by Vicki James
One thing he loved about me more than my body and my heart?
My voice.
Danny said we could be an edgy, modern-day version of The Carpenters if I’d let it happen. He’d learn to play the guitar, and with my voice, we could make sweet music forever. I always laughed and shrugged him off, too embarrassed to perform for anyone who wasn’t him.
There, however, on that open road, I lifted my arms in the air and lost myself to that song. I let the wind push back my hair, push back my arms, and push back my worries.
“Fuck, Daisy. You look hot! You’re gonna make me crash,” Danny joked, but I didn’t care.
My eyes were closed, and I lost myself to creating a new memory with the best guy I’d ever known.
I woke up slowly, my eyes flickering open against a wet pillowcase. I’d been crying, and now that damn song was playing on repeat in my mind after years of me pressing mute every time it dared to rear its head.
“Fuck Danny Silver,” I whispered to myself.
My morning started slow and sluggish, the memories of the night before mixing with the dream that hadn’t even been a dream, but a memory. Something very real. Something very true. The headache I had taunted me until I stepped out into the fresh air and headed for the shop. It was a Sunday, and we lived in a coastal resort. I opened because it was one of the busiest days of the week, and it was time to make some money.
The bell above the door rang out when I stepped inside, and I winced at the noise, willing the ibuprofen to kick in before I accidentally threw something in a temper again. Maybe Danny had been right, and I had gotten fiercer in his absence.
My hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and I’d foregone all makeup since I didn’t have a mirror at my vanity table to use anymore. I looked about as good as I felt.
As I stepped into the back room through the seashell curtain, my phone began to ring in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing Gina’s name.
“Yeah?” I answered, sounding ruder than I’d planned.
“Shit, is it that bad?”
“What do you mean?” I kicked an almost empty box of padded envelopes under a shelf to try and keep it out of the way, and then I began ruffling through some stock. “Is what bad?”
“Your Danny hangover.”
My head shot up, banging straight onto the shelf above. “Mother of fuck!” I cried out as the pain tore through my skull, and I reached up to rub it, closing my eyes to try and dull the pain.
“Erm… maybe I should… go,” Gina said slowly, in a very un-Gina like manner. “We can have this conversation later.”
“What conversation? There’s no conversation to have.” My head throbbed, and I could already feel a small bump forming when I ran my fingers over it.
Gina paused, and it felt like she was trying to choose her words carefully.
“G?” I said, hissing as my finger caught the bump too roughly. I spun in a slow circle, looking at everything in the stock room and realising that, for the very first time, I didn’t want to be here in my little shop anymore.
Not today. I didn’t even want to be in Hope Cove. You couldn’t escape anything around here.
“Ben called me,” she finally admitted. “He told me what happened yesterday with Danny and that Rhett guy.”
“Nothing happened.”
“But you saw him… Danny.”
“Yeah, so what?” In a temper, I turned and kicked the box again just for something to take my frustrations out on. “You and Ben need to stop gossiping. I know drama in Hope Cove is rare, but there’s more to life than the two of you twittering over the phone about me and my ex who shouldn’t even be there.”
“It’s only because we care.”
“Well, care less, and trust me enough to know that if there was something for you to know, it would come from me.”
I ended the call in a hurry, hanging up on her in a way I’d never done so before. This wasn’t the woman I was. I never snapped at my friends, and I never hung up the phone without saying goodbye. In less than two days, my world and everything about me had been tipped on its head.
As soon as I pushed the phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I regretted the way I’d spoken to her. She hadn’t deserved my snotty response. I made a mental note to call her back later and apologise, but for now, I was going to allow myself to take a moment to sulk and get over the throbbing on my head.
There’s an ache you learn to live with when your heart’s been broken—an ache that drifts through your body, mourning what no longer lives there. Old love doesn’t just die. It gets weaker and weaker as time goes on, but it still drifts through your veins, searching for that connection it once had. Some days you feel it in your chest. Others, you feel it like a weight in your stomach. A sadness behind your eyes, or a prickling of your skin you can’t find cause for.
And do you know the worst thing about that constant ache? It feeds you bad ideas, and it tricks your mind into believing that those ideas are good.
That morning, the ache was everywhere.
I hated it.
Pulling my phone out again, I dropped down to the floor of my stockroom, curled my legs, and I brought the phone into my lap. Maybe Ben had been right, and me living in ignorance was doing more harm to my progress than anything else.
After a few minutes of overthinking, I hit up Google, and I typed in the words ‘Danny Silver, Front Row Frogs’, seeking out the very thing I’d been avoiding for five long and lonely years.
Eleven
Front Row Frogs were more popular than I realised.
Thousands and thousands of fan sites popped up throughout my searches, with some being dedicated to them as a five-piece, while others focused solely on one band member. It didn’t take me long to surmise that Danny was the fan’s favourite, either.
Like I said, he’d never had to try to stand out.
Pictures of him flooded the searches. On some, he looked like my Danny of old. On most, he looked like this new guy I didn’t recognise: the one in skinny jeans with tattoos, and a cigarette in hand.
