Chapter Sixteen
Haylee
I don’t really know how I manage to get through sound check. It’s the last show of the tour. In two more days we’re all going back to the States. When I try to imagine how things will be then, I draw a blank. I assumed that Lennon and I would figure it out together—where we’d be, what we’d do. The one thing I never wondered about is whether or not we’d be together. That, at least, seemed to be a given.
But now… the truth is, I’m terrified. Lennon is going through something I can’t understand. And he’s not letting me in. I know he didn’t sleep at all the night we returned from France. He’s not talking to me, not talking to anyone as far as I can see. And his eyes, those beautiful, expressive eyes that I always thought were so familiar—they’re closed off to me. Like shutters pulled tight over windows during a storm. He’s here with us in London, doing promo, eating meals at my side, talking to his brothers, rehearsing. But he’s absent. And it scares the hell out of me.
I don’t know if the rest of them can tell. In the two days after our impromptu trip to France, I’ve been watching his brothers and Levi, watching Daisy and Paige, even watching his dad, trying to figure out what they see when they look at him. Are they worried? They watch him a lot, eyes constantly flicking in his direction at every meal, trying not to be obvious about it. But have they always been like that? Knowing what I know now, about what happened in August, I realize what he meant when he told me they were overprotective and suffocating. They’ve been scared for him. They’re scared still.
But are they as scared as they should be?
He made me promise not to tell them where we went. I expected everyone to be pissed about our unexplained trip until I realized that we were only gone for a day. We didn’t even spend the night in France. But it felt like we were there for days, not mere hours.
“You doing okay?” James asks me as we finish our sound check.
I can’t muster the energy to lie to him. “It’s been a rough few days.”
His eyebrows come down. “I knew this was going to happen.” I bristle, sure that I’ll lose it if he criticizes my relationship with Lennon right now. I’m surprised when he continues. “I told Louis that we needed to cool it with all the media requests after the concert went so well. I knew you weren’t ready for that kind of exposure.”
He thought I was having a rough time with the increase in fan and media attention. Funny, I haven’t spared a single moment of concern over that. “No, it’s been fine. The attention stuff, it hasn’t been that bad.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Before I can answer, Ransom comes out of their dressing room on their way to the stage for their own sound check. My gaze immediately goes to Lennon, all thoughts of my conversation with James flying from my head. How does he look this afternoon? Has he slept at all? Is that terrible bleakness still in his eyes?
“Give me a minute,” I say to James after we exchange pleasantries with the band. I grab Lennon’s arm and pull him a few feet away from his brothers as they continue down the hall.
“Hey.” I link my fingers through his. He mimics the action automatically, and I squeeze his hand. “How’s it going?”
For a moment I think he’s going to brush me off, give me the standard “I’m fine” that I’ve heard him throw at his brothers whenever they ask this question. Instead he closes his eyes, letting his forehead drop down to mine. “I’m exhausted.”
“I know,” I whisper, bringing my hands up into his hair. “You haven’t slept since we’ve been back.”
He laughs, a bitter, tired sound. “I wasn’t sleeping before that, either.”
I remember what Daisy said, and worry shoots through me again. “We should talk to your dad, Lennon. Or Levi.”
“I know. But I just…” He lifts his head and opens his eyes, his fingers coming up to play idly with a strand of my hair. “I just want to get through this show, you know? Get the tour behind us so I can concentrate on… whatever the hell is going on right now.”
“I still think they should know.”
He sighs. “Haylee, when I tell them that I went to see our mother… it’s not going to be good. I don’t think you understand quite how angry they are at her.” I picture his face on that awful day in the bright little living room in Giverny, his voice ragged and furious. I wonder if he understands how angry he is. “I don’t want to do that to them when we still have another day of work, you know?”
“So you’ll just suffer through it alone?”
He gives me a ghost of a smile. “I’m not alone. I have you.”
But you’re not letting me in either, I think. I can’t read your eyes anymore, Lennon.
“I should get going,” he says, nodding toward the door to the greenroom.
“When this show is over, you’re going to tell them? You promise?”
He nods. “I promise.”
“And you’ll let me be there for you when you do?”
He blinks, apparently surprised. “Why wouldn’t you be there?”
“Because we’re going home. And we haven’t really talked about what happens next…”
Lennon frowns. “I assumed we’d be together. Isn’t that… isn’t that what you want?”
A flash of relief goes through me. “Of course it’s what I want.”
Before he can respond, Daltrey sticks his head out of the greenroom door. “You coming, Len? Dad’s getting pissy.”
