Page 31 of The Rogues

“You know you’re not supposed to look at those,” I chastise her, grabbing the phone from the ground. “Internet trolls are a subspecies. They don’t speak for the entire collective.”

Cleo huffs, frustrated. “I know, but sometimes I can’t help it. They just pull me in and it fucks me up.”

I look at the one currently on the screen, likely the one that caused such a meltdown.

“If Cyrus takes her back, it would be the biggest mistake of his life. Who’d want to have a family with that? She probably can’t even reproduce after all the paint she’s huffed. Talk about passing down limited brain cells.”

My face reddens as I fume, pressing the account to block it, then I put her phone in my pocket before looking back at her.

“You have to remember the mantra,” I remind her. “These people don’t know you, so they can’t accurately insult you.”

She pulls her knees to her chest, scratching her jeans in an anxious fidget. “I know, but it gets twisted sometimes. Like they know all the right insecurities to poke at. Like they can see right into my subconscious.”

Her lip is wobbly, her face void of its usual tan complexion. There are circles under her eyes, the dark hue poking out from where it’s trying to hide underneath her makeup. My hand finds hers on the top of her knee.

Now that she’s calmed down and isn’t as fragile, I prepare myself for her to pull back, but she doesn’t. She wraps her hand more comfortably in mine and squeezes, heaving a solemn breath.

“What’s going on, Clee?” I ask.

She shakes her head, sniffling. “I just… I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be on tour with them. Our tour has been completely taken over by them. It doesn’t even feel like it belongs to us anymore.”

I nod, understanding. “It sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.” She wipes her nose and flicks a pebble on the ground. “I can’t stand them. Being around them feels so… suffocating. The whole world hates me.” She gestures toward nothing in particular, probably referencing the horrible comments she’s been reading. “I don’t need the band we’re touring with to hate me, too.”

I bite my lip. “They don’t hate you⁠—”

“They do,” she protests. “And honestly, why shouldn’t they? I say just as many horrible things about them as they do about us. I probably started it, but I can’t remember anymore.”

She may not remember, but I do. After her and Cyrus’s first public statement claiming an “amicable split,” Cleo took every opportunity to throw shade at The Rogues. She’s always been a bit of a firecracker, so it was on brand and in character, until Cyrus started sending shots back and things got out of hand.

“You both said things that were wrong, and sometimes taken out of context, but you both have to move on from this,” I say cautiously.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to move on, not when he is walking around with that arrogant fucking smirk. Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Why does he act like he’s God on Earth?”

“He’s doing what’s best for his band,” I rationalize, trying to make my defense of him seem neutral, but I can’t help wondering why she hates him so much. What would have happened to make her despise him like this?

“Cyrus is a fucking cliche,” she grits out, her sadness becoming anger before my eyes. “Doing what’s best for his band? Please. He’s a selfish rock star. Trust me, I can spot one from a mile away.”

I cough out a laugh, suddenly uncomfortable. “How though?”

“Because I am a selfish rock star,” she says with a cocky smile.

That gets a genuine laugh from me, and then we’re both chuckling, the air morphing with the temporary joy, but then it’s sucked out again as Cleo’s face drops, her sadness still present and demanding attention.

“Doing this with you makes it all better though,” she whispers in a soft confession, and my gaze snaps to hers. Her eyes are glossy, the beautiful brown shining like a tiger’s eye crystal. “I know I’ve been distant, and probably a little bit moody. I’m sorry I haven’t checked in or… honestly, let you be there for me in any way.”

My chest expands and then tightens again, floored by the sincerity in her words. I feel almost nervous, like if I say the wrong thing she will be spooked off and I will lose this version of her once more.

“It’s okay,” is what I start with, but she barrels on.

“No, it’s not.” Her head shakes. “You’re my best friend. You’ve been there, trying to help, and I’ve been pushing you away. I don’t know how to be transparent about what I’m going through, so I’ve chosen to be silent instead.”

I nod, trying to understand. “I don’t mind the silence. I can just sit with you. Talking it through can happen any time, but I’ll just be a shoulder. Or sit there while you write an angry ballad. Anything you want.”

Her lips curve up, an oxymoron of a smile playing on her face. “I don’t deserve you.”

“When has our friendship ever been about deserving or fairness?” I squeeze her hand tighter. “I said I would be here for you through everything, and I meant it. I’m still here, and there won’t be a day when you turn around and I’m suddenly gone. I promise.”