a/n WELCOME to the TRIPLE UPDATE! (1/3)
ooh spooky times inbound.
Here are some look books. A useful tool that will help us later!
anyway, brace yourselves because a whole lotta stuff is about to go down...
46.
Happy Halloween, boo.
The only scary thing in my life this year is the way my brain is scrambled from therapy two weeks ago.
Bea was right. I don't know how it happened. But somehow, I'm in a relationship. I'm just in denial, pretending it's something else.
It's fucking terrifying.
I mean, how do I talk to Harry about it? Talk to anyone about it? As soon as I open my mouth, there'll be this wall of invisible expectations.
Bea scared the living shit out of me that day. She took my entire coping mechanism, my way of muddling through life, and turned it on its head. My logic that I thought was foolproof actually had more plot holes than a piece of swiss cheese.
She seemed to sense that she was ripping my insides out and blowing my mind, because she gave me a gentle assignment, hoping to ease my spirit.
"Just call him your boyfriend in your head for a week or two," she offers warmly. "That way, there's no pressure, no expectations, you can just get used to the word by yourself. And when you're ready, you can say it out loud."
So that's what I'm doing. In my head, Harry's my boyfriend. I even wrote it down on a yellow piece of paper and stuck it in my back pocket to carry around for a few days.
I think Bea helped me realize that I'm a lot farther along than I thought. I thought I had more work to do, that I wasn't ready. Maybe I'm not ready to say anything out loud, but I'm surprising myself with just how devoted and lovey-dovey I can get in my own mind.
"Quinn," Emma sighs heavily, annoyance lacing her words. "Stop blinking so much."
"I can't help it," I laugh, shaking myself out of my thoughts. "You're sticking a freaking sword in my eye socket."
"Don't be a baby, it'll look better if I get your waterline," she huffs, bringing the eyeliner back into my line of vision. I try to keep my eyes pried open for her, watching her tongue stick out of the side of her mouth in concentration.
The pen swipes across the inside of my eyelid. It's soft and cold, making an irresistible urge to blink bubble inside of me. I suppress it and look desperately at the ceiling. After a moment, she pulls away grinning.
"Ah, it looks so good," she sings, dancing a little at the foot of my bed.
I laugh, reaching for the handheld mirror. "I want to see," I murmur, holding it up to inspect my eye. "Oh wow, yeah, that's so cool."
Emma, in all her artistic beauty, has painted two delicate butterfly wings over each of my eyelids.
"Look at you, queen shit," Emma nods, satisfied with her work. "Now all you need is the costume."
"If by costume, you mean the sexy ass dress you helped me pick out, then yeah, that's all I need," I chuckle. She shrugs and jumps off the bed, skipping to my dresser where I hung it from a drawer handle. She pulls the dress off and tosses it to me.
"Have somewhere to be?" I tease her. She's moving at a wickedly impatient pace.
"I just want to see the final look so bad," she whines, covering her eyes with her hands.
"Alright," I chuckle again, taking off my shirt and pants to pull the dress on over myself. I reach for the shoulder straps, bringing them up over each collarbone, and then I press my hands against the fabric to smooth it out over my skin. I slip my feet into the gold heels Harry bought me in LA, and take a deep breath. "Okay you can look now."
Emma peeks out from between her fingers and gasps dramatically. "Good lord, Quinn. You're going to give someone a heart attack tonight."
"That's the goal," I smile smugly, turning to take in my reflection.
Myself. I'm trying to impress myself.
These past two weeks have royally sucked in the mental health and self esteem department. That stupid tabloid headline got to me. I know I shouldn't have let it, but I did. Weight is something I barely thought about for twenty four years. These past two weeks, it's consumed me. The words in the headline dance around in my head every night when I'm trying to fall asleep.
I don't repeat them to myself though. Not on purpose. I use all my willpower to refer to them as "the words" and not marinate in the specifics of what the article said.
