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yeahimwiththeband · 2 years

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-> with the band chapter 5

tell the truth (part 1)

warning: minors DNI due to a little bit of smut in this chapter and a lot in others. in this one: people pleasing behavior, anxiety disorder, codependency.

A/N: this is a story about a girl with anxiety disorder learning to thrive. it’s the fifth part of my first story post on tumblr, first attempt writing a book of any kind.

thank you so much for reading. i love any feedback or input. this is a love on tour au, harry styles au, slow burn romance.

word count: 4.61k

New York City didn’t know it was September. It was so hot that the tarmac felt soft under Izzy’s shoes.

She left the plane with only what she came to the concert in: her fanny pack with her phone (no charger), a chapstick (now empty), and bandaid wrappers (used up). Airport workers milled around her, grabbing bags, as Harry and the band spilled out of the plane like colorful ribbon onto the asphalt. He had changed into a cream suit with pink slacks. Lydia ambled off the plane, as relaxed as if she were getting into a pool.

Harry opened his guitar case on the ground, inspecting it for damage, running his hand along its body. Izzy didn’t know where to stand or what to do. She hadn’t been on a plane since she was a kid, and now she was in some weird, private part of the airport in a city she had never seen before. With people who had done this hundreds of times.

“Lydia,” Izzy said. Lydia finished typing on her phone, then looked up.

“Mmm??”

“I don’t have a toothbrush,” Izzy complained. “I’m in a city where I’ve never been and I don’t have a toothbrush.”

“You’re in a city where you’ve never been and you don’t have a toothbrush!” Lydia sang back.

“I have no clothes,” Izzy said.

“You get new clothes!” Lydia echoed in a brighter tone.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.”

“You can do anything here!”

Harry smirked; he thought Lydia was being pretty funny. “There’s a bunch of stores near the hotel. And there’ll be a toothbrush in your room, Izzy,” Harry said. His hair was just falling over his eyes and his stubble somehow made him look better, not worse. Izzy yanked her eyes away; she had been staring. Harry caught her eyes and grinned. Izzy felt like an idiot, still in her green dress. Everything about Harry made her angry: it wasn’t fair that he could look so good getting off a plane.

She could call her mom and use her savings to fly back; she was already at the airport. But it was September, back to school time, and for the first time in five years Izzy felt excited about it. Since she had to go to school locally and live at home, September was always a time of dread for her: the long commute to class, scrolling through posts from house parties while sitting at home alone.

This September would be different. She’d make it different.

A van pulled up—it wasn’t labelled, but it was obviously theirs, painted on all sides in a riot of color.

Harry, most of the opening band, Eddie, and Lydia piled in, Eddie and Harry bickering about the opening song. Izzy checked around her for George—the other plane still hadn’t arrived. There weren’t any seats left in the van.

“Sorry, is she on crew?” the Starer asked from her seat.

“Yeah, she’s with me,” said Lydia, scooting over so Lydia could sit beside her.

“That moron hired two influencers?” Harry said from the back, briefly breaking from his bickering with Eddie.

“Where’d he get the money from?” Lisa asked. Izzy hovered outside the van awkwardly, wanting to crawl out of her skin. Harry’s eyes flicked from the Starer to Izzy; Eddie started in again on his set list in imploring tones, and Harry turned away.

“She can make anything go viral. She’s a magician,” Lydia said. “And she’s just here for the weekend, anyway.”

“Fine,” said the Starer. “You guys are supposed to post three times today, according to that plan you drafted. Let’s see it. If she’s really qualified, she can stay for the weekend.” Who the fuck died and made you queen of everything, Izzy thought.

Lydia slid over and Izzy climbed in, shooting daggers at her. Lydia shrugged and returned to her phone.

