a/n sorry that took so long haha
66.
"Wow," Bea sits back, unable to mask her surprise.
"Have you ever been homesick for a person?" I wince at how desperate I sound. She nods delicately.
"Of course."
"I just feel like I'm the punchline to some cruel joke the universe is playing on me."
"How so?"
"I knew this would happen. It's happened before, in a different context but with the same result." I shift in the leather chair, gesturing at the air. "And somehow I let it happen again, with the same result. I let myself get hurt again. And now I'm right where I was before."
"How so?"
"I allowed myself to rely on someone else, and they let me down, and now I feel empty."
Bea is quiet, and unable to bear it, I start rambling.
"I can't remember how to breathe without him," I whisper. "I don't remember who I was before, how I was before. He's so, I don't know, embedded in my fucking physche."
She hums. Anger surges in my chest. She's just sitting there.
"This is where you help me," I lean forward, my face folding together. Her eyebrows climb up her forehead.
"Is it?"
"Yes," I snap. "You told me I should make him promises, fall in love. You told me I push people away. You told me it was a bad thing so I tried to fix it, and now I'm hurt and I could have prevented this if I hadn't listened to you. I was doing just fine on my own before you started telling me how to love."
"Quinn," she rolls her tongue over her lips and crosses her legs. "It's a part of the human condition to be hurt. You can't avoid it."
I grip the arms of the chair, my blood boiling beneath the surface. She clears her throat.
"To intertwine your happiness with someone else's is so dangerously brave, so inherently idiotic, and so incomprehensibly, undeniably human," she pauses and smiles, "K. Towne Jr."
"Who?"
"I don't know," she shrugs and her face heats up. "He's a poet. I saw him speak a couple weeks ago and that was one of the pieces he shared."
"So he's just some random New Yorker."
"Yeah, pretty much." She looks at the floor. The silence has just settled in, when I inhale and bring her attention back to me.
"Should I break up with him, Bea," I whisper.
"It kinda sounds like you already have," she mumbles back.
"How do I feel happy again? How do I get over this?"
An amused expression blossoms on her face. Her eyes scan over my features.
"Time." She shrugs.
But how much time?
It's been weeks. Here I am still wallowing in this puddle. I'm sad and I have literally no idea how to make it better.
Well, actually I have a few ideas. But they're bad ideas. It is taking everything in my power to not go to Wes'.
Grace tried to get me a stylist for tonight but I told her I didn't want one. Emma's going to style me. She's very excited. She flew all the way to LA with me just for this.
She flits here and there, dancing around me and ruffling bits of my dress. It's black and layered in sheer fabric. Two large silver crosses hang from my ears. Three rings adorn my right hand. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, charcoal smeared over my eyelids. My lips are velvet red. I look terrifying, cold, dark.
"You are a force to be reckoned with, baby," Emma runs her hand over the back of my dress. I wince a little at the pet name. Ever since my fight with Harry, the word has left a strange pain in my chest. Emma's head pops up behind my shoulder. She grins.
"Thank you."
She tucks her chin deeper into my shoulder and plays with a strand of my hair. "You're going to win, twice."
"I can't win twice, I'm nominated twice in the same category," I laugh, but it's hollow.
"Fuck that. You'll win twice in my heart" Emma huffs and pulls away. I feel cold without her body touching mine. I'm so empty. I'm so desperate for her touch, anyone's at this point.
I can't go fuck someone else right now though. That would prove his point. That would put me on his level.
But I want Wes so badly.
"Grammys," Emma sings comically, digging through her jewelry case. I chuckle.
"If you give me any more silver I'm going to sink into the floor."
She pouts at me. "Just one more," she begs, lifting a little ring out from the piles of metal.
"Fine," I roll my eyes. She skips to me and slips it on my finger before I can protest any further.
It's a thin silver band, the signet of a full moon branded in the center. I stare down at it, molded to my pinky finger. It's so small, but fits perfectly with the grooves of my knuckle.
