Chapter Text
One step out of the hotel and Lauren Jauregui's vision is filled with a flash, then four more as a group of hungry paparazzi turn to her like vultures to meat. They fly along the night's cool breeze to her side. The girl beside her shields her eyes from the flashes and splits from Lauren.
"Who is your friend Lauren?" One yells between snaps of his camera.
"Lauren, over here!" A woman interrupts.
There's a dull ache in her neck that threatens to spread into her head as the light lands hard on her tired eyes.
"She's not my friend." The girl is another one night stand, and Lauren doesn't remember her name.
Lauren hurries down the steps to one of New York City's busy streets. She whistles at the first cab she sees, but it stops for a woman across the street.
"Lauren, do you have plans tonight?" The man steps in front of her, blocking her hand as she hails another cab. It reflects a piercing shimmer off its yellow body as it passes. Her seething glare is lost on the unwitting Pap.
Inhale, then exhale your anger. The mantra rings through her head, colored by the voice of her judgmental Psychologist, Lee. Anger problem, as if, she thinks. Problems just anger me. Lauren frequents the rational response of anger often, especially lately. It doesn't help that her stomach feels like it's sitting in her throat, burning at her tongue and souring her words. Her head feels weightless, hammering her brain against her skull until it pounds all day, every day. Her body is against her more often than anything or anyone else.
The wind raises goosebumps on her skin as it passes over the stream of sweat gathering on her temples. She sticks her hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket and begins to inhale. She plans to exhale her anger, but she's short of breath in the confining cold and it releases as a scoff. Her mantra isn't the first rule of therapy that she's broken tonight, and it isn't close to the last.
"Yes, I have plans tonight. They don't include you." She replies to the pap, shoving past him to leap in front of a cab. It skids to a stop and the driver throws his hands in the air. She pays no mind to his features as they furrow into a sour expression, glaring at her through the rear-view mirror as she slides into the back seat.
"Gramercy and Murray Hill, in a hurry." She says. The pain in her head grips its fingers around her nerves as the cameras flash outside the cab's window. Her forehead pounds in response.
"Sure. You want a pony too, princess?" The driver chides in a Brooklyn accent. Lauren pulls a bill from her wallet, throwing it to his dashboard.
"No, but you can buy yourself one." His brow bounces up as his eyes catch the cash.
"Baby doll! In a hurry, it is."
The pain in her forehead is intense, but it does little to distract her from her stomach, still rising in her throat and tickling at her gag reflex. She grips the seat and closes her eyes as the driver swings around another corner. Nausea is the worst of her symptoms. It's unbearable, sure, but it's also the hardest to hide. Her sober companion notices it every time; throwing up is the ultimate snitch.
She looks at her phone for the time, but it opens to a new message. Reluctantly, she swipes onto the text conversation.
Friday, November 18th, 2022. 9:57pm Fuck Off: Lee will be hearing about this, Lauren.
Fuck off, Lauren's sober companion, who her psychologist insists on calling by name, Faith, is a nuisance to Lauren. F.O is so easy to hate; ignorant people usually are.
Lauren backs out of the texts, and as she does a conversation pops up on the top of her messages, a little blue bubble beside the name Camila. Lauren hasn't ever replied, so perhaps 'conversation' isn't a fitting term. Lauren rolls her eyes, but her stomach rolls with them. She presses against the back of her seat to center herself before she looks back to her phone, and decides against rolling her eyes again.
She clicks the message. Her gaze gravitates to the first message and falls down to the most recent.
Saturday, December 4th, 2021. 3:21 PM Camila: hi lauren, it's camila. ally gave me ur number... I heard u guys finished ur last show as a group. U all rocked it. congrats!
Friday, December 31st, 2021. 7:42 PM Camila: it's 1:42am in Madrid n i slept through midnight but happy new year's!
Friday, December 31st, 2021. 7:49 PM Camila: dinah said u aren't doing well. even after everything we've been through i'll still always b here to talk. ik we aren't friends, lauren, trust me, but the least u can do is reply.
Thursday, October 20th, 2022. 1:02 PM Camila: heard ur new single on the radio. it's rlly good.
Friday, November 18th, 2022. 9:58 PM Camila: hey, i saw ur single hit platinum. congrats.