Everything about him had changed. The way he styled his hair was now more structured; an organised sort of chaos that made you want to reach through the screen and push your fingertips through the thickness of it. His straight-line brows looked as if they’d been waxed to perfect his sultry stare as he gazed into the camera on photoshoot after photoshoot. He’d adopted a new half-smile that even I could tell was manufactured to seduce the fans, and it worked. It seduced me, making me trace my finger over the lines of his face as though I’d never had him inside my body a hundred times before—like he was some kind of stranger I wanted to fantasise about.
His other band members looked as enthused to be on their journey as Danny did, and one guy who was apparently called Halo—I hoped that wasn’t his real name—seemed to enjoy the trip more than most. He was your typical rock star, upfront and in everyone’s faces. Always the exhibitionist on the red carpets, while the other four stood back smiling, letting Halo do the hard work on their behalf.
In time, my search led me to YouTube, and I was watching a concert of Front Row Frogs supporting Youth Gone Wild at Wembley Arena.
Wembley.
My man had made it to Wembley. Even I knew that was a big deal, but the thought instantly made my face scrunch up, and I shook it away. He hadn’t been mine for a very long time. Danny was everyone else’s now. He belonged to the world and all the screaming fans within it. I belonged here, in this shop… in Hope Cove…
Selling bloody bath bombs.
The camera zoomed in and out of the stage and across the crowds. Halo—who looked to be wearing black eyeliner for this concert, with a string of beads around his neck and a big cross hanging from it—dominated the scene, making you tap your foot to the beat, even if you didn’t know the song. But it was Danny the girls were screaming for, and whenever the camera flashed his way, I could understand why. He held his guitar like he’d been born with it in his hands, those mus
cles flexing, and as the music to one of their songs played out around the stockroom, I thought back to where it all truly began to go wrong between us.
“What’s going on?” Danny asked, scowling and smiling as we stood at his garage door, waiting for it to rise. His house had been decorated with 18th birthday decorations, an array of blues taking over their lovely sandstone built, four-bedroom home.
“Wait and see, nosey.”
When the door had lifted, Danny’s eyes drifted into the empty garage space. Empty… apart from one big box with a black and white over-the-top bow on it.
With a smile, I took his hand and guided him over. “Happy birthday!” I beamed, excited to see his face when he opened it.
Danny looked at me with caution, an air of suspicion about him as he moved around the box. He found the gift tag on top and twisted it around to read.
“You once said you live to make me happy. Now it’s my turn to give the same back to you,” he read aloud, before looking up under his thick, dark lashes and raising a brow. “Daisy…”
“Just open it, Danny. Come on. I’m dying over here.”
He took his time, as though he was afraid that he was about to find a bomb, but when he saw the brand name on the box beneath the wrapping paper, his fingers froze, and his eyes widened, snapping up to me sharply.
Danny’s face dropped. “Did… did you get me a fucking Fender guitar?”
My shoulders deflated. “Did I get the wrong one?”
He tore away at more paper until the make and model were there for him to see. Danny took a step back and brought his hand to his mouth.
“I thought… I thought you’d like it,” I said quietly.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time since I’d been with him, I saw a tear fall down Danny’s cheeks. I was about to go to him and tell him I’d return it—I’d get him something else—when all of a sudden Danny stared right at me before he moved across the garage and swept me up in his arms to spin me around.
He buried his face into the curve of my neck, squeezing me so tightly, I could hardly breathe.
Relief washed over me, and I hugged him in return. “Happy birthday, superstar.”
“You’re crazy, Daisy.”
“It’s not the first time you’ve said that.”
“You bought me a fucking Fender.”
“Not just any Fender. According to the guitar experts I spent forty-billion hours speaking to on the Internet, this is one of the best ones you can get. Something to do with lead, or rhythm, or… I don’t know. There was a lot of talk of melodies, and then a lot… and I mean a lot of arguments about which was most important in a band. Anyway, like I said, this isn’t just Fender. This is a Fender American Performer Stratocaster.” I scowled in thought. “I think that’s right.”
“I know exactly what it is.” Danny dropped me back down to the ground, his arms tight around my body as he stared down at me. “And I know how much they cost. As much as I love you, Zee… I can’t accept this.”
“You can, and you will. Or… or I’ll deny you sex for three months.”
Danny laughed roughly. “You wouldn’t punish yourself like that.”
“Dammit.”
“I mean it. I can’t take this from you.”
“You have to. We made a promise to each other that we’d always do our best to make the other one happy. This is me making you happy. I busted my arse for this at the pool, working all that overtime on lifeguard duties.”
“You told me you were saving for your first car.”
“I lied.”
“You lied too well.”
“A lie told to make you happy isn’t classed as a betrayal. Now, stop moaning about money, and go and enjoy your new gift.”
Danny sighed, and he dropped his forehead to mine. “Fuck, I love you, Zee.”
I was really starting to piss myself off.