“Ryan doesn’t let anyone stay unless they earn at least their room rate,” Olivia said. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’re calm, you’re relaxed. ”

Izzy felt panic rumble her stomach. She didn’t know anything about going viral on social media. She frantically started Googling, with her phone at 10% battery. Izzy was normally a terrible backseat driver—being on the road made her anxiety spike. But she was too distracted now. Not just by the sight of Manhattan coming into view, a cluster of glittering skyscrapers bigger than any buildings Izzy had ever seen—if she didn’t figure out a way to turn all of this into social media success, she was done.

Harry’s phone rang at least ten times over the course of the drive, and he complained about everything, getting more and more agitated: the drive was too long, the van was too small, the hotel they picked was for assholes. Izzy agreed with all of it, but she would never say any of that out loud; like Harry, she also felt like she had been kidnapped, and had no control over her situation. Izzy’s clumsy search, “how to make social viral” turned up millions of results, most of them useless. She read up on hashtags, data-driven content strategies, trending topics, scheduling. It was all so fake, and staged, and carefully calibrated. This is what Lydia did for a living now? Izzy downloaded several analytics and AI apps to her phone. Lydia handed over her phone and Izzy checked the opening act’s social accounts: they were called Jess Harper, named after the lead singer. The Starer’s name was Jess. Izzy decided she would continue to refer to the Starer as such internally, as it was a much better fit.

Harry and Eddie’s bickering was just a warm up for the scene he pulled once they arrived at their hotel for that set of shows. They had pulled into an alleyway to go in through the back.

“I’m not a fucking circus clown here to perform tricks for people! I control my set list,” he boomed from the backseat as Eddie tried to get him out of the car.

As Izzy was about to get out of the van, wanting to get away from Harry, Lydia pulled her back in. Apparently, they were going to meet George somewhere for a shoot.

A few people on the sidewalk recognized the vehicle, and a couple had started to follow it down the alley. “The band wants this too, it’s not just me,” Harry said. “It’s like he wants to kill the whole album.”

Eddie rubbed his forehead, exhausted. “Come on, let’s get out of the car. We can talk about this upstairs.”

“Do you work for Ryan now? What the fuck is going on?”

Someone started filming Eddie with their phone.

Eddie sighed. A photographer with a bigger camera, a serious camera, ran toward the scene.

“Let’s just get inside,” Eddie said.

The cameraman pushed past Eddie, nearly knocking the hungover man to the ground. He stuck his camera into the van, aiming it backwards at Harry. Izzy put her hands up in front of her, mortified. Harry leapt forward and swung the door shut, crunching the lens.

“Jesus, Harry!” Izzy yelped from her seat.

“Drive,” commanded Harry. The van peeled out, and the camera slid down the gap between the door and the frame, before it fell out and clattered onto the asphalt. Izzy pulled the door closed and looked out the back window to see the photographer yelling at them. Eddie was approaching him, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

“We’re going shopping,” Lydia said, totally calm. She was on her phone, as usual.

“Shopping? We have to take some good photos or I’m off the tour, remember?”

“Meg’s at the hotel, asleep. You can chill. And George is meeting us,” Lydia explained.

“Let me off here,” Harry said. The car stopped suddenly.

“You don’t want to dress up and take some photos with us?” Lydia offered.

Harry said nothing and stepped out, leaving his sequinned vest behind. He looked almost boring, in a sweater and pants. He grabbed his leather jacket and closed the door gently behind him, letting his palm linger on the side where the camera had scratched it. Izzy noticed what looked like a flicker of regret across his face.

The van lurched forward and Harry left the sidewalk through the gates to a park. Central Park? Izzy recognized it from TV shows. They were way uptown. It looked so cool and quiet.

Izzy gazed back through the rearview at the trees. Harry slung his jacket over one shoulder, disappearing into the green. She wanted to curl up on the grass in the shade and take a nap.

“Lydia, I want to stay for the weekend. I want to stay,” Izzy said.

Lydia clapped her hands.