Lauren throws her phone face down on the seat, leaning against the taxi cab window to glare at the city's skyline. The sickening feeling worsens in her stomach, but it isn't from the driving. She wonders what gives Camila the right to play innocent or to text at all. Lauren wipes a streak of sweat from her cheek - or is it a tear? Her mind is in another place, Ty's place. Namely Ty's stash, but there's hardly a difference anymore.
"Thanks for the tip, doll." The taxi driver says as he pulls off the road. She steps out of the cab without another word, jogging into the hotel.
***
Hands stuffed in her pockets, Lauren enters a Café the next morning with a hoodie draped over her satin curls, wearing an old pair of wayfarer sunglasses to cover the dark circles under her green eyes. Her bones ache as she lowers into the first booth on the right. The place is as hazy as her mind. There's a veil of steam wafting from the coffee machines behind the store's counter, creeping along the ceiling and catching the midmorning sun at its milky edges. The place smells of activity, reeking of coffee and undertones of sweat from the busy crowds.
Lauren sets her glasses on the table and rubs her temples, grazing the knotted ends of her uncombed hair in an attempt to massage last night out of her head. A plate slides across the table and slows in front of her elbows. Atop the clean white ceramic sits a buttered strawberry pastry the size of two fists. Across from her, a blonde-haired girl slides into the booth, watching Lauren with her warm chocolate gaze.
Dinah arrives before Lauren on most occasions, ordering breakfast for her and a latte for herself. Her lips hug the plastic lip of her to-go cup as she studies the constant stream of pedestrians rushing past the café's sidewalk. Lauren rips a piece of the pastry off, melting it between her tongue and the roof of her mouth.
"You're mad at me," She says, halfway through the second bite.
Dinah sets her cup down and wraps her long-nailed fingers around it. She clicks her tongue as if to test the flavor of her drink.
"How's Ty?"
Lauren glowers. She feels the full weight of Dinah's eyes as they bear down on her.
"You are mad at me," Lauren repeats.
Dinah responds with a huff, then a slow sip of her latte as she turns her focus back to the window. She's used to seeing Lauren under the cover of a hoodie, her words grumbled through an irritated throat and filtered through a cloudy brain. Lauren knows that Dinah doesn't like it, she was always against drugs. But she also knows that Dinah doesn't understand it. It isn't about fun anymore and it isn't the stress of a solo career; Dinah would understand all of that. No, it's something else entirely.
But Dinah sticks with her anyway. The last time Lauren was sober for more than a week was over a year ago, before Fifth Harmony's last show. Dinah had been watching her use ever since she met Ty, ever since December 18th, 2016. A few days of sobriety make the difference to Dinah, but Lauren can't always manage so long.
"It would've been nice to know that you were safe, you could've texted me," Dinah says.
"I figured F.O. would've sent something," Lauren mumbles through her full mouth.
"Her name is Faith," Dinah snaps, looking back at Lauren with a palpable bitterness in her otherwise inviting eyes.
Lauren rolls her eyes and opens her jaw to fit the last of the pastry in her mouth. She coughs a little as it catches in the back of her mouth, spitting pieces of bread crust soaked in saliva across the table. Dinah cringes to the corner of her booth and Lauren can't help but giggle as she chews through the last of her mouthful. Dinah's disgust morphs slowly into a hesitant grin, and it's sweeter a treat than Lauren's pastry. She releases a long sigh as her smile fades.
"Girl, you know I'll always show up anyway." Dinah's voice is soft, spoken through the tail-end of her smile and shaded by the near decade of history they shared together. It'd become the new assurance of their friendship, this reply. No matter her opinion, Dinah stuck by Lauren.
"Where's Faith?" Dinah asks, but considering Lauren's state, the only answer that matters is: not here. Lauren just shrugs.
"I'm calling her." Dinah pulls out her phone. Lauren presses her forehead into her palms and groans.
"Ugh, fine. I'll have her pick me up. We'll go to my interview together... Happy?"
Lauren picks up her head to find Dinah staring at her through squinted eyes. She sets her phone down on the table and crosses her hands over her chest.
"I look forward to seeing her."
"Don't know why..." Lauren mumbles, her eyes falling to her plate. Beneath the remaining crumbs and the faint outline of butter where her pastry once sat, her face is reflected off the plate's surface. It's a desolate image, the emptiness of her plate.
Dinah furrows her brow, pinching her lips to the side like she's doing a crossword.
"You heard, didn't you? That's why you're stressed."
Lauren looks up and, in that moment, it's clear that Lauren hasn't heard. Dinah will be the first to tell her about Camila's interview.