"Like your moon tattoo," she stares at my hand. "I know you got it because of me."
"I did," my eyes flicker up to her hairline. She creases her forehead in concentration, and reaches out to trace the metal with her fingertip.
"Because we would sit on the fire escape and stare up at it. And talk about all sorts of things. When I couldn't sleep."
"I used to get nightmares too--"
"--about the overdose for me. About Danny for you."
"It's really pretty, Emma," I squeeze her arm. She swallows.
"Good. I'm glad you like it."
She steps away and plasters on a smile, looking me over one last time.
"Killer."
I laugh. "Thank you."
"Go scare the shit out of that red carpet."
I try my best. As soon as I step out of the car, the lights are strobing from behind the velvet rope. I think this is the first time I've ever wanted to be photographed by these people. In the past, they've usually bombarded me and Harry and ruined our night.
But here I am, alone, dressed like death. It's fitting, I feel like I'm mourning in a way. I straighten out my face. I glare down the barrels of their cameras.
"Quinn!---"
"--wearing tonight?"
"How was your vacation with---"
"---isn't Harry here with you?"
"Quinn---"
---Ms. Bellini?"
"Do you expect---"
I feel dizzy. I pretend I'm not hearing his name. Slowly but surely, I move down the line, until finally I can see the entrance to the building and I know I'm close to the end. I wasn't expecting that much attention and energy spent on me. I'm not an Ariana Grande or Taylor Swift type. Having the public eye on me is still very new, and even then, I'm not the main event. Not at all. If we win tonight, I will not be the one giving a speech.
It's because of him. His star power is following me. Even now, not standing next to him, there's this heat radiating from the press, this hunger. His mere proximity makes them feral. Because of him, they care about me. They cared enough to learn my name.
I hate that.
I duck into the venue and find my table. Sydney, my go-to production manager for any project, is already in the chair next to mine.
"Quinn!' She gasps and stands up when she sees me. She looks incredible, raven hair tight against her head in a slick pixie cut. Big green gems cut into squares and dangling from her ears. A few small tattoos decorate her arms and collarbone. Her dress is simple, strapless, and velvety black. "So good to see you!"
"You too," I melt into my chair, my shoulders releasing the tension I held from outside. "It's been a while now hasn't it?"
"Little over a month maybe, I saw you at Harry's for New Years if you remember," she slips the last bit in, a teasing glimmer in her eye.
There's his name again, the fucker.
I grimace and nod, trying to plaster on a pleasant expression. It's hard to pretend though, especially with Sydney. "That's right, fun night."
Has it really been a month and a half? That's hard to believe.
But my brain starts to do the math. Two weeks with Emma in New York after we kissed. Two and a half weeks with Harry in Japan while we both lied about our fidelity. A week home, a therapy appointment, preparing for tonight. Yep, it's been a month and a half.
Jesus, time flies.
Sydney grabs my arm and squeezes my frame. "You look hot, girl."
"Thank you," I rub the back of my neck and chuckle. "So do you."
"Aren't you excited?" When she leans in a bit closer, the alcoholic scent on her breath hits me pretty hard. My brain feels itchy. I want that comforting warmth in my chest. I want the haze. My eyes greedily search the table for the bottle she got it from.
"Yeah."
"You don't sound excited," she frowns and pulls back a little.
"Where'd you get the drink?"
She reaches around the vase at the center of the table and reveals a bottle of silver tequila. "There's stuff at the bar too, this is just what I grabbed."
"Can I have some?"
"Yes ma'am," she feigns a salute and giggles, reaching for my glass.
Attending the Grammys is a lot more sitting around than I thought it would be. Sitting around and waiting. Getting drunk. Feeling lonely.
The camera never pans to us. We're in the back, unknown. Sydney's nice company, but I still find myself feeling so bored. Despite every chair being filled, I feel like there's someone missing at this table. I know someone is missing. I'm missing him.
