by Katie Porter
“That’s sweet. Really, really sweet.”
“Now drink your champagne and you can sleep once we reach cruising altitude. My mum always says the world looks brighter after a nice sleep.”
I nod as she slips away to help a passenger causing a backup. I’m doing that bobblehead thing, really, where I’m just bouncing along for ridiculously long. I suck down the champagne in three swallows, but it tastes like water. Stupid airline giving away watered-down champagne. Is that even possible? The bubbles tickle my nose.
I fish my shitty phone out of my purse and do one more check before the doors shut. It’s stupid the way I keep pulling it out and looking, hoping Alec has texted but the phone didn’t chirp. He hasn’t. I swipe over to my email listlessly.
Except there’s one new email that makes my head swim. From Alec, in reply to the copy of my clean STD panel I sent over. The last drops of champagne go down the wrong way when I gasp, making me cough. Even as I choke, I click to open the email. There’s only one sentence and an attached file.
Your father wrote this.
I tap the file and it starts downloading as I scramble for my earbuds and power them on. When I play the song, Alec’s voice fills my ears. Not only him—there’s the rest of the band too. Guitar and bass and drums. It’s a deceptive song, with a fast tempo and my dad’s usual crashing guitar line. The lyrics reach into my chest and squeeze my lungs between cruel, cold hands. They’re sad. So achingly sad, about mistakes made and love lost.
The lyrics dash my heart on rocks. “Cherie, cherie, I’m lost, I’m wandering. Apologies are my air.” I want to believe he’s talking to me. That rare nickname, the one he put away once I grew too old. Music was Dad’s way through the world. It guided him for so long, the only thing he didn’t throw away.
What if he didn’t mean to push me away? What if he just didn’t know how to keep me closer?
I cover my face. A non-stop flight is going to deliver me home to SFO. It’ll be a long flight, yeah, but my seat reclines flat and I have valium in my purse. I’ll take a Lyft home. I can do this. Once I’m home, my life can resume the way it’s supposed to be.
Which is... what? Dalia will show up as soon as I text her that I’ve landed, but my actual apartment is empty. I don’t even have the goddamn miniature terrier I’ve always wanted because I was too busy taking care of Dad. I don’t have a career. I don’t have the family that I went to England to find.
I have only Alec and I’m running away from him.
I can’t breathe. For real this time. My heartbeat is zooming. The world is spinning and sort of going dark. Some dude sits in the seat next to me, fumbling a briefcase into the space at our feet, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m dying beside him. He’ll care when I get sick all over his lap.
I stand abruptly. “S’cuze,” is all I can manage.
He looks pretty put out, but he pulls his feet in close. I push upstream through the people still trying to get to their seats. I need the bathroom. Passengers mostly mutter at me, though I hear a trailing, “That’s not on, miss,” in my wake. I don’t care. I straight-arm the folding door and stand in the coffin-sized room.
Nausea is a steady roar. I stare at myself in the cheap mirror. Sweat beads my forehead. I look like shit, with shadows beneath my eyes and the vise of sadness pinching my shoulders toward my ears. Can people die of panic attacks? Does it matter?
Okay, no. That’s catastrophizing and it doesn’t help. I need to practice mindfulness or find my happy place. Since I’m currently standing in a literal shit box, I’m going with happy place.
Which is Alec. The Paris concert and the way he sang directly to me. That black button-down. Those dark jeans. His face lean and somber. Love in his eyes and his voice.
Love. For me.
Fucking hell, I’m a motherfucking idiot. Why am I going? Why am I leaving? There’s nothing in the world that matters if Alec isn’t next to me.
I scramble out of the restroom. Back at my seat, I grab my carryon and purse. The aisles are empty. Everyone has found their seats. The businessman gives me some eat-shit-level side-eye.
“Trust me,” I say as I lean over him. “You’ll appreciate this when you have an empty seat next to you for the whole flight.”
“Pardon?” he asks, but he’s talking at my back as I head for the door.
Which is closing.