“Story of my life,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at me. It’s a small gesture, but it makes me happier than I can say to see him acting a little more normal. “See you later?”
“Definitely.” He kisses me softly, just for a moment, and then releases my arms. I watch him go until he’s through the greenroom door. For the first time in the last few days, I feel a little bit hopeful. Maybe this will all work out okay. We’ll be home soon, and he’ll talk to his family. They’ll help him figure out what’s going on, why he’s having so many nightmares. Help him figure out whatever the hell his mother was talking about when she said he needed to remember. He’ll be back near his doctors, and they’ll help too. Everything will be fine, I tell myself again as I head back to my dressing room. It has to be.
I barely manage to suppress a groan as I walk into the room and see Louis sitting on the little couch. He’s alone, all of my bandmates nowhere to be seen. Awesome. I’d been waiting for his lecture about my unplanned trip. But when Louis looks up at me, my stomach drops. He doesn’t look the way he usually does when he’s about to lecture me. He looks… worried.
“We need to talk,” he says, standing up to shut the door behind me. “Sit down with me, okay, Haylee?”
He’s being too nice. He never talks to me like this. Something bad happened. I don’t know what, but I know something bad happened.
“Haylee,” he repeats, taking my arm and leading me to the couch. Why is there pity in his eyes? “Come and talk to me.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to fight down the fear that’s rising in my chest.
He doesn’t torture me with anticipation. Instead he looks straight into my face, his eyes steady and so sad. “Haylee, your mother gave an interview, and it’s going to be published tomorrow.”
My throat goes very dry. “What kind of interview?”
“She spoke to one of the gossip magazines. After the Paris show when you guys started to get so much attention…”
Oh, God. “What did she do?” But I already know the answer. I know exactly what my mother is capable of selling for a little fame and some cash.
“She talked to them about Randy.”
The room seems to go very still around me. I open my mouth a few times, but no sound comes out. Glancing down, I realize that Louis is holding my hand. The sweetness of that gesture brings a lump to my throat. “She told them… everything?”
“Mostly everything. She shared details about the stalking and the… abduction.”
I hate her, I think dully. I really do. She knew how much that affected me. Knew how impossible I found it to talk about. Knew how hard the label fought to keep so much of it hidden, to keep it away from the press. They tried to protect me better than she ever did, I think. My bosses took better care of me than my own mother. A few details got out, like these things always do. But no one had heard of us back then. It was only a blip.
“She also talked about how you’ve… dealt with the stress of the situation.”
My head snaps up. The pity in his eyes is far greater now than it was before.
“What do you mean?”
Louis closes his eyes briefly. “She told them about some of the problems you’ve had since the attack.”
“Like what?” My voice is so cold, so sharp, it hardly sounds like my own.
“She said that you had to cancel the tour that year. And that you have panic attacks in crowds. And that… you’ve turned to drugs and alcohol.”
You would think after all this time that I wouldn’t be surprised by her behavior. That she couldn’t hurt me. Sure, the effects of her behavior could hurt, but I thought I outgrew being hurt by her. By knowing that my own mother cared so little about me. So I’m surprised by the pain that runs through me at his words. “She told them that?”
“Haylee, I’m so sorry. The label is behind you, I want you to know that. They’ll release a statement, downplaying everything she said. We can say that you have little contact with her, that she’s not close enough to the situation to speak with any authority. The label can minimize this, I promise.”
Everyone will know. Everyone will know what happened to me. How I dealt with it. It’s entertainment now, something to gossip about. People will read about it in the glossy pages of magazines while they stand in line to buy groceries. The worst thing that ever happened to me is about to be an entertaining diversion for someone.
And it was my mother who made that possible.
“I’m going to go back to the hotel,” I say, standing up. Somehow I manage to keep my voice steady, but my hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets so Louis won’t see.
“Let’s sit for a minute,” he says, taking my arm again. “You’ve had a shock, Haylee. Let’s relax, have a glass of water.”
He’s being so nice to me. Somehow that makes it all worse, makes it seem so much more real. Because Louis isn’t nice. Louis is demanding and bossy and obsessed with our success.
But he still cares about me more than my mother. They’ve both been pushing me to succeed all these years. But, unlike my mother, Louis wanted it for us. He pushed us because he thought we deserved to make it. He wasn’t just interested in coattails. He was interested in contributing, in helping us make our dreams come true. My mother only ever wanted money.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice falsely bright. “It’s like you said, the label will handle it.”
