoke, slow and calm to make sure he heard. “Listen up: I’m not your muse, Bran. I’m not here for your benefit. And I can’t fix you. You have to work on yourself.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re making me look like the asshole here.”

  “Oh, baby, you’re doing that on your own.”

  She hung up and his scalp burned from the grip of his hand at the top of his head. He let go and his hair stayed clumped together, wet from the fine rain that had started to fall. His throat was tight and his ear ached where he’d smashed the phone to it.

  He made his way over to Aya, waiting under a black umbrella next to a town car. The long lens of a paparazzi camera on the hood of a sedan across the street caught his eye. Great, so there’d be photos of “Bran Kelly distraught on phone.” They’d probably run next to a photo of Francesca with a story about how desperate he was to get back together with her.

  Bran Kelly. Distraught. Desperate. Looking like shit.

  He slumped into the car’s seat and Aya closed the door behind him. He’d lived up to the real family legacy: a Kelly pushing for more until there was nothing left.

  Bran Kelly. Chip off the old block. Deserved what he got.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Cut it off.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.” Nelle grabbed for the trimming shears, tugging them from their black fabric strap and upending the travel case Benj had spread on the narrow dressing room counter. There was a quick scuffle as Benj tried to stop her but Nelle twisted away in triumph. With the scissors raised and a fistful of hair, she met her friend’s eyes in the mirror and stopped.

  Embarrassment fizzed in her gut. Every time she thought about the things she’d been planning to tell Bran, it was like she’d washed back a mouthful of Pop Rocks with soda. She couldn’t be still with all the unwanted emotion bubbling inside her. She had to do something.

  Benj held her phone up, thumb hovering over a blue call button. “Put the scissors down.”

  “Or what? You’re gonna call Mina?” Mina would be back any minute anyway. She’d seen a GBR1 producer in the hall and gone to hammer out the details for Nelle’s interview the next day.

  Steady-handed Benj shook her head. “No, I’m going to call your mother, Antonella.”

  “You wouldn’t. You hate talking on the phone.”

  “If it meant stopping you from giving yourself bored sophomore bangs, I would answer unknown spam.”

  Benjamina Wasik didn’t bluff. She was steadfast and loyal and for a friend, she would lean all the way in. She would follow through. Nelle normally appreciated that initiative, that resourcefulness, but not right now—not when her friend would push that button.

  Nelle imagined the call, her mother’s sharp greeting, “Benjamina? Is something wrong?” And if she heard her mother’s voice now, she’d lunge for the phone and confess everything was wrong. She’d been so selfish, thinking a cheap secret was worth what her parents had given up. Her father’s health should never have been public knowledge. They had lost that family moment in church because she was there. The universe had given her so much and taken her parents’ anonymity, their sanctuary, their faith in their community. Why did they have to pay that price? How could she have ever thought the value of a few nights with Bran Kelly was anything compared to what her parents had paid up for her?

  “I’m over it. I’m just so over it.” Nelle’s elbow lowered slightly. “And it’s my hair.”

  Benj took a step closer. “Then I will do it. But we’re not going to have it look like some idiot boy got under your skin. We have to do this smart. I’ll help you. If you put down my fucking scissors.”

  Metal clattered against the counter as Nelle let the scissors fall from her hand. Her body vibrated with coiled tension. She had to face Bran in half an hour, when his set ended and hers began. He’d had all day to say something to her and he’d done nothing. She wasn’t like that. She made moves. “It’s not just him. I’m tired of it. Last night it tangled in my bridge pins during ‘Cosmic Order.’”

  “I get it.” Benj collected her shears.

  The standoff was over, but her friend was still holding the phone. “Shouldn’t you put that down too?”

  “No, we need to get a bafter.” Benj sighed when Nelle drew her eyebrows together in confusion. “A before and after? Ready? Smile through your eyes, please. There you go. Then we’ll take one when we’re done and you’re gonna post them both with the hashtag hairforcare. I have a friend trying to raise awareness and money for kids whose parents can’t afford health care—you’re also gonna need to make a donation so you don’t look cheap.”

  “And because I care.” Nelle forced out a prolonged breath.

  “Right. Do you want to bring Mina into the loop now or—”

  “When we’re done. She’ll get on board when she has no choice.” Once in the chair, Nelle’s knees still trembled. She pressed them tight together. Noise from the hallway filtered through the thin door. “Can you hurry up?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we wanted this to look like a fashion decision, not like you got too close to a fan blade.” Benj shook out a cape and it settled over Nelle with a soft flutter. She closed her eyes and waited for the sound of the first snip. Her heart was in her throat when the weight of Benj’s hands landed on her shoulders, a firm comfort.

  “I’m all out of clementines.”

  “I think this is bigger than clementines. And oranges. And grapefruit.” She adlibbed a quick hook, “Citrus can’t fix this.”