I take minimal comfort in knowing that if he were here, I couldn't have gotten this drunk. The cameras would've been constantly pointing in this direction. And I wouldn't be sitting with my production team. I would be sitting with his friends. I would've been his guest at the event.
Which would've been fine. Except I'm not. I got here on my own. I was invited without him.
That makes me feel good. If every other part of my existence is dependent on him, at least my career is my own.
The lights fizzle out and a flock of dancers skip onto the stage, a performer wandering in seconds behind them. Sydney smacks my arm a few times to get my attention.
"It's Janelle Monae, you worked with her," she whispers frantically.
"Yeah, I know," I laugh.
The lights come up and the familiar clicking of her song echoes into the crowd. People around me and near the stage are cheering. I lightly clap my hands and sit back.
She plays the guitar hanging from her shoulders, keeping up effortlessly with the dancers around her. People closer to the stage go wild when the guitar disappears and she moonwalks around the mic. The guests sitting farther back, around us, watch in awe. I feel my gaze landing on them more than her. They are captured by the magic.
When her song ends, the venue erupts. Sydney jumps out of her seat and slaps her hands together in applause.
The celebrity on the stage announces the nominations for best music video, and suddenly I'm stone cold sober. The color drains from my face. I sit up straight, my expression numbing.
There's my music video. Apeshit is playing up on the screen, The Carters performing in front of pieces at the Louvre. And then another nomination, This Is America by Childish Gambino. I loved that one. I should find them after the show and let them all know. And then it's mine again. Pynk by Janelle Monae. I can't believe we got nominated, that whole project was very last minute.
Then I'm Not Racist by Joyner Lucas. And then Mumbo Jumbo by Tierra Whack. Both leave my skin tingly. Art is so powerful, good lord.
I can't believe making shit like this is my job. I can't believe I get to do this for the rest of my life.
The celebrity rips open the envelope and reads over the name. "This Is America, Childish Gambino."
The room erupts. I sit back, and feel a weird relief. I'm so relieved.
The team involved with that project goes up and collects the award. There's a speech. I blink heavily, suddenly so tired from the tequila.
Maybe I'm relieved because now I don't have to go up on that stage and stand in front of all those people. Or maybe, after watching the other projects, I don't think I deserve it. Maybe I'm afraid of having that attention on me.
Maybe I don't think I deserve a victory right now. Maybe I don't think I could fully enjoy it.
"I'm sorry, Quinn," Sydney frowns and pats my back. I shrug.
"I'm sorry for you too. We'll get 'em next year."
"Hell yeah we will." She giggles.
The rest of the show, I decide I might as well get drunk. It's not like I have anyone to impress anymore. I won't have the camera on me for sure now. Sydney is quite the enabler. The rest of the show goes by in a whirlwind. We head out with two awards still unannounced, hoping to beat traffic to an after party. I call Emma.
"Fuck the Grammys!" She announces as soon as she picks up. I laugh.
"Yeah. We're going to the party now, if you changed your mind?"
"Nah, I think I'm going to stay in," she mumbles nervously. I roll my eyes at her sudden shyness. Every time. Emma might be the only real introvert I know. Sometimes I forget that to everyone else, she's the quiet awkward girl.
"Alright, loser," I trip over my feet a little. Sydney holds her arm out for me to hold, and I accept it graciously.
"Are you drunk?"
"A little."
She's quiet.
"Alright, have fun," she murmurs.
The after party is already dark and stuffy, and the actual awards show hasn't even ended yet. I immediately fall onto a couch, Sydney not far behind, with another glass of something bubbly and pink in her hand.
"Have you ever done coke?" She shouts at me over the music, chin dipped to her chest, eyes wide in excitement. My head snaps, gaze instantly meeting hers.
"I have not," I shout back. She grins.
"Wanna try?"
"Let me get another shot, and then hell yeah," I laugh and push myself off the couch. My balance is already warped when I walk to the bar. The room is barely wavy, just enough at the edges for me to know that I already have something in my system.