“So when we get to wherever we’re going,” Izzy continued, “we’re posting something unique and never before seen, using the trending hashtags, sending the photo fifteen minutes after we get there—midday is an optimum time apparently—and…” Izzy looked down at her phone, reading from it: “…leveraging emotions to connect to people, like joy or fear. Okay, maybe not fear, but we’re not going to wing it.”

“Oh Izzy,” sighed Lydia. The van slowed to stop. Izzy’s jaw dropped when she saw where they were: they had pulled up in front of Gucci.

Izzy tried to close her mouth as she entered the store. But it wasn’t easy. The store was like a field of flowers—so colorful. She recognized many of the pieces as similar to the things Harry wore on stage; it was like his entire wardrobe came from here. The store sparkled. No dust or synthetic brown ruffles in sight.

George raised a champagne flute in their direction from a plush seating area. He wore a sheepskin coat over his bare chest, and new pants and shoes, tags still on.

“Is this really you, though, George?” Lydia asked him, taking another flute from the glass table his feet rested on. Izzy felt frozen again. A group of saleswomen by the register looked her up and down.

“Gucci? It’s what the people want, apparently,” George said bitterly, taking another drink. Lydia frowned. Izzy wondered if she could get away without picking up a glass; she couldn’t imagine drinking while this hungover.

“Could I… could I get a shot of you?” Izzy asked. She wasn’t sure what they were or how to talk to him, after last night. Not that I was sure beforehand, she thought.

She sank down beside him on the couch, just like he did the night before. He put his arm around her. His blonde hair tickled her shoulders; the lamp behind him made him almost look like he had a halo. He put another glass in her hand and she took a deep drink.

“Wait, hold on,” Izzy said. She gestured for Lydia’s phone and snapped a photo, framing George’s side profile in silhouette, a Gucci sign just faint behind him. Lydia was already logged into his and his band’s accounts on all her apps.

Izzy checked an analytics app on her phone and added a list of hashtags that were popular, captioning the photo “stay up #blessed #nature #instagood #photooftheday #follow #model”. She put the most trending song on the platform in their target demographic—which, Izzy assumed, was people their age—behind the photo, giving it a spacey techno feel. It seemed cool. The analytics told her it was cool, at least.

Lydia took her phone back and inspected Izzy’s work. She wrinkled her nose.

“It’s not like anything else on his feed,” Izzy said, excited.

“Exactly,” Lydia said. “It’s a lie.”

“Do you want to take another one? What do you think we should do? If I don’t seem like a real social media assistant today, I’m gone.”

“I need a nap,” Lydia replied. “It’ll all work out if it’s meant to work out.” She lay down on the couch, putting her head in Izzy’s lap.

“You need a nap?”

“And you need some tour clothes, am I right?” George asked.

“What?” Izzy asked.

“Jess mentioned that you were new. Didn’t pack a bag, did you?”

Izzy shifted uncomfortably in her dress; she had been wearing it for more than 12 hours.

“I was just going to pick some things up near the hotel, like a t-shirt,” Izzy said. When she was nervous, she sometimes talked really fast. “I’m not staying longer than this weekend. I have to get back to work at the store, my mom’s store. Just helping Lydia out until then,” Izzy explained, making up her plan as she said it out loud.

“That’s really rad. You’re part of a fashion dynasty? How many stores does your family own?” George asked, standing up. He went over to a rack of blouses and pants that likely cost more than her family’s car.

“Thousands,” said Lydia sleepily. George didn’t seem to catch her sarcasm.

Izzy didn’t know what to do. She checked her phone; it was dead. She took Lydia’s phone out of her hands, and hit post on the photo she took. She put it down, too nervous to watch the likes come in (or not come in).

Just then, a shirt landed on her head. She peeled it off. The fabric felt like butter. Another landed in her lap, so slippery it slid off and pooled on the floor. George was throwing them at her from the racks, making both of them laugh.

“Try them on. Try them all on,” he said.

