The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  “Yeah,” he says. “It was bad. I climbed into my bed and just lay there for a while, thinking about how bad it must have been at your house for you to choose going out in that storm rather than staying there. You must have thought I was asleep, because you started crying. And you didn’t stop. I stayed up all night listening to you cry, debating whether or not I should climb down and hug you or get you tissues or at least ask if you were okay, but I’d never seen you cry before and I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed. I didn’t know how to make things better, and I didn’t want to make things worse, so I just lay there, frozen, too scared to even move in case you knew I was awake.” He swallows hard. “That’s when I promised myself I’d never be like your parents. I’d never get so bad that I hurt the people I loved. I’d never make anyone so afraid that they’d rather trek through hail and lightning than be under the same roof as me. Staying sober is one way that I keep that promise. That night with Nate and Levi was the only slip-up, and it just made me more determined.”

  My eyes are closed. I’m sweating, and it’s not from the fire but from the simple memory of that night. Mom and Dad threw a huge-ass party, inviting not only friends and neighbors but random people they’d met at bars that day. I stayed up in my room, heartbroken that it was happening again. The music from downstairs was so loud it made the walls vibrate. I got so mad at Mom and Dad that I ran downstairs and kicked one of the speakers into the swimming pool. All their friends cheered—they thought it was hilarious. Mom was so embarrassed, and Dad was furious. They came upstairs and screamed at me for twenty minutes, saying how disrespectful and ungrateful I was. They said I was so boring and useless that they needed to throw parties to keep their sanity. Then they went back to the party and I sat alone in my room. The beat of the music rattled my windows again and again, drowning out my sobs. I had to get out of there, so I snuck out and rode away as fast as I could.

  My stomach hurts, my shoulders are tense, and I have a lump in my throat the size of a golf ball. That’s how powerful trauma can be. Years later, one memory can take you back like no time has passed.

  “Emmy,” Alfie whispers. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, but a stray tear trickles down my cheek, betraying me. Alfie lets out a sad sigh.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, wiping the tear away with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s okay. I’m glad you did. But I’m sorry my parents had such an effect on you. I swear, it’s like everything they touch turns to shit.”

  “That’s not your fault,” he says. “Their shit is not your shit. Cutting them out of your life was the best decision you ever made, Em. All you ever did was try to save them, to get them help, paying off all their debts. You did more than most people would. But you can’t save people who don’t want to be saved.”

  I can’t stop my bottom lip from quivering. “I know. Thanks, Alfie.” I honestly don’t know what I would have done without Alfie back then.

  Actually, when I think about it, I don’t know what I’d do without him now, either.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Alfie and I lie next to each other, holding hands while the fire crackles in front of us. I feel my eyes getting heavy, my head slipping gently onto his shoulder. After a while, he pulls me in closer and presses his lips to my forehead. Our eyes lock, our noses only an inch or two away from each other. Clouds of mist from the cold leave our lips and dissolve in the heat between us. His gaze flickers to my mouth. A zap of electricity runs down my spine.

  He leans in closer, and I swear I can hear his heart pounding. Or maybe that’s just mine.

  His gaze falls to my mouth again. I chew nervously on my bottom lip, and he sucks in a sudden breath. Did I do that? I test it again, this time tracing my tongue lightly over my lip. He clenches his jaw, his eyes darkening. I suppress my smile and do it once more, this time letting my tongue linger along my mouth.

  “Emmy,” he mumbles, his voice low. He says my name like it’s a question, and I know what he’s asking.

  I make eye contact with him and nod. Then I lift my chin up higher, kissing him softly on his chin. He sighs and crushes his mouth to mine, so hard that I feel the air jolted from my lungs.

  “I’ve missed you the last few days,” he whispers. He doesn’t give me a chance to reply, so I show him how much I’ve missed him by biting his bottom lip. He gasps, then kisses me with even more desperation.

  There’s a voice in my head warning me against this, reminding me of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be doing this.

  He’s your friend.

  You work together.

  You’re in love with him.

  Your heart is going to get broken.

  This is just going to make things weird.

  You have a show in a few hours.

  You can’t keep lying to your friends.

  Secrets have a way of coming out.

  He’s a Gryffindor.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to drive the thoughts out of my mind. Alfie brushes his lips over my chin, my jawline, down my neck. All those worries fade away with every touch of his lips to my skin. The chair sways on its chains as Alfie leans over me, our chests pressed against each other. I thread my fingers through his hair while he starts undoing the buttons of my onesie. He’s moving too slowly, and there are too many buttons, so I push his hands away and do it myself. He smirks and leans in to kiss me, but just as he does I look down to inspect a button stuck on a loose thread, forgetting about the fluffy horn on my hood.

  “Ow, fuck!” Alfie grunts, clutching his eye. He lies back in the chair, grimacing.

  I gasp. “Oh my God. What happened?”

  He starts laughing, still rubbing his eye. “Your damn unicorn horn thingy poked me in the eye.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, but my laughter breaks through my attempt to sympathize.