I did go and read the full article. I probably shouldn't have. I just needed to know why they said what they said. It didn't give me answers, just made me feel sicker.
Harry came back two nights ago. He spent the night, but then stayed at his place yesterday. He made me feel a little better. It wasn't a perfect solution, but having someone give you little compliments throughout your day certainly boosts your self esteem.
He's trying really hard to fix the mess they left in my brain. You can tell he feels guilty.
My boyfriend, Harry.
Gotta remind myself to think that everytime I think about him.
But yeah, this outfit is for me. Tonight's about supporting Harry. And it's about dressing up and feeling cute and trying to seduce myself with my smoking hot body.
I meander over to the mirror to take in my reflection. The dress fits well, the slit climbs up my left leg, revealing skin but still hiding my right thigh. I tilt my head back and forth to watch the butterfly wings glitter over my eyelids.
Emma appears behind me. With a swift stroke of her hand, she pulls my hair out of the sloppy bun on top of my head and lets it fall down to my shoulders. It's curled loosely, the small streaks of lavender peeking out behind the blonde strands.
"One more thing," she murmurs, and twirls to grab an object from the vanity. When she turns back she pushes something cold into my palm. I look down at the tube of dark red lipstick I'm now holding. "Put it on."
I roll my eyes at her impatience, but she pushes me gently with her shoulder.
"I'm serious. Watch yourself in the mirror. Apply red lipstick. It'll make you feel hot."
Emma's been fairly attentive as well. Not as loving as Harry, but very deliberate. She saw the photo and headline on her own when it first happened. When I came home from therapy, she was angry, or as angry as Emma can get anyway. She held my head in her lap and played with my hair for hours. I could tell she wanted to go punch someone in the face, but was too shy to actually go through with it.
It's the thought that counts anyway.
She keeps pushing me to do things like this. Apply lipstick, read Pride and Prejudice outside a cafe, drink champagne in a fancy glass. She's persuading me to do the little things that'll make myself feel sexy.
I really appreciate it. Harry's been nice, but Emma knows exactly what I need. I think part of it comes from personal experience.
"Do it," she commands.
I sigh reluctantly and lean in, taking the cap off the stick and twisting it up, revealing the dark red color. I stare at my lips in the mirror, watching the color move up to dance across them. I pucker my mouth and spread the make up across it. Pulling away to press my lips together and rub the color around. When I lean back and smile thinly at my reflection, I do feel a small surge in my chest.
"See?" She murmurs, hugging me from behind. I nod softly.
"You sure you don't want to come with?" I offer one last time. Emma smiles sadly and shakes her head, pressing her cheek against my neck. She has to stand on her tiptoes from the heels I'm wearing.
"I want to," she mumbles, "but Kate and I have to get ready," she reminds me. I press my lips together again to keep a scowl from forming on my face.
"Alright," I concede, reaching for the gold clutch waiting on my vanity. I slide my phone into it, and sling Cherry over my shoulder.
"Wait!" Emma gasps and runs out of the room like she's suddenly remembered something. I tap my foot, my fingers playing with the cherry keychain hanging from my camera. A second later she runs back in, something delicately clutched in her hands. "I made these for you," she murmurs shyly, holding open her palm.
There's two small, red butterflies strung to gold hoops. Small silver gems embedded into the metal.
"Emma," I sigh, staring down at them. "Those are stunning."
Her cheeks glow pink and she shrugs, tucking my hair back to put the earrings in. "They're small, kind of boring. I don't know."
"They're perfect," I end her train of thought. She stops talking, her eyes darting to meet mine.
"I'm glad you like them."
She steps back to admire her handiwork. I turn back to look at myself in the mirror again. Tonight's already working. I feel great.
"Have fun baby, I love you," she wishes. There's a knock on the door and she dashes away to answer it. I figure it must be Kate.