  Benj remained serious. “He’s an idiot.”

  Craning her neck, Nelle looked over her shoulder to agree. “He is.”

  “But you were going to stage a fight with him today anyway. Is it possible he’s an idiot who was trying to help?”

  “Yeah.” Nelle twisted the ring on her finger under the cape. Bran knew the stakes. He knew what would happen. And still he’d been careless. How many times did she have to explain it? Once should have been enough. If he cared, once would have been enough. If she was worth it to him, she wouldn’t have to keep explaining why. He would have heard her. The performer in her knew: what he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t correct. She’d fallen for his hoax after all—she’d believed that he wanted to listen. “But he said worse stuff when I called him on it.” With squared shoulders, she faced the mirror again. “So fuck that.”

  Bran was an idiot. But so was she. She was the idiot who’d been living in a fantasy. Who’d let a couple nights in a six-month span sustain a dream that they were building something real.

  “What stuff?”

  Nelle shifted. Sh
e just wanted Benj to start already. “Like, that I have to get my way. I want to be chased. Life’s not fair to him and I can’t compromise—” Benj sucked in a breath and Nelle twisted back again to look at her. “What?”

  With a sharp drop of her chin, Benj exhaled. “I told him that. In Chicago. He is an idiot. Because he did not understand what I meant.”

  “And what did you mean?” Did her best friend think she was selfish too?

  Tucking back a loose curl that framed Nelle’s face Benj said tenderly, “That you won’t compromise yourself. That you’ve worked too hard. I wanted him to understand what you had on the line. To value it.”

  Nelle bit into her cheek and turned back to the mirror, blinking the blur from her eyes. Why had she let herself imagine a future with someone who didn’t understand what mattered to her? Who didn’t value her vulnerability? Or her purpose?

  Benj shook out her hair. “I’m making sure that when he sees you with this haircut, he’s gonna know what he—”

  “No. I don’t care what he thinks. I just want it off.” Nelle pulled the ring off her finger and held it in her fist.

  “Okay. Here we go.”

  Benj swiveled Nelle towards the door so she had a clear view of her manager’s soundless, openmouthed shock when Mina walked in. She staggered against the door, shutting it tight, as if she could solve this problem before anyone came in and found out.

  “Why?” Mina fixed her attention on the mess of shorn hair at Nelle’s feet. “Why right now?”

  “Because...” The truth stuck in her throat. Because she’d exposed herself, and she’d misplaced her trust, and she hated it.

  Benj unclipped the cape. With nowhere else to hide it, Nelle pushed the ring back onto her finger as her friend removed the cover and distanced herself from the crime. “Because I wanted to. Benj stepped in when I threatened to do it myself. How does it look?” She spun towards the mirror and tried to find herself, instead of Mina’s deep frown.

  Benj had given her a lob. Her wavy hair made it look slightly disheveled, choppy, but in a way she immediately recognized as cool. As enviable. Her eyes shifted back to Mina’s as her manager drew the same conclusion. This was a look Nelle could rock. It was a look her fans would try to attain. It felt light and fresh but beyond what it did for her personally, it was good for business. Nelle posed for Benj and let her explain to Mina about #hairforcare. The mention of a hashtag galvanized Mina and she’d soon drafted the post on Nelle’s phone.

  “Your mom texted,” she relayed while Nelle warmed up. “Wants to know what show they can come to next.”

  Relief flooded Nelle’s body. She raised her face, a soundless thank you passing her lips. She’d released her fear months ago, and the universe was responding now, right when she needed a sign that she had her priorities straight. That real love was understanding, that real love was support. “Any one they want—can you handle it?”

  Mina nodded. “Of course. And I’m going to wait on posting the photo until after the set. Better impact for us to debut the look onstage.”

  Impact. That’s what Nelle wanted to have. But hers was an audience of one. Benj was right, she cared about Bran’s reaction. What they shared now was so much more than a secret. Maybe they would exchange words. Maybe they would fight. And maybe they’d even make up.

  But as she watched him finishing his set from the stage wings, the words she planned to say slipped away.

  She watched Bran Kelly perform. She watched him tussle his hair—he was hair! She watched his mouth pull in a slow, lopsided smile as he told the sea of people in the field in front of him that they’d see him soon with something new. That was rich. She’d seen him scribble lines, and she’d seen him discard them. She’d never found that coaster. No doubt he’d thrown it away when it didn’t immediately flourish into a completed song. He’d had an idea but couldn’t follow through. Despite what he’d told that crowd, Bran Kelly wasn’t making new music. They’d fall for his act, like she had. All of it for show. The worst part was seeing how easily he could pretend as long as it was to his benefit. Now she knew: doing what was best to keep them together didn’t make the cut.

  He could perform for an audience, but not for her. That crowd was what he needed, and she got that. She got it because if she weren’t going onstage in the next fifteen minutes, if she didn’t have that hit lined up, she wouldn’t have cut her hair, she’d be tearing it out.

