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Abby messed up. Big time.
She’s been dating you for a few months now— three months and six days, actually. She still doesn’t know how she got this lucky, and sometimes she feels like she’s holding her breath and waiting for you to realize that she’s too much of a loser for you. But you always seem to know when she’s feeling like that, and you’re quick to reassure her that yes, you do actually like her.
But this time, she might have really messed things up.
When she first started dating you, she made herself a promise: to never, ever let you hear her band play. Never. Because that would be the end of things, without a doubt.
You know she’s in a band. But you don’t know how bad they suck.
And then one day she’d mentioned having practice later, and you’d started asking about it so sweetly and she really didn’t have any choice but to tell you that they had a gig on Friday. Then you, being the supportive girlfriend that you are, had said you’d go to watch. Abby never had a choice.
Well, she did have a choice. She could have just not said anything, preserved the best thing in her life. But no. She had to open her mouth. And now it’s Thursday night, and she’s losing it.
“It’s over,” she groans, burying her face in her hands as Manny awkwardly pats her shoulder. “It’s so fucking over— can you turn the music off for five minutes, dude?”
Manny quickly shuts off the bluetooth speaker, cutting off the song mid-scream. The dorm still isn’t quiet, though. There’s still the noise of a girl moaning nextdoor, seeping in through the thin walls.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he says. He does not sound like he believes it, even a little bit. “We’ll do our best.”
“Our best is absolute dogshit,” she says, flopping down onto the bed. “At this point, just kill me. Mercy kill.”
“Or you could pretend you’re sick,” he suggests.
“Dude. I am completely incapable of lying to her. One time, she asked me if I’d dated anyone else before her, and I said yes, and I lasted all of two minutes before I broke down and told her the truth. I’m so fucked, man.”
Manny sighs heavily.
“You know what? Yeah. You’re fucked. Major.”
Abby lifts her face off the pillow to glare at him. “Is that your idea of helping?”
“Nah. Just telling you the truth. Enjoy it while it lasts, you’re getting dumped tomorrow.”
“I hate you. I hate you so much. I can’t even describe how much I want you to trip and bust your head open.”
He pats her shoulder once more, then stands up, leaving her to deal with her agony alone. She’s probably better off without his advice, though. The neighbor’s moans reach a crescendo as Abby reaches for her phone. Maybe Manny was right about one thing (rare). She should enjoy it while it lasts.
She takes a moment to admire your contact photo, a picture of you smiling as Abby kisses your cheek.
It takes her way too long to draft up a message that just reads ‘can you call?’. But less than a minute later she sees the little indication that you read the message, and her heart does a backflip when her phone starts buzzing.
It’s a video call— she takes a moment to check her hair, smoothing it back a little before she answers. And there you are, looking as perfect as ever in an apron with a bit of flour on your cheek.
“Hey, Abby,” you say happily. “What’s up?”
Abby smiles, mood instantly lifted by the sight of you and the sound of your voice.
“Just wanted to see you,” she says. It’s a big enough part of the truth that it doesn’t feel like lying. “Baking something good?”
You tilt the camera to show her a bowl of dough that you’re currently mixing.
“Cookies,” you say. “Double chocolate.”
Abby groans. Your cookies are amazing. The first time she tried something you’d baked, she’d nearly passed out. You’re so perfect, it hurts.
“I was going to bring them to you and your band for tomorrow,” you continue. Abby’s stomach drops at the reminder. Right. Tomorrow. The gig. The end of everything good. “But now I’m not sure. I mean, cookies aren’t very metal. I’d probably get laughed at.”
Her brows furrow. She doesn’t know who made you think that, but she doesn’t like it.
“Hell no,” she says quickly. “Bring the cookies. Please. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I love your cookies. And everyone else will too. If anyone even thinks about laughing at you, I’ll break their legs.”
You laugh and turn the camera back to your face.
“Okay, fine, I’ll bring the cookies.”
“Good.” At least she’ll get to have one last taste of your baking before you realize she’s a loser and leave her in the dust.
You set the phone down on the counter so you can do something with the dough, leaving Abby watching the shadows from the spinning ceiling fan.
“So,” you say after a moment of comfortable silence. “How was your day?”