When I venture out of my room and to the front door, neither of them are anywhere to be seen. But I hear soft laughter from the kitchen. The warm glow from our stovetop light filters into the hallway and bounces off the walls. I give Leo a stern look as I stand in the doorway.
"Make sure they don't get into too much trouble," I whisper to him. He blinks lazily and tilts his head at me, his tail swishing back and forth.
The car ride to the venue is slow, filled with traffic jams. It's dinner time, and it feels like there's a million cars all driving in the same direction. All to the same place. Madison Square Garden.
It's an eternity, but I finally turn into the backstage parking ramp. Following Harry's directions from this point gets easier, because there are a lot less people coming in from this entrance. I'm stopped at the gate by a security guard. I have to fish around in my clutch and pull out the backstage pass he gave me the other night, as well as my driver's license. The guy looks over both of them, and then nods to himself and lets me in.
It's all very exhilarating. I feel so cool, having a backstage pass, being special, getting to take the secret entrance into the event. Harry's event.
My boyfriend's event.
Fuck.
I drive at a snail's pace through the ramp. There are names pasted across each of the parking spots. My eyes linger across each one, not recognizing them. But then I see Mitch Rowland & Sarah Jones in big black letters, and it relaxes me a little.
Someone in a bright yellow hazard vest directs me into a spot that reads Quentin Bellini. I climb out of the car and adjust my dress, standing tall over the roof of the sedan. The woman in the vest approaches me cheerfully.
"Ms. Bellini! Welcome," she gestures for me to follow her and I oblige, my heels tapping sharply against the cement ground. There's an autumn chill blowing in from the entrance to our left. I rub my arms to warm them up. "They're just finishing sound check. I was told to direct you backstage." She walks me to a black metal door, white paint spelling the words Quiet, Show In Progress across the surface.
"Thank you," I manage, my eyes taking in the parking space.
"So when you go through this door, take your first left, and then your second right. There should be signs, otherwise just follow the noises," she chuckles to herself. I nod and adjust my grip on Cherry. "Enjoy the show," she waves and walks back out to the parking lot, continuing to direct the few oncoming cars.
I pull back the door. It's heavy and screeches as it scrapes against the floor.
When I step inside and let go, it closes behind me with a soft, heavy thud.
The hallway I find myself in is bright and small. White brick walls and cement floor. The lights overhead shine purple. There's gray, unlabelled doors littering either side. I take a few cautious steps in, the sound of my heels echoing all around me.
After a few yards, the hallway splits, going right and left. I turn left, staring cautiously down the long winding tunnel.
There's a faint laugh, and the sound of someone sloppily playing the drums. I smile to myself and continue venturing in that direction. With each step, the drums grow louder, until they're almost deafening. The second exit from the hallway has a big black curtain draped over it. I push it aside and duck under.
I'm met with an immediate chill, but not like the one outside. This one is dry. When I look around, I understand why.
I'm standing at the edge of a massive arena. Surrounding me, climbing the walls like ivy, are thousands of gray plastic seats. The ceiling practically touches heaven. From where I'm standing, I feel so insanely small.
Before me, there's an enormous stage constructed in the middle of the arena. A glowing cube hangs above the stage, images glitching across the surface as someone tests graphics for the upcoming show. Stagehands are hanging heavy black curtains from the edges of the display screen, slowly closing off the stage from the view of the seats.
Now I know where the thumping sounds are coming from. Mitch is sitting at a drumset positioned at the back of the stage, tapping away. The sound ripples through the arena, as each hit is picked up by whatever wires or mics are hooked up to the instrument.
They're all there on the stage. Sarah has her arms folded across her chest. She's shaking her head, fighting a smile. Harry has his hands on his hips. Every awful attempt at drumming from Mitch sends him into a fit of laughter. He tips his head up and sends the sound into the giant arena.
I grin and jog over to the stage, through the empty pit that'll be swarming with people in an hour. It's almost eerie, being in here before the fans.