Maybe Bea is wrong.
Well, not entirely, but ya know, partially wrong.
You can get over heartbreak in two ways. Either her way, time. Orrrrrr... getting absolutely shitfaced every chance you get.
The latter sounds a lot easier, a lot more fun.
The shot goes down oh so smooth. I don't even feel it. Maybe I'm more far gone than I realized.
I skip back to Sydney on the couch. She's got shit laid on the coffee table now. I slide onto the couch next to her. The drug is starting to draw a crowd around us.
"Is this yours?" I press my forehead to her temple, my lips against her ear so she can hear me.
"Yes ma'am," she cackles and rolls a dollar bill.
Before I can register what's happening, her head dives towards the table, her finger presses against a nostril. Her face slides along the edge of the table as she snorts the line. I blink dumbly at her when she shoots back up. A faint trace of white powder lingers on her face, clinging to her cheek. Her eyes are on fire, her smile stretches to her ears.
"Your turn!" She screams. My heart starts pounding.
"Okay, but I don't think I can handle the whole line!" I take the dollar bill from her. She nods and splits the next strip of white powder in half.
"There," she laughs
I slide the bill into my nose and slowly lean down, eyes grazing across the coke. Jesus, I'm really going to do this, huh?
I mean, it's the Grammys I guess. And I have a void to fill. Fuck it.
I shut my eyes, pinch my other nostril, and sharply inhale, dragging myself along the line. My face instantly feels like it's on fire, my eyes start watering. I cough and sit back, pinching the bridge of my nose as tight as I can. Sydney hits my back playfully.
"Good job!" She screams. A few people standing around and watching lightly applaud. I blink my eyes open slowly and give a cheesy curtsey, which receives a few giggles. "How do you feel?" Sydney grips my bicep. I shrug.
"Numb," I grin in my daze. Perfect.
"Oh you have some in your hair," she runs her fingers through it and clicks her tongue. "There."
"You have some on your face," I remember, turning my body and wiping my thumb across her cheek. The motion is violent. I don't realize the force of my own body anymore. She leans her face into my hand.
"Why thank you," she giggles.
"I need to stand up. I need to dance." I jump off the couch, knocking my knee against the coffee table. It makes a loud smacking noise and rocks the cocaine out of the neat little line, but I don't feel anything. Sydney stands up after me. "Let's go dance."
What a buzz!
I could ride this high forever.
I don't register the way my limbs are moving. I don't know how long we've been here. It feels like three minutes, max. But then I glance at my phone and I have a missed call from Emma. It's three am. My skin is pale, doused in sweat. I look holographic. I stare carefully at my arm, watching the sheen change colors in a wild rainbow gracing my skin.
"It's a new color."
"What does that mean?"
"To your rainbow. An enticing secret."
I smack my arm, hard. The rainbow turns bright red. So does my vision. My breath hitches.
"I need to go home, Syd," I lean against the wall, trying to regain my balance.
She laughs. I find Emma's contact on my phone and call her back. She picks up pretty much right away.
"How's it going?"
"Will you pick me up?"
"Yep."
She hangs up. I throw my head against the wall and stare at the popcorn ceiling. It looks like there's a bunch of little mountains growing out of the plaster. Sydney holds my hand, swaying our arms back and forth. "Why do you have to go?" She whines. I shrug.
"I don't feel it anymore. I'm about to get sad."
"Have more," she tugs me toward the couch. I let go of her hand. She stumbles back a bit and then returns to my side. "Fine," she huffs.
"Next time, baby," I pat the top of her head. She blinks, big eyes.
"Baby," she repeats softly, rolling the word around on her tongue.
"It's something I used to call people, it's just a nickname."
"Used to?"
"Well I guess I just did, didn't I. Maybe I still do. I don't know. I'm trying to figure this all out. I'm so sad. I'm so empty."
She tries to tug me toward the couch again. This time I let her. We sit down on the cold, sticky leather of the couch. "What happened, dude," she nudges my arm.