  He blinks a few times, then rolls back over to me. I’m hyper aware that my bare breasts are hanging out of my onesie, and I watch as his gaze moves down from my eyes to my chest. I swallow nervously, wondering why he’s staring so long. Do my boobs look weird? I know one is bigger than the other, but I didn’t think it was that noticeable. Maybe they’re too lopsided or too small or my nipples are too big or they’re just not as round as other boobs he’s seen. I realize I’m not breathing, and I take in a shaky breath that makes my breasts wobble slightly, only making me even more self-conscious.

  “You’re so gorgeous,” he says, his voice cracking a little. My mouth curves into a smile, and I close the gap between us, kissing him hard. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me into him, and I get such a rush from feeling the soft material of his sweater pressing against my bare skin.

  His hand slips under my onesie, resting on my ribs. I keep kissing him, but all my focus is on his hand, like every other part of my body is numb except for that one spot, which is sizzling under the warmth of his palm. His fingers twitch higher, and my heart leaps into my throat. My skin tingles in anticipation. His hand moves a little higher. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Alfie is about to touch my boob. ALFIE. HAND. BOOB. MINE.

  He slides his hand higher, his thumb cupping the underside of my breast. Just one more swift movement and he’ll be there, and I think I’ll explode.

  It happens. He makes the final move, his fingers tracing lightly over my nipple and the palm of his hand resting on my breast. YES. Dingdingdingdingding! I feel like a slot machine hitting the jackpot, lights flashing and music blaring to alert the whole casino that WE HAVE A WINNER! We have officially, finally, slid into second base, and it’s just as amazing as I imagined it would be.

  Of course, I’ve made it to second base before, but, just like that first kiss with someone new, it never stops being a thrill. I’m honestly surprised it took this long to get here with Alfie. I always had this impression that he could charm his way into someone’s pants within seconds of meeting them. But maybe that’s just the rock-star image he p
rojects to the world.

  I lean in closer, pressing myself farther into his hand, and he squeezes. I bite his bottom lip again, and he moans. But then, out of nowhere, he stops kissing me back. His hand pulls off of me, and he leans back, sticking his head up like he’s listening for something.

  “Do you hear that?” he whispers.

  Whistling. Someone nearby is whistling. And it’s getting closer.

  “Shit!” I say, scrambling to do up the million buttons on my onesie. Alfie starts helping, taking on the top buttons while I hurry with the rest. A light turns on inside the restaurant, illuminating the little alcove where we’re hiding. Alfie edges himself out of the chair and peers around the screen.

  “Oh no,” he says. “The restaurant is opening. They must be getting ready for the breakfast rush.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “Shut up. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  He shakes his head. “I only see one person in there so far, but we need to leave before anyone else shows up.”

  I scramble to do up the last button and then push out of the chair. Alfie takes my hand as I peer over his shoulder, spotting a guy in a black T-shirt putting a red apron on. He sings to himself as he turns on coffee machines and other equipment behind the counter. We wait until his back is turned, then make a run for it.

  I hold my hood over my face as I run, but just as we’re about to walk through the door from the terrace, another guy in a matching apron walks in. I jump out of sight, pulling Alfie with me, and we hide against the cold brick wall like we’re secret agents on a mission.

  “Did you hear the new song from the Brightsiders?” one of the guys asks. We must have left the door open ajar; we can hear everything they say.

  Alfie and I glance at each other.

  “What?” the other guy says. “What new song?”

  “You haven’t heard?! It’s called ‘ILY,’ and it’s dedicated to their fans. When I heard it I was like, dead! I’ve already listened to it, like, a hundred times this morning. Here…”

  A couple seconds later, our song starts playing. Alfie and I try not to giggle too loudly. I poke my head out and see the guys leaning over the back counter, bobbing their heads to the tune.

  “If we go now,” I whisper, “they won’t see us. But we gotta be super fast.”

  Alfie nods, and then we go for the door. My slippers sweep across the hardwood floor as we hurry around tables hand in hand. By the time the third verse starts playing, we’ve made it out unseen.

  Our laughter bounces off the walls in the elevator. Alfie walks me back to my room, where we idle for a moment, watching each other curiously. I wonder if he wants to come inside, and by the look on his face I can tell he’s wondering the same thing about me.

  I slide my keycard into my door and push it open. Alfie stands in the hall while I linger in the doorway. He opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him by taking his hand and pulling him into my room. In the seconds it takes for my door to swing closed, we’ve locked lips and started shuffling toward my bed.

  “Shit,” Alfie says, staring at something behind me. “Is that the time?”

  I glance over my shoulder at the clock on my bedside table. It’s 5:30 a.m. We’re supposed to be heading to the studio in fifteen minutes for makeup and a quick rehearsal. I drop my head against his shoulder and groan.

  “Nooooo,” I whine.

  His chest shakes against me as he chuckles. “To be continued…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The stage is set. My earpiece is in. The crowd is amped up and sounds surprisingly large considering the early time and bitingly cold temperature. Alfie, Ry, and I are waiting to go out there, standing side by side at the door.

  “Five minutes,” the floor manager says, pointing at us. We nod.

