Now
Stitched videos uploaded to TikTok under trending hashtag #ItWasGoingSoWell, 6.8M posts
Video 1, from @geminihypewoman:Footage plays of Hannah Cortland, front woman of the Future Saints, hair slick with sweat, onstage at the Sunset Theater in Los Angeles. She lunges down to high-five the audience and sways, falling headfirst into the crowd.
The video cuts to a young woman with long red hair, red lipstick, and an eyebrow ring. She speaks directly into the camera.
@geminihypewoman:Okay, I’m jumping on this trend because it’s too funny not to. Let’s see if I do it right . . . What you just saw is footage of the time Ifinallyconvinced my parents to pay for fashion school in New York City . . . and then they found my Google Doc of all the bars my friends and I were going to hit the minute I got there. So, as you can see, my dumb ass is now attending community college in Ohio and Hannah Cortland is on the floor. Appreciate the realness from the queen of instability. #FutureSaints #ItWasGoingSoWell
Video 2, from @awesomewilliams1:Footage plays of Hannah Cortland, front woman of the Future Saints, falling headfirst into the crowd.
The video cuts to a middle-aged man with a shaved head sitting behind the wheel of a car.
@awesomewilliams1:What you just watched is footage of mealmostgetting out of a speeding ticket. Cop pulls me over on the highway and I’m sweating bullets. Pulled up my collar to get a little more respectable, rolled down the window, showed my ID. I’m real polite, crack a few jokes, and I watch this cop’s face go from tense to smiling. Then he says, “You know what? Imma let you off with a warning,” and inside I’m thinkingScore!Then what does my dumb Alabama ass do? I say, “Thank you, Officer. I was just trying to get home in time to watch Auburn crush Bama.” That cop’s face went blank faster than you can say “Nick Saban superfan.” All of a sudden, my warning turns back into a ticket. I should’ve known better than to namecheck football in this state! Pour one out for all of us who only have ourselves to blame. #FutureSaints #ItWasGoingSoWell
Video 3, from @cutglassemotions:Footage plays of Hannah Cortland,
front woman of the Future Saints, falling headfirst into the crowd. The footage cuts to a young blond woman sitting at her desk in themiddle of a dorm room. She wears an oversize sweatshirt with a University of Florida logo.
@cutglassemotions:Yeah, so that’s live footage of me swearing up and down to all my friends that I’m done with frat boys. Like, never again, quitting cold turkey, buying a chastity belt. Only to learn last night that the Sigma Chis are hosting a Barbie-and-Ken party. And holy mother—Barbie? I live for that shit. Fast-forward to me diving into a sea of boat shoes and STIs faster than this singer dove into the crowd. RIP to my dignity. #FutureSaints #ItWasGoingSoWell
Chapter 12
Hannah
Tuesday, April 23, 2024
Hello, Hannah,” Dr. Xavier says from my computer screen. In her office across the country, sitting ramrod-straight in a high-backed chair, she lowers her glasses and pins me with X-ray eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with you.”
“Yeah, well.” I cross my legs in my San Francisco hotel room, attempting to sit as primly as her. “I ate it onstage. And the next thing I knew, seeing you was mandatory.”
“Mm.” She has a moleskin notebook open on her lap. “I can’t imagine why Manifest would feel connecting you to their on-call therapist was a wise idea.”
“More like a punishment,” I say under my breath. This isn’t my first round with Dr. X. Ten months ago, the condolence email from Roger Braverman (more accurately, his assistant) had offered me grief counseling. I took them up on it—once. One conversation was all it took to realize Dr. X’s aims and mine were diametrically opposed.
“The client notes her displeasure.” Dr. Xavier jots something down. “But, seeing as how talking to meisnecessary if you’d like to continue performing, where shouldwe start? Your substance abuse, your erratic decision-making, or your apathy?”
“Oof.” Ginny sits beside me on the hotel couch, looking appreciatively at the screen. “Dr. X did not come to play.”
Maybe it’s because the majority of Dr. Xavier’s clientele is composed of musicians with giant egos that require leveling, but she’s always been like . . . this.
“Or should we skip the symptoms and cut straight to the problem?” she asks. “How have you been dealing with your grief since the last time we spoke? Did you take my advice to have a heart-to-heart with your parents?”
I clear my throat.
Her pale gray eyes are like magnifying lenses behind her glasses. “How often are you speaking with them?”
“Not . . . often.”
“Not ever,” Ginny corrects.
My clipped answers can’t be doing much for Dr. X’s patience. “And why is that?”
I lace my fingers together. “They want to talk about Ginny like she’s gone, or not at all.”
Dr. Xavier leans forward. “What’s wrong with talking about Ginny like she’s gone?”
I turn to Ginny. In her eyes I see an echo of the small, shy little girl who used to follow me on the playground, the little sister I needed to protect. “She’s not gone.”