Izzy gathered them up, at least ten pieces in total. Including underwear. It seemed ridiculous to her to buy underwear here, when it was just cotton. She gaped at the prices: $1,150 for a black bra and panties in a diamond mesh, $1,000 for a bustier made of literal rubber. Two salespeople appeared, dressed in much nicer clothing than what she was wearing. They picked up the clothes and took them to a changing room with onyx walls, cut so thin they were slightly transparent.

George grinned at her. “You like those?”

“I’m not buying these,” Izzy said.

“Try them on.”

In the dressing room, Izzy was careful not to inspect herself in the mirror, 24 hours since her last shower. She put on a minxy black slip dress with a red dragon on the front, and came out.

Lydia was fully asleep. George had playfully wolf-whistled at Izzy. “Yeah, that one.” She tried to protest, but George wasn’t having it.

The salespeople brought her to and from the changing room, and she modelled a variety of looks with mesh straps that cut into her shoulders, or rubber that felt like it suffocated her skin. She reflected George’s excitement back at him, lighting up when he liked something. It felt like she was being sprayed with champagne; the validation was intoxicating.

She found a cardigan she liked, fuzzy cashmere almost an inch deep, and cute sneakers that were sequined in rainbow on all sides, reminding her of her favourite childhood pair that lit up when she walked.

And there was this one petal pink dress. It felt like water on her skin. When she finally looked at herself in the mirror, she was stunned. It brought out all the pink in her lips and cheeks. The dress almost made her look like an actual adult. It felt so easy and natural. In the dress, she looked like that girl. She felt like that girl.

But it was all playtime. She couldn’t afford any of this stuff. She carefully put everything back on the hangers, right side out, afraid to snag something and get hit with a multi-thousand dollar bill.

Just then, the door of her change room slammed open. Izzy was in her bra.

“What are you doing in here?”

George covered his eyes with one hand, smiling.

“It’s time to go back to the hotel. Have to be back stage at five.” George reached out in front of him, letting his fingertips graze her waist. Izzy jumped at his touch. He kept his eyes closed.

“Don’t look,” she said. It was a reflex, something she had said to Roger, too. The lights in the store were so bright.

“I’m not looking,” George replied. He brushed his lips against her jawline, then opened them. Izzy closed her eyes, feeling his tongue on her neck.

From inside the change room, Izzy heard Lydia’s phone buzz.

“It’s actually working,” Lydia said, not trying to conceal the surprise in her voice at all. “For a start, anyway. It’s getting more traction than the other posts usually do at this point.”

George bit Izzy’s neck and stumbled out of the change room, bumping the door frame, eyes still closed. They laughed.

A middle aged customer at a display case in front of them looked up to see Izzy in her underwear, change room door open, and frowned disapprovingly. Izzy suppressed a giggle and swung the door closed.

The words she had said to Meg last year, standing outside the store, echoed in her mind: sometimes I think love is for other people. Maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.

Soon, she was back in her green dress and they were back in the van. Lydia had a bright new key chain or purse charm—Izzy didn’t know the word from it. It probably cost $400. Izzy pointed to it, about to say something, when Lydia cut in: “OnlyFans.”

Izzy’s mouth dropped open.

“Just kidding!” Lydia laughed.

No crowd formed when they pulled up in front of the hotel this time, though George looked around for one.

The lobby was all glass and matching furniture, with winged chandeliers soaring at least twenty feet above them. The curated calm of the room was cut through by a familiar voice ricocheting off the walls.

Eddie stood across from the suit, Ryan. The suit was wearing a new suit, and had two assistants behind him, also in suits, with headsets and clipboards. Eddie looked like he had never made it upstairs.

“I looked at the numbers on it, and it’s not a hitter. Sorry,” Ryan said. His assistants nodded.

“This isn’t moneyball, Ryan,” Eddie said, loosening his tie. “And even if it were, you’d need the star player for it to work. And he is currently missing.”

“He’s a performer. He wouldn’t miss a show.”