"I miss him," I whisper dryly, eyes misting over. The room blurs into chaos.
"Harry?"
"Why did I do this to myself?" I sit back into the couch and run my hand over the cushion. "How could I let this happen--fuck," I pinch my eyes shut.
"Oh God, did you guys break up," she gasps.
Oh shit.
My eyes peek open at her and I take in her expression.
Do I want people to know? Sydney and I are friendly, we get along, we work well together, but telling her is different than telling Emma. Emma won't tell a soul. Sydney is an uncontrollable factor. Sydney could tell anyone. She could go to the press.
"We just had a fight," I muscle through a lie. I mean, it's true. It was a big fight. And neither of us technically said it was over. "A big fight. But we're okay," I grimace.
"Aw, baby, I'm sorry." The nickname makes my hair prickle, but she's just trying to help. "It'll be okay, you guys probably just need a little space to cool off. I fight with my fiance all the time," she laughs and then her face straightens out. "All the time," she whispers.
"I'm lonely," I pout. "It's not fair."
"We actually probably shouldn't be getting married," she mutters.
"I was doing just fine before him--"
"Quinn?"
My head shoots off the couch and scans the room. Emma sees me and jogs over.
"Hey baby," she smiles at me and holds out her hand. "Let me take you home."
"Bye Quinn!" Sydney snaps out of her spiral and waves. I wave back shyly.
"Bye," I grin.
"How are you? God, you're so sweaty," Emma mutters and rubs my back.
"I was doing just fine before him," the thought circles back into my head. Like a carousel, I feel my brain spinning in circles. I stop walking and hold my arm out to find my balance. Emma waits by me, watching my frame carefully. "And he fucked it all up."
"Come on, baby," she murmurs and holds me tight. I nod.
"I was just fine and he made me like him and then made me hurt. He ruined it."
"Quinn," she sighs impatiently and drags me out of the party. The fresh air hits me hard. I take a deep breath and a sob rips through my throat. Tears start pouring down my face. Emma stops walking and faces me, her eyes frantically tracing over my features.
"He ruined me," I sob. She shakes her head.
"No."
"I was okay. It was all okay before him--"
"Was it?" She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. My mouth parts.
"Yes." I pout. "He made me feel things like a stupid child."
She sighs, but it barely registers in her body. I just see her shoulders lightly lift and fall. She runs her fingers over my forehead, pushing my hair back and tucking it behind my ear. "You were numb for such a long time," she whispers. In the dead L.A. night, her words feel electrified. They come to life in the humid air.
"Exactly--"
"No," she snaps. I blink flinch at the intensity. "It's not a good thing. Never feeling anything, that doesn't make you safe, it makes you broken."
I catch a sob.
"We're supposed to hurt, Quinn. We're supposed to trust each other. That's what it means to be a human. And sometimes it's the hardest thing in the world. But that's how our bodies work. If you don't trust, if you don't hurt, you're broken."
"But if it's so painful, why put yourself through it?" I look away, over at the parking lot of the building.
"Because it's worth it," she shrugs.
"No it's not," I cough and look back at her. She shakes her head.
"You're on something right now, let's talk when you're sober."
"I'm never being sober ever again," I growl and let her guide me across the street, to the hotel the Grammys offered all the artists.
She pushes me gently into the elevator. I stumble to the wall, gripping the railing that runs along the contraption. She presses the button for our floor. And then she glances back at me, concerned.
"What about everything good between you two?"
"What about it?" I mutter to the linoleum floor.
"Didn't that make it worth it? Didn't that make you feel something?"
"I don't want to remember the good things."
"You should, it'll help."
"No it won't," I roll my eyes. She sighs.
"What's your happiest memory with Harry?"
"I don't know," I murmur quieter.
"Start making a list. Right now, with me."
"I don't know," I whine again. I wish my brain wasn't so watered down. I feel like I'm blindly running through a soupy fog. "The bonfire at his house last winter."