“Haylee—”
“I’d just like to go rest at the hotel, okay?”
He watches my face for a long moment, as if trying to gauge how big of a lie I’m telling. Finally, he nods. “Okay. We’ll go back.”
We don’t talk in the car. Louis doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. But he holds my hand the entire way.
***
I almost can’t make myself go on stage that night. The thought of all of those people, looking at me, makes me want to puke. Will they know? The magazine isn’t out yet, but these things leak first, right? There’ll be talk online, won’t there? I can’t bear to look. The rest of the band knows, of course. Louis must have told them before he told me. As they’ve done a hundred times, they shelter me, protecting me. From the moment we leave the hotel to the moment we step on stage, they’re there, surrounding me. Not allowing me to be alone for a single moment. Not allowing anyone else to get close to me.
Lennon texts me from their dressing room a half-hour before the show. Stuck in interviews, he writes. Have an amazing last show. I’m so proud of you.
He has no idea. No idea the shitstorm that’s going to fall on me tomorrow. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
It’s good that I don’t see him before the show. I don’t think I would hold up so well if he put his arms around me. I don’t think I could tell him I was okay if he asked. And he would have to know, wouldn’t he, if he looked at me? He’d have to be able to tell.
Unless he was too much of a mess himself, I think. God, what a pair we are.
Before we go on stage, we gather in a circle, arms around each other, the way we do before every performance. This time, Louis joins us. No one says a negative word to him. Dylan merely puts his arm around his shoulders, including him in our huddle.
“Haylee, you can do this,” Layla says, her voice firm and commanding. “We are all behind you on that stage. We all have your back.”
“Let yourself get lost in the music,” Dylan says. “Let the music help you.”
I nod, unable to meet any of their eyes.
“We’ve come such a long way on this tour,” James says, squeezing my arm. “We have so much to be proud of. Let’s finish it strong.”
“Finish it strong,” the others echo.
“Finish it strong,” I say.
“Okay, Intrigue on three,” Lance says, and we break our embrace to put our hands on top of each other in the middle of the circle, just like always. “One, two, three, Intrigue!”
“Intrigue!” everyone shouts.
And we do finish it strong. I don’t know how, when I want to run screaming from the stage. But I take comfort in the fact that they’re all there with me. Between songs James brings me a water bottle. Dylan hands me a pick, his fingers brushing mine for several seconds as he looks down at me, smiling. Layla makes eye contact behind her drums, nodding at me whenever I turn in her direction. They have my back. Just like they said.
The crowd doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. They cheer for us just as they’ve done at every other show, growing louder ever since Paris. When we finish the last song and go to the front of the stage to take a group bow, I swear they’re as loud as they are for Ransom.
“Want to go back to the hotel?” James asks as we make our way to the dressing room.
I shake my head. “I think I want to watch their set.”
“Are you sure? We could go watch a movie or something. Take a walk, see London at night.”
“It’s okay. It’s the last show. I want to see it.”
So we sit up in the family box, all five of us, while Ransom does their last show of the tour. They’re tight tonight, sounding strong. And they seem to be in good spirits, Cash and Daltrey jumping around through the set, Reed smiling behind his drum kit. You’d think they’d be more tired after a long tour, but instead they seem energized. Excited.
Except for Lennon. He stands behind his bass, head down, for most of the show. His hair is longer than it was at the start of the tour, covering his forehead when his head is tilted like that. I can’t see his eyes. But I have a feeling I know what they look like. Closed off. Broken. Just like the day we met.
How can I tell him? I think, over and over again. He’ll worry about me. He has enough to worry about.
For most of this tour, I tried to hold myself back from him. James told me that I need to protect myself, that getting close to him could cause me more pain. In truth, I wanted to protect him as well. Wanted to keep him from the mess and the darkness I felt inside. But ever since Paris, ever since he told me about his accident, I’ve let myself believe that I could help him. That I wouldn’t hurt him because I understood him. That our similarities meant we could help each other. I wanted to give him strength, help him to see that there are bright and good things in the world, that he’d get through everything he faced.
Watching him now on that stage, so far away from me, I wonder, for the first time in weeks, if it can really work that way. It seems impossible to me that I could be the one to show him anything bright or good.
How can we help each other when we’re both so broken?
Paige has planned a night out to celebrate the last show. Part of me wants to skip it, to hide away in my hotel room. But I know my friends will never let me be alone tonight. They’ll pretend they want to stay in too. I can’t do that to them. It’s the last night of the tour, and they deserve to celebrate. So I paste on a fake smile and assure them that a night out is just what I need.