“He would,” said Eddie. “Trust me.”

Ryan seemed to be the one in charge. Izzy swallowed hard and turned to George and Lydia.

“How’s the post doing now?” she asked.

Lydia glanced at her phone, then put it away.

“Lydia?”

“It flatlined. Lower than usual. I told you,” she said gently. “I think it… came across as desperate.”

“But I am desperate,” Izzy said. This was the danger in going after what you want: it always seemed to doom Izzy to not get it. Maybe I was right all along and it is better not to try, she thought.

“I need a nap too,” yawned George. “We have to be backstage in two hours.”

“Can we… can we do one more now? Maybe…” Izzy searched around frantically for ideas, eyes settling on the van.

She posed George carefully to hide the new scratch down the side from Harry’s tantrum. Lydia watched, wincing. Izzy tried again, using fewer hashtags (but still trending ones). She copied the format and pose from something that was blowing up on TikTok. Surely, that would work? Drafting off what was already going viral. George smiled and the smile looked real, like it always did. Genuine joy, the colorful print of the van in the background.

Izzy refreshed the page constantly, following Lydia to the elevator.

“You’re Lydia’s assistant, right?”

Izzy turned to see Ryan, just inches from her.

“Yes,” Izzy said. His gaze was piercing.

“We only budgeted for one extra marketing person,” Ryan said. “You can share at this stop but we won’t have room at the next one.”

“Would you chill out?” Lydia said, tugging Izzy away. “Just look at Eddie. Be more like Eddie.” Eddie was sprawled out, talking into his phone, on one of the lobby sofas, looking totally spent. The elevator doors closed in front of them.

Izzy kept checking the post as she and Lydia soared up to the top floor. She followed Lydia down a long corridor, not really paying attention to where she was going. George had disappeared again.

Lydia opened the door to the fanciest hotel room Izzy had ever seen, all shimmering glass and lucite. Izzy barely noticed: she was greeted by Meg, who threw her arms around her neck, with a loud, reassuring “Izzy!”

Meg had gotten on the other plane and passed out at the hotel when they arrived, knowing that Izzy was with Lydia. She was more sober than the two of them at the party, and Lydia had apparently told her she could join for the whole weekend too. She was in a bathrobe, fully refreshed.

“You’ve got to shower and then you can get into some of your new clothes. We have to be at the new place in an hour,” Meg said. “Were you with George?” Meg touched Izzy’s neck.

“Yeah,” Izzy said.

“You really like him,” Meg said.

“I guess,” Izzy replied casually, hedging her bets. She felt as afraid of saying it out loud as she used to, but maybe this time, admitting that she liked someone wasn’t a curse that meant she would lose him.

“This is so good,” Meg said, gripping Izzy’s hands. Izzy could never really hide from Meg and Meg knew how much she liked George. “I can’t wait to do this for the whole weekend! Unexpected vacay!”

Lydia flicked on Lana Del Rey, playing vintage tracks from one of her early albums.

“Well, I’m not sure if we can actually stay.” Izzy said, surveying the plush and undoubtedly expensive room. “Wait. What did you say about new clothes?”

Meg gestured to the bed, covered in shiny bags, some bigger than her entire body, all from Gucci.

“Can we look at them now?” Meg asked, jumping up on the bed beside the tallest one. “George bought these for you?” Lydia went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Izzy and Meg tore the bags open, sending tissue paper flying above them and around the room. They drew out bright dresses and skirts and tops. Meg put on some of them, and Izzy changed into the funny rubber bustier and its matching skirt.

The smallest bag had two lingerie sets. When she saw them, she felt the Boulder land in the room, threatening to crush everything. Meg had Izzy throw them on over her clothes, and she did the same, laughing. They looked ridiculous. Meg turned the music up and colored paper floated around them.

“He really likes you!” Meg said. Just then, George appeared at the door, dressed in his outfit for his opening number. Olivia, Lisa, and Tara passed behind them, greeting Izzy as they walked by.

