Marley had seen plenty of TikTok clips of comedians bombing their tight five. She’d always scrolled away quickly when the secondhand embarrassment became too much to bear. Who could recover from something like that? The dragged out silence, the expectant look on the performer’s face as they waited for anyone to say anything, do anything, the awkward cough from someone in the back row. Absolutely no laughter or, worse, a forced chuckle out of pity. It was every comedian’s worst nightmare.
And, apparently, Marley’s reality tonight.
The set had been a disaster. On paper, it had worked well. She’d performed it over Skype to Diego and Poppy, just a few days ago. They might have been talented on the stage in their own right, but neither of them were particularly good actors, so when they’d laughed at her jokes, she’d believed them. The set had worked.
With a confidence she should have checked long before she climbed onto the stage, boots thudding on the wood and echoing around the dimly-lit comedy cellar, she stood center-stage and looked out into the crowd, only to forget every single word of her material.
Harlow hadn’t been there.
She’d known there wouldn’t be a lot of familiar faces in the crowd. Diego and Poppy were on tour. Mav was still dealing with everything relating to Bea, who still hadn’t shown her face yet. Santiago was helping him. She hadn’t even bothered to invite Jessie when, just the other day, Jared had made an offhand comment about it being their anniversary that weekend, no matter how much she doubted he would actually plan something special to celebrate it. She’d written off a good turnout from her loved ones, but had made her peace with it, knowing everyone had a valid excuse. But Harlow had promised to come. And as she’d stood on the stage, squinting against the glare of the spotlight, she’d let her eyes dart over each and every one of the passive expressions in the crowd, searching for a familiar cowboy hat that wasn’t there.
From that moment on, it had been Chernobyl with mic feedback. She’d forgotten the punchline to half of her jokes and resorted to crowd work instead, but nobody had been willing to throw her a bone. Nobody had even heckled her, it was that bad. Instead, she stumbled away through a few poorly-remembered quips at the expense of someone’s career, her allocated ten minutes feeling like one long, torturous lifetime.
When the MC gave her the signal, she bolted off the stage, ready to turn her phone on airplane mode so she wouldn’t have to answer Diego’s messages about how it went. As she clicked the screen on, she half-expected to see a message from Harlow, explaining his absence. With nothing there, a sick feeling settled in her stomach.
A silence like that could mean anything. But from Marley’s experience, it never meant anything good. She thought about her dad and his own failure to answer his phone when she called. Her brain instantly began conjuring up cruel images of Harlow, gray-faced and unresponsive, even though he didn’t use and barely drank. Marley still felt unsteady as she sprinted down to the subway station to get home, half-expecting to stick two fingers down Harlow’s throat when she got there.
“Shut up,” she told herself. She was being dumb. Whatever reason Harlow had for not showing up, it wouldn’t be that. It couldn’t be.
When she reached Harlow’s walk-up, she jogged up the steps, heart in her throat. Her backpack slammed uncomfortably between her shoulder blades as she went. Not only was she worried about Harlow, but Bucket too. She’d left him in the apartment a few hours ago with a kiss between his eyes and a promise to see him soon. Harlow had agreed to feed him before he came to the show.
As she neared the apartment, keys cutting jagged patterns into the palm of her hand, she hesitated outside the door, frowning when she heard voices on the other side.
Blinking in surprise, she heard the deep rumble of Harlow’s voice. The relief she felt was dizzying, her heart melting into molten mitigation. Fuck. The fear left her body in short, staccato trembles that would make it look like she was glitching to any onlooker. Like a weird stop-motion character. And then she heard another voice and froze again.
This one was higher in pitch, but a hardness coated the words, despite the familiar Texan twang they were spoken in.
Rosie.
Her reassurance was short-lived. Knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to stop herself anyway, she pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear them.