She tells you about her day then. Not all of it, of course— she doesn’t mention the nauseating anxiety that’s been consuming her for the past few days, but she does tell you about her classes and her professor’s latest bout of insanity. She tells you about the bird that tried to steal her sandwich, and you tell her about the raccoon you spotted near a dumpster last night. And when there’s nothing left to talk about, she falls asleep to the sound of you humming a tune she doesn’t recognize.
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The next day is the one she’s been dreading.
Backstage at the venue is a strong contender for Abby’s least favorite place she’s ever been. She can’t stop pacing, walking back and forth on the crusty floor while the rest of the band relaxes on the half-destroyed couch. There seems to be a layer of cigarette ash and dried beer covering every surface, from the floor to the walls to the ceiling hanging low overhead.
She thought she was at least a little prepared for this. She’s nowhere near it.
When she woke up earlier, her phone was dead. Meaning her alarm never went off, and she’d slept in until noon. Worse, she no longer had your voice in her ear to ease the sick feeling of knowing the end was near.
She hopes you don’t show. She hopes you stay home, so she’ll have more time before you inevitably dump her. But there’s a voice in her head that’s just screaming your name over and over, because you’re the only one who’s ever able to ease her constant doubts.
A pair of footsteps other than her own approach, crunching faintly over the debris on the floor. Abby freezes, turning around slowly to see you standing there holding a brown paper bag. You look so pretty in that dress you’re wearing, even in the shitty lighting. But she knows you enough to notice that you’re uncomfortable. It’s in the stiffness of your shoulders, the way your smile is just a little flat. Nothing anyone else would notice, but with the amount of time Abby spends looking at you? It’s obvious.
“Hey,” she sighs. All her doubts are forgotten for a moment, too focused on you to think about her own problems.
You walk over to her, setting the paper bag on the coffee table and giving her a one-armed hug. Abby doesn’t let that slide— she wraps both arms around your waist and pulls you in close, resting her cheek on the top of your head. She can smell your strawberry shampoo and the faint perfume you wear, and it’s all worth it. Even if you do leave her tonight, at least she got to love you for a while.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs against your hair. Quiet enough that the band won’t hear, though they’re very obviously trying to eavesdrop.
She can feel your muscles start to relax as she holds on to you. The hug is long enough that when you finally pull away, your brows are slightly furrowed with confusion.
“Is everything alright?” You ask quietly.
No. Abby wants to tell you that no, nothing is alright. Telling you would probably make it better. But she’s too scared to tell you despite how much she wants to, so she just nods.
“Yeah. It’s fine, everything’s fine. Just— are you sure you want to be here?”
As soon as she sees that discomfort come back, she wants to kick herself in the teeth.
“Wait—” she says quickly, hands resting on your shoulders. “I didn’t mean it like that. I want you here. I’m just scared.”
You relax again, leaning into her touch.
“Scared of what?”
“I’m scared that you’ll realize—”
She’s interrupted by one of the venue staff knocking on the open door.
“Wolves? You guys are up. Good luck out there, weird crowd tonight.”
The rest of the band gets up from the couch, and Abby pulls you into one last hug that’s near tight enough to crush you.
“I’ll be watching,” you murmur. “You’re going to do great.”
You really believe it. She leans in to kiss you softly, lips sliding against yours. She’s trying to memorize it— the softness of your lips, the way your lipgloss tastes like candy, the way your nose bumps against hers and the sound of your breath.
She finally pulls away when Manny coughs pointedly. Usually she’d be embarrassed, but she’s too busy studying your face to care who saw.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Then she forces herself to step away, grabbing her guitar and heading out onto the stage.
Before the first note rings out, she knows without a doubt that the show will be nothing less than a disaster.
Her guitar strap feels too loose. Then too tight after she adjusts it. But the crowd is watching with hostile eyes, so she leaves it like that. Her pick falls from between her fingers, skittering off the edge of the stage, and nobody picks it up. She pulls her backup from her pocket with shaky fingers, then strums a tentative chord to test the sound.
The tests actually go alright. The mic smells like sour beer and old spit, and she tries not to gag.
“Check, check,” she murmurs. Thank god, the sound guy did his job.
She’s dreading the count-in, each number down feeling like one step towards the edge of a cliff. Manny comes in on the drums half a beat too early, and she has to rush in to keep up with the intro. Some guy near the front of the crowd is talking about how his dog threw up on his shoes, loud enough that it’s clearly audible over the music. She hits a wrong chord during the first verse. She doubts anyone noticed, but it happened.