  An orange sunset blazed in his mirrored sunglasses as he unplugged and turned her way. He’d thought they were broken and she’d fixed them. And now he expected her to fix everything for him. She was glad he had them on when he passed her coming off the stage. Glad she could focus on herself in their reflection, look herself in the eye instead of meeting icy blue that might have pierced through her resolve.

  It didn’t matter what Bran thought of her new look. It didn’t matter what she had thought they could be, what she had wanted to say to him, the things she had done for him. He had tried to reduce her to a spark when she was a star, burning endlessly.

  Nelle lifted her chin and Bran paused, expectant, waiting for her to start the fight they’d discussed. She stood silent. He unhitched his overear monitor and hesitated. The need to react crackled through her like feedback. But she held. She waited to see what he’d do if she didn’t make the first move. And when he couldn’t say a word, she looked past him.

  In ten minutes the crew would have the stage turned over to her. She’d have the spotlight, a backing track, and the crowd. Her parents would be at her next show. Mina and Benj were always at her back. She’d have everything she needed. Especially that moment when her voice dropped out and the fans carried her words forward, lifting them up and giving them a life of their own. When she sang “Under Water” tonight and seventy thousand people chorused the new hook back to her—take me home—she’d think of Bran Kelly as her muse. Someone she used for a good line. The arc of N3 formed in her mind, a love story that curved up one side and sloped down the other. She looked past him. To a year from now, when the crowd would still be there, and Bran Kelly would be an echo on their lips, words she’d write about a burnout, a man who was so afraid of failing, he just gave up.

  NK

  Sat, May 25, 10:53 pm

  I thought we weren’t going to let them get to us

  Read 10:55 pm

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nelle had made herself clear. When she hadn’t started a scene at Super Saturday Bran had known it was because she didn’t need to. She had nothing to protect. They were over. But it was the next day, when she went on GBR1’s Cover Corner, that she twisted the knife to make sure he felt it.

  Bran was watching it again. He was probably solely responsible for half the views on the damn thing. But he couldn’t stop himself. It was important that he remember just how much she wanted him to hurt. Because there was no doubt that performance was about him.

  Nelle sat at a piano (that part was for her father). Her short hair was just as jarring as it had been when he came offstage at Super Saturday. Curls that had felt like his salvation were gone, and with them the soft promise of night. A statement he understood intrinsically. The camera panned over Nelle’s fingers and Bran braced for another blow, a mallet to a hollow drum. Only the drum was his heart, because the angled ring he’d grown used to seeing on her left hand, the one hidden in plain sight for months, was gone too. He was undoubtedly the only person in the world who noticed. He was definitely the only one who understood.

  Nelle sang along as she played “Piece of My Heart.” Her rich voice was packed with confident emotion, pained but daring, as she made the well-worn song her own. Like one of his shirts. He remembered her indignant accusation: You’d rather play a song about Janis Joplin than by her? Technically, this was Erma Franklin, but he got the message.

  And if he hadn’t, there was the direct mention. The callout. When Peppa joined
Nelle to thank her and asked if she had a response to Bran’s own comments. “Anything you want to say to Bran Kelly?”

  Bran pulled the phone closer to his face to watch Nelle lift one coy shoulder and destroy him. “I’ll say what we’re all thinking: Where’s that new music?”

  * * *

  “Ouch,” Cormac deadpanned as Bran rolled onto his back on the teak patio. He crushed his eyes closed against the harsh sun and rested stinging palms on his heaving chest.

  “Get up.”

  “That fucking hurt.”

  “You’re soft, everything is going to hurt.” Cormac stopped rearranging the Hula-Hoops Bran had scattered when he tripped to kick his foot. “Get up.”

  Water splashed on his face and Bran lurched up, his abs aching. “Hey!”

  But it was Arlo, heaving himself out of the pool and offering a hand to pull him to his feet. Bran ignored it, examining his throbbing knee before meeting Cormac’s eyes. “Can you get me some ice?”

  “Your freezer fixed?”

  Arlo laughed, pulling a Hula-Hoop out of formation. “You haven’t heard it?”

  Cormac reached for the hoop and missed. “Heard it? It’s an ice maker.”

  “It’s loud now.” Spinning the hoop around his middle, Arlo rotated his hips in small circles. “Really fucking loud.”

  Cormac set his hands on his hips. “Why are you so good at that?”

  “Rhythm, C.”

  “Yeah, I know rhythm. Give it back, Bran’s running my course again.”

  Bran moved into the shade, collapsing on the couch of the outdoor lounge and putting his feet up on the low wall of the firepit. “Bran’s taking a break.”

  “I’m trying to help you, B.” The drummer frowned. “This is mental. Tell yourself it’s easy—stop thinking about the rest of it and push.”

  “I’m not thinking about anything, I’m just tired.”