I see my fake smile reflected on Lennon’s face when he tells his brothers that he’s looking forward to it.
We sit in the van together, holding hands, neither of us talking. We’re all shoved together in the small space, forcing me practically into his lap. But somehow I haven’t felt so much distance between us since we met. I wonder if he can sense it too. Or if he’s so far in his own head that he can’t see what’s happening around him.
The club is awful—crowded and full of fans who recognize Ransom and try to push past security to get to them. The music is too loud, some techno pop crap that I can’t stand. The other Ransomes are in a great mood, jubilant about the success of the tour and excited to get home. Lennon and I don’t dance. We sit at our table in the VIP section, and I assure my bandmates over and over again that they should dance, that they should have fun, that I’m fine.
There’s a bottle of tequila on the table. The Ransomes don’t notice how quickly the level of the liquid drops. James sees, I’m sure, but he doesn’t say anything. Lennon sips his own drink, holding my hand but not talking. He’s in his head, a million miles away from me. I don’t try to force my way in to join him.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” James says after I’ve made my way through a good third of the bottle. “You look tired.”
His meaning is clear. He doesn’t want me to react to this mess the way I usually do. As ever, he’s trying to protect me. And for once I decide to let him. “Bed sounds good,” I say, extracting my hand from Lennon’s. “You coming?”
“I should probably stay for a while,” he says, even though he sounds exhausted. “Cash has this thing about us celebrating together. They’ll be upset if I leave so early.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel, okay?”
It’s going to be fine, I tell myself as I nod, trying to tamp down on the panic in my chest at the thought of being without him. He’ll come and find me when he gets in, and we’ll sleep together, the way we always do. He’ll hold me, and I’ll make myself forget how shitty I feel. I don’t have to tell him anything. We can just be.
But as I head out with James, I pass Levi. He frowns and pulls me away from the crowd. “Lennon isn’t going with you?”
I shake my head. “He said his brothers would be upset.”
Levi is still frowning. “How does he seem to you, Haylee?”
I meet his gaze, trying to read his eyes in the darkness. He’s worried too, I realize. “Keep an eye on him, Levi,” I say, the fear rising again. “He’s… not sleeping very well.”
Levi’s eyes widen. “I thought he’s been doing so much better…”
“Just keep an eye on him.”
He nods, and I leave the club, feeling numb. Was that overstepping my bounds, inviting Levi into this mess when Lennon was so adamant about waiting to tell everyone? I can’t make myself care. Leaving him alone when he feels like that is too frightening. And I don’t think I have it in me to help him right now.
Back at the hotel, James tries to convince me to come hang out in his room. “We’ll get room service. It’s our last night with Ransom footing the bill. Might as well take advantage of it.”
I do my best to smile. “I really am tired, James. I think I’ll just go lie down.” The truth is, I can’t stand to spend another minute pretending I’m okay. I’m tired of the fake smiles, tired of knowing my friends are looking at me, worried, waiting to see how I’ll react. I just want to sit in the dark and quiet of my own room for a few hours.
I can tell he doesn’t want to go along with it. “You’ll call me if you need anything?”
“Of course. Besides, Lennon will be back soon.”
He nods before pulling me into a hug. “I’m really proud of you, Haylee. You’re handling this so well.” He pulls away, smiling a little even though he still looks worried. “Maybe Lennon was better for you than I thought. You seem… happier. Calmer, you know?”
I try to hang onto that as I go into my room. I have gotten stronger since this tour started. I didn’t fall apart today, as much as I wanted to. Even at the club, with the tequila right there, I didn’t completely lose it. I drank steadily, sure, but I didn’t go any further. And when James worried I’d had enough, I agreed with him and came home.
“You are stronger,” I whisper. “You’re not going to fall apart.”
But then my phone rings. My mother.
I shouldn’t answer it. I should turn it off, run after James, tell him room service sounds good after all. But a part of me, a stupid, naive part, thinks that maybe she can explain this all away. Maybe it isn’t as black and white as Louis said. Maybe there is another side to the story, a side that doesn’t include my mother being a horrible person.
“Hello?”
“Haylee.” She sounds relieved. “Sweetie, I’m so glad you answered.”
Tell me it’s not true, I think. Please, Mom.
“I need you to talk to your label,” she says. “They keep calling here, and I really can’t deal with them anymore. You know how anxious I get on the phone, sweetheart.”
“Why are they calling?”
“Because of that interview, honey. I’m sure they told you.”