The second song goes even worse. Mel’s going way too fast on the bass. One of Manny’s drumsticks snaps in half, and he has to scramble to grab a new one. Abby’s so focused on trying to keep the rhythm on her guitar that she forgets a lyric, just repeating the previous one and hoping the crowd thinks it's on purpose.
Someone laughs. It’s a loud, booming cackle. The crowd isn’t reacting to anything, just shifting uncomfortably. She doesn’t care about the crowd, not really. She only cares that you’re backstage watching this mess. You’re probably laughing. Actually, no. You’re too nice to laugh, which just makes it worse.
“Get off the stage!” Someone shouts during a lull in the song. A few others join in.
She’s been here in her nightmares before. Doing her best and being booed off the stage. She feels lightheaded. Her vision is just a tunnel, focused on the mic in front of her with everything else blurred out around the edges.
She steps away from the mic, pulling the guitar strap off her shoulders and setting the instrument down on a stand at the edge of the stage. Then she’s walking off stage, eyes stinging and legs shaking.
And there you are, standing just off the stage, watching her. She can’t read your face, and that terrifies her.
She walks right past you. She can’t stop to look at you for another second, too scared to face the disappointment in your eyes that she’s dreading.
Abby doesn’t stop walking until she gets outside, collapsing down onto the steps before the door to the back alley. It smells like a dumpster out here, but she doesn’t care. It’s a lot better than the stale air inside the venue.
She presses the heel of her palm into her closed eyes, trying to block out the images of your disappointed face that keep showing up.
She never should have done this. Even if you hadn’t been there, it still would have been a disaster. She can’t remember why she ever thought it was a good idea.
The door creaks open behind her, and she jolts up. You’re there, holding the now slightly crumpled brown paper bag. Still unreadable.
You sit down on the edge of the steps, then pat the spot next to you. Abby bites back the apologies on her tongue and sits down next to you.
“I saved you a cookie,” you say calmly, passing over the bag. “The venue crew kinda demolished the rest, but I told them you’d beat someone up if you didn’t get any.”
She lets out a choked half-laugh, half-sob when you set the bag down in her lap. Her stomach is churning too much for her to even consider eating it right now.
“I know it sucked,” she whispers. “You don’t have to pretend. I knew– I knew you wouldn’t want to stay with me after you saw that. I don’t know why I still did it.”
“Who says I don’t want to stay?”
She looks over at you, and she doesn’t see pity. She doesn’t see disappointment either, or disgust.
“I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you interrupt. “Yeah, that was pretty bad. But I didn’t come here for the show, I came here for you.”
Abby looks away and squeezes her eyes shut. The hope is starting to warm her chest, but she can’t let herself fall into it completely. She’s still waiting for the catch.
“Abby,” you say gently. Your head leans against her shoulder, and she leans into your touch. “If anything, seeing you up there just reinforced why I love you so much.”
She freezes.
“...What? How, why—?”
You nudge her lightly with your shoulder, and she shuts up immediately.
“Because,” you continue after a quiet moment. “You went up there knowing what you could lose, and you still did it. You played songs that you wrote from nothing. Even if it didn’t go as well as it could have, you still did it. That kind of bravery? I love it. I love you.”
Abby lets out a slow breath. At first, she doesn’t want to believe you. But she knows you wouldn’t lie about this. So she turns towards you and pulls you in, wrapping her arms tight around you.
“I love you too,” she whispers into your hair. “I was so scared of losing you.”
You laugh and return the hug, careful not to crush the paper bag any more. “It would take a lot more than a bad show to get rid of me.”
She kisses the top of your head, then brings her hands up to cradle your face and starts kissing you all over. You groan and weakly protest, but you don’t pull away even a little bit. You turn your face at the same time she tries to kiss your cheek, catching her lips.
The kiss is soft and sweet, a slow glide that you’re both smiling into.
You’re the one who eventually pulls away to catch a breath. Abby whines and leans closer to follow you, resting her forehead against yours. She can’t stand to not be touching you now that she knows you’re staying.
The crowd inside is still shouting for the next band. But out here, she can’t hear them. Out here, the world is quiet except for your soft laugh and your breath.
And Abby finally lets herself relax.