“George… what is this?” Izzy asked, gesturing around the room. She was embarrassed that she had torn open the packages. But her smile betrayed her; she loved it.

“It’s all the stuff you liked,” George said. “Now that you’re with the band, you’ll need a few things.”

“This is way too much,” Izzy said. “We should return it.”

“You. Look. Gorgeous,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me.” Izzy said thank you and that it was way too much, but he was already gone.

The rainbow shoes, soft cardigan, and pink dress weren’t there. Izzy pulled the other items out of the last bag—mesh, plastic, scary dragon dress—barely able to move her arms in the stiff rubber bustier. She got to a piece of paper at the bottom.

It was a receipt. Total: $35,214 dollars.

She said it out loud, not sure that it was real.

“How much?” Meg asked.

Izzy kicked the shoes off. She felt gross. It was way too much money.

“He must be loaded,” Meg said. Izzy thought about what her family, or any regular family, could do with that amount.

“I guess,” Izzy said. “The tickets to the tour are so expensive. They must be making bank.”

“There are three of you now?” The voice was unmistakable: the door to their room was still open, and the Starer had appeared.

“She’s my assistant’s… assistant,” Lydia said, coming out of the bathroom. She wore a towel on her head and nothing else. Compared to last night, this didn’t shock Izzy. The Starer didn’t even flinch.

“Those two posts were the worst performing on our band’s profile this year,” the Starer said, looking Izzy up and down. The Starer continued: “I doubt you can fix it now.”

“It’s no extra cost,” Meg said. “We’re just staying in Lydia’s room.”

“Food,” the Starer said. She surveyed at the three women, ankle deep in Gucci tissue paper. “Clothes, apparently. Ryan counts every penny.”

“George bought this stuff for me,” Izzy protested.

“Lydia would need a room anyway,” Meg continued.

“Really? She would?” The Starer asked.

“We still have two hours until the show,” Lydia said, rushing to close the door. Even she seemed stressed now. Izzy frowned, not understanding. Did Lydia get this job by sleeping with someone in the band? She seems so carefree, but is she okay? Was it Mitch? Elijah? Oh god, Harry?

Izzy pulled up two posts she made. They had flopped. The Starer had seen right through her. Izzy wasn’t a social media assistant. She wasn’t a creative person. She belonged at her mom’s store.

Meg started picking up the tissue paper. Izzy struggled out of the lingerie she had thrown on top of her clothes, and caught sight of herself in the hotel room’s mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. The rubber bustier cut into her shoulders, and the skirt was way too short.

“Lydia, we only have one post left. What do we do? Could you put some clothes on?”

Lydia picked up the black dragon dress and slipped it on. She looked totally at home in it.

“Izzy,” Lydia said, “all you need to do to connect to people is to tell the truth.”

She disappeared back into the bathroom.

Izzy made an excuse about needing a break, and meandered back down to the lobby and down the street, taking Lydia’s phone with her. She checked it constantly, but the numbers weren’t moving. The show was supposed to start soon and she had nothing. Oh god, she wanted to stay.

She thought about Lydia’s words. Izzy knew that she did lie, all the time. Not just today. She told the truth so rarely; she cared what everyone though too much. Talking to people always felt like an emergency, when lying to get people to like her was not just allowed but necessary. Rejection was just too painful. But maybe the life that all the lying was leaving her with was worse?

She rarely felt like herself. She barely new who that person was, outside people she could be honest with, like Meg, and the three secrets that had landed her here.

Izzy found herself in front of the gates of the park. She wandered in, feeling her shoulders relax as the shade from the trees wrapped itself around her. A wide asphalt path cut through a set of big, open fields, dotted with people having picnics and taking photos. Izzy thought she heard Summertime Sadness on the breeze, playing from someone’s phone turned upside down in a plastic red cup.