  My teeth chatter from nerves. Fingers tremble. Heart races. I stretch my neck and shake out my arms and legs. I’ve been humming “ILY” on repeat ever since we left the hotel, going over the lyrics in my mind. Alfie lets out a shaky breath, and I turn to see his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “Be right back,” he says before disappearing into a nearby bathroom. My heart sinks for him—I know he’s trying not to puke in there right now, and I feel helpless.

  “Two minutes!” the floor manager calls.

  Sal struts toward us. “Where’s Alfie?”

  “I’ll get him,” I say. I hurry into the bathroom, my heels clicking against the concrete. “Alfie?”

  “I’m good,” he says. He walks out of a stall, his face a little paler than usual. “Didn’t blow chunks, so I consider that a win.”

  “I’m here,” I say. “Whatever you need. I’m here.”

  He smiles weakly. I want to rub his back or give him a big cuddle, but I don’t want to make him feel self-conscious or even more anxious. He washes his hands and dries them on a paper towel, his shoulders so tense they’re halfway up to his ears.

  “I just need to get out there,” he says. “Once I’m onstage, I’ll be fine.” It sounds like he’s saying that more for his benefit than mine, so I just nod. He stares at me in the reflection of the mirror, tracing his eyes down my body. “You look fucking amazing, by the way.”

  I beam at him. “Thank you! And back at ya.”

  This outfit is one of my new faves: a bright blue minidress covered in hot pink lips, and matching pink heels to complete the look. Not only does the dress hug my curves in a flattering way, it matches one of my most-loved lines from “ILY”: cover me in kisses till we’re so in sync. It’s definitely not suited for the chilly weather outside, but it looks rocking and I’ll only be onstage for three songs, so it’s worth the potential frostbite.

  Alfie is wearing a slightly more sensible outfit: a purple striped blouse (unbuttoned just enough to get the fans going), tucked into black skinny jeans and paired with glittery silver ankle boots.

  I push my breasts up to reach peak cleavage, and he raises an eyebrow.

  “That is not helping my anxious heart,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. His hands find my hips, and I lean in to him.

  “Alfie! Emmy!” Sal screams. “You’re on!”

  We run into the hallway so fast we almost trip over each other. Ry waves us over just in time. The double doors open, and we’re greeted by hundreds of ear-piercing screams. Cameramen are stationed all around the stage and in the crowd, filming our every move. I wave and smile and blow kisses as we climb the stairs onto the stage. I’m so alive with adrenaline that I don’t even feel the cold.

  Ry and Alfie pick up their guitars. One of our backup crew takes my place behind the drums. And then, for the first time—finally, FINALLY—I step up to the mic. I’m center stage. All eyes are on me.

  This is what I’ve been waiting for.

  “Hello, New York!” I yell. “We are the Brightsiders, and this is our new song that we wrote just for you. It’s called ‘ILY,’ and we do.” I make a heart with my hands, and the band starts playing me in.

  I clutch the microphone, and the words leap out of me like I’ve done this a thousand times before. Because in my dreams, I have.

  In between riffs and verses, I raise my hands over my head and clap. The audience does the same. I glance over at my two bandmates. Alfie’s fingers run over his guitar, his hair hangs over his eyes, his hips thrust to the music. Ry winks at me and sticks his tongue out, looking like such a rock star. And I sing my song.

          “We wave our rainbows in the air,

  We sprinkle glitter from here to there,

  We fight for our rights, speak our truth,

  We are the future, we are the youth…”

  When I hit the final chorus, dozens of hands rise up from the crowd. All of them have colorful hearts drawn on them with glitter paint. I keep singing as more and more rainbow hands reach for the sky. Pink hearts, blue hearts, purple, red, yellow, green. Soon, almost everyone in the audience is holding their hand in the air, their painted hands sparkl
ing in the early morning sun. I glance at Alfie, then at Ry, who both look as surprised as I feel. Hands stay raised for the rest of the song, some perfectly still, others swaying to the music. They raise their voices, too, the lyrics bouncing back at me.

  By the time the last line echoes off the buildings around us, I’ve wiped countless tears from my eyes—thank God for waterproof mascara. I didn’t expect to see so many people in the audience singing along. They knew every word. They sang it like they felt it as deeply as I did when I first wrote it.

  “Thank you so much!” I say into the mic. “We love you all.”

  They keep their hands raised. I have no idea what’s happening, but it looks beautiful and I’m loving it. A member of the crew hurries onto the stage and hands me a handwritten note.

  Dear Emmy,

  The hearts we have drawn on our hands are for you. We know you’re going through a hard time. When we heard about your Good Morning America appearance, all your online fans worked hard to spread the word and make sure everyone showed up with a heart on their hand for you. We want to show you how much you mean to us.

  We want you to know that we will always support you, love you, and fight for you. No matter what.

  Thank you for coming out. Thank you for your voice. Thank you for being you.

  All the love,

  @Brightsiderjane, @EmmyStan99, and all of your fans

  I bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from bursting into tears. Even with all the lies swirling about me today, all the clickbait headlines and rumors, the fans remain by my side. They still have my back. They still love me. And my music means something to them.

  I’m the luckiest girl in the whole damn world.

  “Oh my God,” I croak into the microphone, the note trembling in my hands. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me. How much all of you mean to me. You give me life.”