"Good. Keep going."
"And that one good day. He helped give me the willow branch tattoo. That was good. And when he flew to New York and hung out with our friends and sang that song with you. And before that, when we went thrifting and he found those yellow pants and we got high on our fire escape--"
Now I can't stop. I'm rambling. I can't keep the thoughts contained. They're boiling over.
"And our first kiss, laying on his couch in silence until the sun came up. And walking around Mexico together. And the first time we had sex, on the fire escape, and giving him the fish, and meeting Mitch and Sarah, and watching him sing at that wedding, and--"
"Quinn, breathe."
I stop and wheeze. And the crying starts again. I can't stop it. Like torrential rainfall it pours out of me. I crumple to my knees in the elevator. She's quick to follow, rubbing small circles into my back and shushing in my ear.
"You're okay, baby."
"Why would I want to feel like this?" I choke. Her eyes brim with their own tears. She sniffs in a shaky breath.
She doesn't have a response.
The next day we fly back, my head pounding. I look like death. When Emma sees me that morning, she gasps in horror.
"Jesus, Quinn. What did you do last night?" She tenderly holds my arm.
"Cocaine," I wince.
She drops her hand.
On the plane ride home, she lets me rest my temple on her shoulder. I close my eyes and just try my best not to throw up.
We unlock our front door and wander back inside the house. Leo yelps from somewhere and a few minutes later he patters to us, tail twitching in excitement.
Trinh left a sticky note on the wall above our pile of shoes. Something about how she's sorry I didn't win, but hoped we both had fun, and that Leo missed his moms dearly.
I stumble into the living room and flop onto the couch, sinking heavily into the cushions. Emma slinks away into the kitchen. I hear her messing with the coffee maker, and a few seconds later the bubbling of the espresso machine brightens the place.
My gaze falls onto the piano against the wall.
Upright and soft brown. It suddenly feels threatening. My parents got me that piano. I've only played it once, fumbled through Cecilia for Harry when he asked me to. Now it's taunting me, a token of my fucked up past. Look at how inadequate you are.
I slowly peel myself off the couch and wander to the instrument, tracing my hand over the edges of the wood. My legs give way and I land on the bench, pushing the lid off of the keys. The ivory is pristine, untouched, glossy and opaque like a glass of milk.
My finger runs down a key, and then presses into it. A small ding silences every sound in the house. I swear the dust stops moving through the air. I chew on my bottom lip and stare hungrily at the instrument.
This is what he does. When he's upset. He writes a song.
Obviously drinking alcohol and doing drugs didn't get the job done. I was still reminded of him. I still felt like shit. And time will take forever. I don't want to feel like this forever. I just want it all to go away.
So maybe I'll write a song. And that will put the heartbreak to bed.
I pick three keys, and start lightly tapping them, until I find a rhythm and pattern that feels easy. It becomes a loop, a coping mechanism, much quicker than I was anticipating.
Over and over, those three little piano keys in a pattern I happened upon. It feels like simultaneously ripping the wound open, and stitching myself back together.
I don't have words. I don't know what to say. This isn't what I do. I don't know how to write music. But I can play three little keys until my hand falls off, and maybe that will cure me.
I'm so desperate to be healed, I will put my faith in anything at this point.
Emma quietly moves back into the living room, clutching her steaming mug of coffee. She leans against the doorframe and watches me at the piano. The sun is setting in the window behind me, and it's starting to land on the wood of the instrument. A bright golden yellow pierces at the back of my head and the wall before me.
In the golden hour of the day, I play the loop. I play it so many times, it imprints itself into me. My fingers find the keys without a second thought. And Emma watches from the edge of the room.
a/n
Song: "hoax" -Taylor Swift
Here's a fun drinking game, take a shot every time I name a chapter after a taylor swift song off folklore!
(two shots so actually not that many, maybe not a fun drinking game idk)
poor quinn :,(
psa maybe don't do cocaine to get over a breakup