As I approach the stage, Charlotte glances down and sees me. She brightens and waves. "Hey!"
They all turn their attention down. I wave up at them, a weird shyness creeping over me. There's something about the enormity of the arena, the height of the stage, that makes them intimidating. Harry grins and makes his way to the staircase, following my figure with his eyes as I climb up to their level.
"Sick outfit," Mitch calls from the drumset. I run my hand through my hair.
"Thanks," I stick my tongue into the side of my cheek.
"How are you today," Harry shoves his hands into his pockets, his attention captured by me now. He's wearing wide, khaki colored pants that dust his white vans. An oversized blue sweater hangs from his shoulders. He looks cozy.
He's also your boyfriend.
Telling myself he's my boyfriend hypothetically is one thing, but telling myself he is when he's right in front of me, is another.
"Very excited," I shrug, trying to mask all my nerves and energy. I swallow dryly, the thoughts in my head a little too overwhelming.
"Us too," Mitch calls. "Hey, Quinn, want to see something cool?"
I nod. "Sure."
He grins and brings the drumsticks down on the instrument, hammering away at lightning speed. He's not well-practiced though, because his technique falters and he accidentally rams his elbow into one of the snares.
"Oh my God, okay that's it," Sarah laughs and pulls him away from the drumkit. He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.
"Hey okay, I'm sorry that wasn't supposed to happen," he pleads with her. She pulls the drumsticks from his hands and sticks them into her back pocket.
"Alright, well I'm going to go get ready," Harry chuckles and turns to me. "Want to come with?"
I press my lips together and shrug. He grins and loops his arm with mine, dragging me down the stairs and along after him. I turn and wave at his band. They all smile back, moving to adjust their equipment and prepare for the show.
I watch where we're going, leaning into Harry and placing my chin lovingly on his shoulder. "What does getting ready entail?"
"Well, I'm not performing Harryween in this," he gestures down at his outfit. His eyes dart to mine. "You look nice."
"Thank you," I pull back a little to regain my balance.
He keeps walking, but his eyes stay resting on me. "Nice was a stupid word to use actually. You look fucking irresistable."
I smirk and squeeze his arm tighter. We walk back into the hallway I came from. "That was the goal," I chuckle.
"I'm going to be so distracted tonight," he says under his breath, more to himself. It makes me blush though.
We venture through the maze of hallways to a door with his name taped to it. He turns the knob and pushes the door, bringing both of us into what I realize is his dressing room.
There are a few other people in here, moving around. A silver rack is sitting against the wall, a single dry cleaner's bag hanging from it. One of the people moving in the room looks up to acknowledge us and smiles.
"Harry," he calls warmly. Harry lets go of me and moves to greet him.
"Hey Cal," he gives him a quick hug.
"You ready?"
"Let's do this."
The man turns to take me in. "Hey there, nice to meet you, I'm Cal."
"Quinn," I offer my hand. He shakes his head.
"Of course you are. There's no need to introduce yourself, love."
I freeze, letting his words sink in, and then bring my hand back to my side and nod awkwardly. "Alright."
"Come," he gestures me further into the room. I follow his lead. He points to a couch against the wall. "Have a seat, tell me about yourself. We're going to be here for a minute."
"He's got to fix all this," Harry gestures broadly to his face, smirking at his own joke. I chuckle, but Cal slaps him in the shoulder.
"Shut your mouth, sexiest man of the year."
Harry audibly groans and rolls his eyes, turning away to sit down in the chair before a vanity and mirror. Cal looks back at me again and smiles warmly.
"So Quinn, do you have any pets?"
The next thirty minutes are full of laughter and ease. Cal is fun to talk to, lighthearted and comical. He applies makeup to Harry's face and styles back his hair. He's actually wearing a lot more makeup than I thought he would. Heavy dark color on his cheeks and eyes. It makes him feel strangely otherworldly. His presence is becoming more mysterious, ethereal. His dimple still creases with the jokes Cal tells, but he's shielded behind the makeup now.
