“Hannah,” Bowie pleads, but she ignores him.
“It hasn’t even been ayearsince she died and all you can talk about is fucking lead guitar.”
Everyone in the room is deathly quiet. Even the noise backstage— the crew, setting up—has gone silent.
“You have to stop punishing everyone because she died.” Ripper swallows. “It’s not our fault. We don’t deserve you steering our lives into the ground just because you’re angry and powerless.”
Hannah’s gaze snaps away like he’s hit her. Then she throws her guitar down and storms out, the Sunset’s double doors swinging wide in her wake.
“And I did love Ginny,” Ripper says hotly, to no one in particular. His eyes are glassy. “Screw what anyone says.”He turns and knifes across the stage. I pity any crew members in his path.
It’s just Kenny, Bowie, and me left. I turn to Kenny, rubbing my temples. “Please tell me this doesn’t happen before every show.”
Kenny stands up and gives me a weak smile. “You want my advice, Suit? Book a flight back to New York and tell Roger he’s not getting his new album.”
“This is what I wanted to talk about earlier,” Bowie says guiltily, as Kenny leaves. “The band might have some unresolved issues.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well . . . what would the amazing Ginny do if she was here?”
A small, sad smile curls Bowie’s lips. “She always used to say that Hannah was the most stubborn one. She’d probably talk to her and pull some sister magic.”
I frown. “What do you mean, sister magic?”
Bowie stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Because . . . Ginny was Hannah’s sister? Virginia Cortland?”
Ginny followed Hannah everywhere . . . I’ve never met two closer people . . . You didn’t love her as much . . . It’s easier for you.
My god. Piece by piece, the past rearranges itself until everything finally makes sense, from my first encounter with Minnie the superfan to the invisible weight that hangs over the band, a subject too raw for anyone to address unless they’re screaming at one another. And in this new light, nothing is more obvious than the fact that from the beginning, it’s beenme—Manifest’s so-called Fixer—who has handled everything completely wrong.
Chapter 9
Hannah
Saturday, April 20, 2024
The dawn birds are singing when I yank open my front door, take a step outside, and trip over Theo, curled on the welcome mat. I rebound, gripping the doorway. “What the hell?”
“Excellent,” Ginny says from behind me. “They invented Door-Dash for hot guys.”
Theo blinks sleepily at me for a second before his eyes go wide. He scrambles up, scrubbing the sleep from his face. “You’re home.”
“And you’re sleeping on my doorstep.” He’s wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday at practice, except now his carefully pressed T-shirt is rumpled. The whole of him is rumpled, from head to foot.
“I tried calling and texting and knocking. I figured you weren’t home. I wanted to catch you as soon as you were.” He cracks his neck and stretches out his arms. I try not to notice the way his shirt rises to reveal a sliver of his waistband, and the hard, planed stomach above it. “Again. Why are you sleeping here?”
Regret shines out of his eyes, his exhaustion evident in the dark shadows that line them. “I’m so sorry I didn’t knowGinny was your sister. Everything I said to you . . . asking if you were really this upset over your manager.” He winces. “It was my job to know, and I failed.” He shakes his head. “Please forgive me.”
The surprise of hearing Ginny’s name in his mouth hits me like a physical blow. I turn my back on him and lock the door. “So you’re here because you feel guilty,” I say. I’m proud of my flat tone.
“Of course I do.”
I walk past him to the street. It’s another cloudless day in Long Beach, where I’ve stuck around since college. It’s close enough to LA to feel plugged into the industry, and far enough from Bonita Vista to keep visits from my parents to a minimum. But I wish it would storm for once. Give some sign that the world is fucked-up and angry, instead of this relentless cheery sunshine. “Next time, feel free to send flowers. No need to camp out like some tragic Shakespearean hero.”
“It’s a little sweet, though,” Ginny says, matching my strides. “You have to admit.”
“Where are you going?” Theo calls.
I answer without turning. “To get my head straight before tonight’s show.”