“Wait! Wait!”
I wave, as if I’m not three feet away from the flight attendant. This is reckless. I shouldn’t be doing this.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to take your seat,” says a male attendant with perfectly parted hair. “We’re about to taxi away from the gate.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. I have to get off. You have to let me off. I can’t be here.”
“Please sit, ma’am. It’s unsafe for passengers to be standing.”
I could sit. Like, this is one of the messiest things I’ve ever done. It would be calm and rational to sit back down and buckle back up and fly right back to San Francisco. Once there, I’ll meet with Dad’s attorney and begin the process of clearing out belongings and selling the house. I can pack up my own apartment and apply to jobs at art galleries in London. Then I call Alec like a rational human who’s capable of making sane decisions.
Or I can get the fuck off this airplane right the fuck now.
“Open that damn door.”
Concern crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ma’am, sit down.” He’s not saying please anymore.
“I’m getting off this flight. One option is that I start throwing a fit and you call security and have them take me off. I’ll still get what I want. Or you tell the agent to open the door and let me off and you don’t have to deal with me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
My friendly flight attendant appears over his shoulder. “No need for all that, miss. Ian, let her go.”
He rolls his eyes, but he gets out of the way and signals to the gate agent to reverse the process. A middle-aged woman mutters in the first row but I studiously ignore her. It’s easy to take the high road once I’ve gotten what I want.
The door opens and I bolt up the gangway. I run so hard and fast that it bounces. It’s already nighttime once I stand on the curb, summoning a taxi. There had still been daylight when I arrived for my flight. I didn’t want to be late because I was checking bags for an international flight. Oh god, which reminds me. My bags. I glance at the terminal behind me. I wonder what they’re going to do with my suitcases.
Wondering isn’t enough to stop me. Either I’ll get them back or I won’t. All this proves I don’t really give a shit about belongings. I’m going to hire an estate agent to deal with Dad’s house. I’ll pay someone to box my apartment.
Ninety minutes later, I’m back in front of Alec’s house. It’s dark. I let myself in with the key he never took back. An empty teacup lingers in the kitchen sink. I wander through the levels looking for him, but the stillness tells me the truth even before I’m willing to admit it to myself. He’s not home.
Eventually I stand in the hallway on the top floor, between his comfortable study and the secret space of his bedroom. Dread tries to claw up my spine and sink tension into my neck. Friday night. He’s not home. Fear spurs jealousy in me.
Except. It’s Friday-fucking-night. The Friday night.
It’s the night of The Skies concert.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alec
WE LAST PERFORMED AT Brixton Academy twenty-seven years ago. That had been a good night, even though we were too young and stupid to know what we’d been gifted. The crowd was rowdy. More than one bottle had been thrown at the stage. Silas and I had gone toe-to-toe when he drew out the climax too long on two different songs. He cut me off when I was supposed to start singing. I refused to be rebooked here again. In those days I could act like an ass and still be catered to.
Those antics were exhausting and in poor taste, and they wouldn’t suit a benefit concert.
Nearly five thousand bodies seethe for u
s. The show is sold out. The Juvenile Breath Council is going to make loads of money off this, as well it should.
Even if I don’t have Harlow.
Halfway through a song, Nicholas gives a beautiful roll through his solo, slamming away. I swing my old-school microphone on a lead, around and around my head before yanking it back into hand. The verse comes next. Lee’s guitar sings along with me. The driving, rhythmic line of Ian’s bass coils around my legs and my head and my heart. Soothing. Comforting, even as it rams headlong through the spinning expanse of the universe.
I want the music to drive away my grief. I need the crowd to chase my hopelessness. Each time I reach for strangers, they reach back. Their touch isn’t enough. I woke up alone this morning, and I’m going to wake up alone tomorrow. Endorphins make my blood surge. It’s enough for now.
At least this is the ending The Skies always deserved. This is the finale we should have had, instead of some sad performance on a late-night show. An American show, of all places. Fuck that. This is where we always belonged. In front of our people, our nation.