“They did.” My voice is tight. Please explain yourself. Please make it better.
“Well, they seem to think it was some awful thing.” She sighs. “I don’t really see how it was such a big deal. Isn’t publicity a good thing? You’d think they’d be happy.”
“Mom.” I feel like I might be sick. Is this actually how she’s going to play this? How can she be so cavalier, so clueless? “This isn’t the good kind of publicity. You had to know they wouldn’t be happy about this. That I wouldn’t be happy about it.”
“Oh, sweetie, I knew you would get like that.” She sounds irritated, as though I’m acting like a bratty kid. “It’s a big story, hon. I was just trying to use it to your advantage.”
“How could this be to my advantage?”
“People love drama, Haylee! This is going to be big. You’re a survivor, hon! You’re strong! Everyone will be talking about this.”
“I don’t want them to be talking about it!” I cry. “You know that, Mom! You know what measures the label took to protect me from this. And now you put it out there. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Haylee, don’t be so dramatic.” She’s impatient now, tired of me. “It was ages ago. You’re fine now.”
“I’m not fine, Mom! A fact which you shared with the world!” I take several deep breaths, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking. “How could you have told them about the panic attacks, Mom? Or the drinking. The drugs! How could you think I would want people to know about that?”
“If you don’t want people to know about it, you know the solution, don’t you? Get yourself together and stop doing those things. People love a redemption story, you know.”
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper. “I don’t believe that you could be this clueless about your own daughter.”
“My own daughter needs to put on her big girl pants and join the real world.” She’s getting upset now. “I’ve been telling you this since you were a little girl, Haylee. It’s a rough business, a rough world. You better get tough real fast if you want to do well. Enough with this sniveling around, feeling bad for yourself. Grow up. So a bad thing happened to you. You think you’re the only one? You think nothing bad has ever happened to me?”
“I don’t think your own mother ever threw the bad things in your life to the press like your pain is some kind of entertainment.”
“I can see you’re in a mood tonight.”
“I’m in a mood because you sold me out! You’re my mother!”
“And I have bills to pay, Haylee Marie,” she snaps.
There it is. Her true motivation. Of course it was about money. That’s all I’ve ever been to her—a potential meal ticket. “How much did they pay you?”
“More than you ever send me.”
“I wonder how much I’ll send you now,” I whisper, wondering why it hurts so much. It’s not a surprise.
“You’ve never appreciated everything that I do for you,” she retorts. So now we’re starting her litany of guilt. I’ve heard it enough to repeat it by heart. Exhaustion suddenly crashes over me. I’m so tired of feeling like this.
“I have to go.”
“Sweetie, don’t be like that,” she croons, switching tactics like lightning. Now she’ll be all buddy-buddy. “We’re a team, you and I. There’s no reason to get upset—”
“The lawyers from the label are going to call you back tomorrow.” My voice is flat. “I’d listen to them, if I were you.”
“Are you threatening me?” she shrieks. “I’m your mother—”
“And I’m done,” I say. “I’m done, Mom.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means goodbye.”
I don’t hear whatever she cries into the phone because I’m already turning it off. I can’t listen to her anymore, can’t have these same arguments over and over. She’s no different than she was when I was twelve years old, out late on a school night, singing in shitty dive bars in Detroit where the men leered and a cloud of smoke hung heavy over the room. She’s been using me since the moment she realized I could sing.
So why does it hurt so bad? If it’s nothing new, why can’t I brush it off? Why does the pain of it seem to open up a hole inside of me, threatening to pull me in?
“I’m tired of feeling this way,” I whisper to the empty room. Then again, louder. Again, until I’m yelling it. I throw the phone at the wall, feeling the tears come, so frustrated with myself I can barely stand it. I want to break things, want to scream myself hoarse.
I want to drink.
You’re stronger than you were. James’s words flit through my brain, and I try to believe them. But I don’t. I’m not stronger. I’m not different at all. At the first shitty thing that happens, I fall apart completely. Just like I always do.
Call Lennon, a voice in my head urges. Call Lennon.
So I do, praying that he can fix this. That he can fix me. But he doesn’t answer. He’s still at the club, where it’s too loud to hear a phone. And what would happen if he did answer? What would I even say? Sorry you’re dealing with the mother who abandoned you, Len, but my mom is being super mean to me right now.
“What’s the point?” I wipe tears away from my eyes. “He can’t help me. Just like I can’t help him.”
I walk to the minibar and pull out all of the little bottles I can hold. Because I’m not any stronger than I used to be. And there’s no sense in pretending I am.