Swiping the back of my hand under my eyes, I smudged away the tears, raised my chin, and I sniffed up to swallow back the emotion that had taken over. The YouTube clip had ended, slipping directly into another one where each of the band members sat on a long, yellow leather sofa, talking to some British talk show host I wasn’t familiar with.
“So, for those who have been living under a rock,” the lady said, her knees towards all five of them, and her cheeks flaming from her own fortune, “tell everyone at home who you are.”
Halo had his ankle resting over the opposing knee, and he raised a casual hand and looked directly at the audience. “I’m Halo. Lead singer.”
The guy next to him looked like he hadn’t washed his long mousy hair in a decade. He tucked it behind his ears before he raised a hand, too. “Archer. Drums.”
“Fletch,” the next guy said, who had jet black hair with bright red stripes running through it. “Rhythm guitar.”
The man next to him was a handsome, blonde, short-haired guy who looked like he could work alongside Danny as a poster boy for Hollister. His smile was charming as he nodded to the audience. “Theo. Bass guitar.”
Before the camera panned to Danny, the women in the audience began to stir, giggles and small squeals erupting, only for the hostess to glance their way with a smirk. “I think we may know who’s next,” she said, eyeing the ladies before she looked back at the band. “Last but most definitely not least…?”
Danny laughed, as though embarrassed, and he ran a thumb over a raised brow before he smiled at the giddy women. “Yeah. Erm. Danny. Lead guitarist.”
The hostess began to fan her face with her cue cards, and the women in the small crowd joined her in their worshipping. They showed no shame as they leered over him—all of them—and I had to wonder what kind of uproar there would have been if the gender roles had been reversed.
Maybe that was the jealousy within me talking…
Even though I knew this was some kind of slow torture, I kept watching the interview. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of my own self-destruction, and I couldn’t find a way out. My eyes were glued to the screen.
“Obviously, you boys have to have lived and breathed music since you were fresh out of the womb,” the hostess said, dropping an elbow to her crossed knees, and resting her chin on her fist. “So, tell me… who have been your biggest musical influences along the way?”
The band answered in the same order. The likes of Metallica, Van Halen, Oasis, Queen, all falling out of their mouths. Halo talked about Black Sabbath, his hands gesticulating everywhere about his love for Ozzy Osbourne, until he’d talked himself dry… and they then turned to Danny.
“The Carpenters,” he answered without hesitation.
The hostess’s brow rose in surprise. “Really? That’s quite an old-fashioned band for a young man like yourself.”
“Music doesn’t have a use-by date. Good lyrics and the right beat are timeless.”
“Still… I wasn’t expecting that answer.”
Danny brought his arse to the edge of the sofa and leaned forward over parted legs. “I guess everyone is guided by what they’re brought up with.”
“And you were brought up with them?”
“All day, every day. My gran is a huge fan.” The audience oohed and aahed at his reference to Florence. “Plus, Karen Carpenter’s voice was one of a kind. No one can hold a note like she could.” He looked down at his feet, a thought taking over before he huffed out a small laugh to himself and looked up again. “Well, no one famous, anyway.”
My heart began to gallop.
You sing like an angel, Zee. Sing Superstar for me. Sing it like Karen did.
Had he just referenced me—me!—in an interview?
My finger swiped the video away, and I tossed my phone to the side, letting my head drop into my hands. “Enough now,” I mumbled against my palms. “Just… enough. Get a fucking grip.”
I heard the tinkling of the seashell curtain in front of me, and I looked up sharply, no doubt with puffy, bright red eyes, blinking at the silhouette in front of me. The sunlight shone b
ehind them, blinding me until the person stepped through, crouched down in front of me, and tilted their head in concern.
“Are you... crying?” Danny scowled.
Fucking Danny!
I felt my blood run cold. “What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered, unable to stop those stupid tears falling. “How did you get in without the bell ringing?”
“Daisy, stop rambling. Take a breath and tell me why you’re crying.”
I shuffled back, needing to create some distance from him. Him and his handsome, too good for Hope Cove face. Him and his ridiculously intoxicating aftershave. Him and his jeans and T-shirt outfit that were trying to trick me into believing he was Danny, circa six, seven, eight years ago.
Him and every one of those stupid, rotten memories.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I pulled them up and rested my chin on them, looking up at Danny with more vulnerability pouring out of me than I wanted to show.
“I’m crying because you’re back, and I know this week is going to be exhausting because apparently you can’t leave the past where it belongs,” I said honestly, too tired for more games. “I’m crying because I’m already worn out. I’m sad for Florence that you only came back once she’d gone. I’m sad for—”
“Don’t say it…” His jaw tensed.
“I’m sad for your parents, Danny.”
The words floated around, the air feeling as though it was becoming thinner because those words had been set free.
“I’m sad that Tim and Amie didn’t get what they deserved from you when they died.”
“Is that what you think?” he whispered, barely audible.
“I just want you to go away.”
“Is that what you really want, Zee?”
“Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.”
Danny dropped down beside me, copying my pose, his arm brushing up against mine. “You didn’t answer the question. Is that what you really want? For me to go away. Or are you crying because it would make sense for you to hate me, but you know you can’t?”