Our fans.
The energy of the room lifts and grows during the next three songs, until it crests at the end of our first top-ten single. A spontaneous crash of applause breaks out to celebrate Ian’s last squealing note. Then it keeps going—and keeps on, and keeps on. Until I’m bloody dumbstruck. I’m breathing hard already, since the song is a bit of a screamer, but it’s impossible to calm down when so much spirit is coming right to me. Grown women. Kids. Clusters of men our age. Teenagers. The whole place is screaming the roof down.
I look to Lee. He’s laughing with amazement, staring out at the full balconies. Ian and Nicholas trade glances of equal shock.
“We’re only halfway through,” I say into the microphone.
That kicks off another round of cheering. This is fucking fantastic.
I catch Nicholas’s eye. “The new one,” I mouth.
His lips pinch and his eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say no. “You sure?” he asks in a stage whisper.
I nod. Okay?
I need his approval. I need approval from all of them. There’s no moving forward as The Skies if we’re not a unit, and maybe there’s the chance of a future for us. Maybe not a full-time job. Maybe not a touring band. But... something. Together.
Ian and Lee give their agreement. Ian hands me an acoustic guitar. I sling it around my shoulders. The crowd quiets down. I feel their curiosity. The Skies never had many acoustic songs.
A roadie appears from the wings, toting a microphone stand. Those blokes are practically magic. I put the microphone in the holster and step up. My heart is suddenly in my throat.
“This is for...” Words fail me. I lose sight of my intentions. It’s Silas’s song, but one he wrote for his daughter. Harlow, the woman I’d give the world if she’d only accept it. “This is for someone very important to me.”
I hold five thousand people in the palm of my hand, but halfway through, they’ve faded away. Missing Harlow feels like missing half my soul. I close my eyes against the insistent presence of everyone else. I want this feeling to be the two of us. I want to find a place where she didn’t give up on us.
When I open my eyes and see a wan, near-blonde standing stage left, I’m certain I’ve imagined her. I’ve pieced a make-believe Harlow out of whole cloth. Her eyes are wide. Her arms are across her chest, and she’s cupping her elbows. Even my imagined Harlow is wrecked.
I blink and she’s gone again. She’s run. Or maybe I saw a roadie in the shadows and drew the face I craved.
I almost lose my place. I don’t know the lyrics so well as our old material. We’ve all come together to say farewell to Silas one last time. Some songs require performance and a sort of acting, but not this one, not in this moment. Instead I have to keep grief from swamping me. I draw it to a fade out, singing more quietly and playing softly. The audience holds its silence for a long, breath-filled moment. Maybe I’ve overplayed my hand. Maybe my hubris has finally met the end it deserves.
Then comes the applause. It’s not as wild as our impromptu standing ovation, but that’s alright. This... This is just for me. I’m avaricious enough to grasp it in both hands and shove the adoration into the empty hole that Harlow left inside me. It won’t last forever, but it’s enough to get me through the rest of the show.
If only I knew what will get me through the rest of my life.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Harlow
I VOMITED. THAT’S HOW nervous I am. That’s what a mess I am. At least I had the grace to do it into the gutter, like a tried-and-true London party girl. The crowds on their way to Friday evening plans looked askance at me, as I bent over the street’s edge with my hands on my knees. My head swam once. A car came at me from the wrong direction and I jumped before realizing no, that’s the right direction. For here. Months living in the UK and I still don’t belong.
What the fuck am I doing?
I was about to board an eleven-hour flight, so I have a travel toothbrush in my oversized purse. Thank god. I’m not standing here in The Skies’ dressing room tasting the acrid poison of my mistakes. I think about them, sure. But at least I don’t taste bile to go along with my sour thoughts.
I try to plan what I’m going to say, but I have nothing. Hi. Sorry I tried to, like, sex-bomb you. At least I’m clean. Take me back?
I should wait to see if he comes in alone before I start in on that one.