And then he goes to put on the suit in the cleaner's bag, and when I see it, I about melt into the couch.
It's a silky black fabric, a pinstripe pattern running along the entire suit, made of silver sparkles. He looks like an inverted beetlejuice. A very sexy beetlejuice, obviously. I press my lips together and stare unabashedly at him from the couch. He buttons the black shirt up halfway, and shrugs the jacket on over it.
His eyes dart to meet mine, and he smirks at my expression. I close my mouth and frantically look away.
"Well," Harry sighs heavily and wanders over to me, holding out his hand. I take it and let him guide me up so we're standing next to each other. He looks back at Cal. "How do we look?"
Cal dramatically holds his chin in his hand and flashes us a cheesy grin. "Killer."
"Well that's good," I chuckle lowly. "Anything less and we'd embarrass ourselves."
Harry squeezes my hand.
We walk back out toward the arena. As we get closer, I can hear the roar of the settling crowd. The opener hasn't even started. But there's an energy radiating from the arena that terrifies me. They're so loud, and you can just feel the sheer amount of people.
I can't stop looking at Harry. The makeup is almost unsettling. It accentuates his features to the point that he's slightly unrecognizable. It's confusing, I've never seen him look like this.
It's also extremely attractive. It's captivating. I can't pry my eyes away. He's like a god right now. His outfit, face, cologne, even his personality. It's like he put on the suit, and a power overcame him. He feels untouchable. It's overwhelming, standing next to him.
But then he glances over at me and smiles, and it's the same Harry I've always known.
We walk out of the cement hallway into a tunnel constructed out of black curtains. And I realize we're in the arena now. The deafening sound of fans surrounding us. But they can't see us walking right now. They must've put up this tunnel of curtains when we were in the dressing room.
It makes me feel powerful, knowing all those fans are surrounding us, waiting for their idol to perform, not knowing he's walking right under their nose. This whole night in general is making me feel really powerful.
This was a good idea.
We climb some stairs. We must be on the stage now, but you can't really tell anything because the black curtains are surrounding us here as well. Above our heads is the giant display screen. I let go of Harry's hand, and he moves to the microphone, standing in front of it for a moment and shaking out his nerves, cracking his neck and closing his eyes.
I watch him sway before the mic, and then nod to himself and turn back to me, gesturing for me to follow him. I tighten my grip on Cherry and my clutch, walking after him. He leads me to a staircase that goes out into the arena. He takes my hand and helps me down the stairs. I stand before the thick black curtain separating us from the crowd, looking back up at him.
He grins cheekily at me. "I'll see you on the other side, Anna," he murmurs, letting go of my hand and blowing me a kiss.
And then he spins on his heel and walks back to the stage.
I slip out under the heavy black curtain. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
There are thousands of people swarming around the arena. It's like staring at a moving pile on the sidewalk, only to realize it's a swarm of ants. I blink dumbly, my head spinning to take in the entire arena.
The chorus of voices is deafening. I reach into my clutch and pull out the pair of earplugs I brought just in case. I'm realizing now I'm going to be right in front of the stage, it's going to be crazy loud.
I'm in between the barrier to the pit and the edge of the stage. There's about a foot of space here, a few security guards lurking in the moat. I reach for my backstage pass and pull it over my head, not wanting to look suspicious.
On the other side of the pit barrier are hundreds of people, dressed up in spooky, supernatural, sexy outfits. My eyes scan the crowd. Flasks are passed around, people are pressed up into the barrier. I don't attract too much attention, but I feel a few eyes linger over me.
There's a low scream that crescendos into a wild sound. I whip my head back to the stage. A group of musicians and a singer walking out onto the few feet of empty stage before the big black curtain.
And so the show begins.
a/n
Song: "Six Inch Heels" -Beyonce