Izzy stepped onto a desire path, worn to dirt, that disappeared into a cluster of trees.

Izzy followed the path along a stream, and it was suddenly like she was out of the city entirely. The wind through the leaves hushed the noises from the street. She inhaled deeply. She missed this. She had spent seven days a week for the last few years in the store. The fake plant by the register was the only sign of wild, real life.

The heat in the air of the city was gathering into water. Everything in the park glistened in the humidity.

A touch of pink winked at her from behind an old tree with thick, winding roots. She walked over cautiously. Sitting at its base, leaning back against the roots, was Harry.

“Elisabetta,” Harry said.

“Harry.”

Izzy sat down beside him. “It’s nice here,” she said.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Harry asked, sitting up.

“Nothing I like,” Izzy replied. Harry leaned back again and closed his eyes. She had never seen him look so peaceful. He seemed damp, maybe from the heat; water seeped through his sweater at the base of his chest.

“Some people are looking for you,” she said.

“I have to open with that stupid new song. I didn’t write it. They won’t let me do anything from the new album.”

“That’s awful,” Izzy said, genuinely.

“Eddie lost,” Harry said. He threw a stone into the stream.

Sunlight filtered down through the leaves and danced on the water. It was at least ten degrees cooler here than back out on the street.

“I think I might have to leave tonight. Can I hide here with you for a while?” Izzy asked. She couldn’t face the show, the Starer, Ryan, the bus back home, the store.

“Sure,” Harry said. “Why’re you leaving?”

“I’m not a real social media expert. I work at my mom’s store, a failing store.” She felt suddenly guilty for calling it that out loud. “My mom is an incredible tailor, but it’s a little… old fashioned. My pictures from today bombed and no one’s buying me as Lydia’s assistant. Ryan’s going to send me home.”

At the word Ryan, Harry scowled.

“Do you want to take my picture?” Harry asked, cracking an eyelid and looking up at her.

Izzy raised Lydia’s phone. Harry relaxed back into the tree. Izzy took a video, with the wind ruffling Harry’s hair and sunshine dancing across his shoulders. The music playing from the park just barely wafted in. I feel it in the air... She hit post.

Then she leaned back against the tree, feeling calm. She took off her ugly new shoes and dug her bare feet into the soft leaves.

Lydia’s phone rang. Izzy picked up.

“That’s cheating.” It was the Starer, sharp voice unmistakeable. “It was supposed to be for our account.”

“It’s blowing up, Izzy,” Lydia said in the background.

“Fine, fine,” Izzy heard Ryan said. “The numbers don’t lie.” Some clambering, and then Lydia was the one on the phone.

“I can stay?” Izzy asked, shocked.

“You’re staying, Izzy,” Lydia said, unfussed. “See? Nothing to worry about. Bring my phone back, we’re about to start. And George wants to talk to you. Do you want to stay in his room?” The line cut out suddenly.

Harry stood up and stretched. “I’ll have to put up with more of your terrible playing for a bit longer?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, grinning.

“You think that was all you?” Izzy joked back. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Izzy thought about what was in front of her: she wasn’t going home. What did staying mean? What did being with the band mean? Could it be for more than a few weeks?

“It was obviously me.”

“Obviously.”

“Only a true content creator could turn this place into marketing,” Harry said, a bit of venom in his voice. God, he’s irritating, Izzy thought. Harry put on his jacket. A rain drop hit his shoulder.

“It was your idea!” Izzy protested. She followed him back up the path.

“I can’t stand all that bullshit,” he sighed. “Jess is lucky it’s just you two. I have a whole team.”

“Poor little rock star,” Izzy said.

Harry watched Izzy pause at the edge of the stream before the path merged back with the sidewalk. Harry was happy she would be around, but his brow was creased with worry. He had to keep her away from George.

Izzy held her arms out, closing her eyes to feel the rain hitting her skin, the inside of her wrists. She had never felt so relieved. She could stay.

chapter6

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