This dressing room is drastically different from the first I broke into. Also very different from the one in Paris. It’s three times the size, for one thing. The walls are decorated with a collage of framed art, all musically themed but faintly abstract. The dismantled guitar in a shadowbox. Nothing pins down one genre or another. The couches are blue tufted velvet and are ridiculously comfortable. I sat when I first came in, reeling from the power of seeing Alec singing my dad’s song on stage. My legs just wouldn’t hold me up.
The whole building starts to shake with applause. My heart leaps into my throat and I hop to my feet. Maybe this is the end of the concert, maybe it’s not. There was another round of applause out of nowhere almost a half hour ago. I don’t think that had been the encore either. A pure outpouring of love and the audience’s relief that The Skies were still so good after their long absence.
My head is spinning. Dark shadows clutch the edges of my vision. I’m an idiot. A fucking fool. Voices rise, the timber sounding different. Closer.
The door in front of me explodes open. The guys tumble over each other, all of them talking at once. Ian looks like a happy hobbit, his frizzy, tousled hair sticking every which way. His smile is huge. Even laconic, laid-back Lee’s features are lit up. Nicholas has an arm around Ian’s round shoulders.
And Alec. His shirt is half off, his jeans low around his waist. There’s a chain that dangles from one of his belt loops to the audio equipment attached to the front of his pants. The coolest version of a chain wallet. His chest and the sleek ridges of his stomach gleam with sweat. The dark fringe of his hair skims over his eyes, across his nose.
“Brilliant, bloody brilliant,” Nicholas keeps saying.
Ian laughs. “Maybe the best gig we’ve ever done?”
Lee rubs a hand across his friend’s head, tousling his hair more like young boys than married fathers. “You always say that, you damned optimist.”
“What the hell was that after ‘Heavy Metal Stars’?” Alec peels off his black button down. “There, in the middle of everything.”
“They were welcoming back their heroes,” I say quietly.
All four of them stumble to an abrupt stop. Nicholas runs into Lee’s back. His expression clouds into something intimidating and dark.
“Harlow,” he says coldly. “Is it your fault Alec’s been so fucked up the last few days?”
Alec plants a hand in the middle of Nicholas’s chest without looking back at him. His gaze is locked on me.
“Stuff it,” he snarls, an
d my heart twists because I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Nick.
I want to run. Either direction, honestly—out of the room and away from this whole damn country, or right into Alec’s arms. I don’t think he’d hold me. The impulse to flee or to fight scratches at my nerves. That’s me though. Reckless. Standing still and taking consequences... Well, it fucking sucks. But it’s what grownups do. It’s what I have to do if I want to keep Alec.
And I do. I want to keep him. I want to stand still with him forever.
“You’re supposed to be home by now,” he says. My heart breaks, because for months when he said home, he meant his house. Now he means San Francisco and my tiny, empty apartment. “Why are you here? How?”
“Do you know how hard it is to scalp tickets anymore?” I’m trying for a light tone. My gaze skips over his shoulder to find the rest of the lads. They range behind him in a semicircle, like knights ready to do battle for my king. “I mean, not even counting that it was almost as expensive as the flight I walked off. They’ve got all sorts of double-checks and fraud thingies.”
Alec tosses his used-up shirt over the back of a director’s chair. No desk here, and no piles of papers with his scribbled of lyrics. Everything is very big and businesslike.
He grabs a white shirt from a hanger and pulls it on, but doesn’t bother to button up. He takes me by the arm, his fingers wrapping around my biceps. “Come with me.”
I make my feet move. I don’t know if he’s taking us somewhere private or if he’s handing me over to security. It could go either way and I’d deserve it.
He ushers us out into the hallway, which is lined with throngs of people. It seems he didn’t expect that, because I hear the quietest, smallest curse before he drapes a controlled smirk over his face.
“Alec!” A man waves a pen-sized digital recorder in our faces. It’s the French man I met at the party, ages ago. “Maxime with NME. What do The Skies have planned next?”
“Showers,” he says easily. “Then a late supper.”
