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Koko:

You are a doll. Things are better now. He’s home and eating soup and reminding me of all of the ways I’ve failed him as a daughter, so I’d say he’s on the mend. Will be home in a few weeks. Persteph has things covered at the store but I appreciate you xo.

I heart her message, then exit to my home screen with the full intention of setting my phone down, but as my thumb hovers over the Instagram icon, Veronica’s words from earlier linger in my head.

Before I can tell myself not to, I click.

The little magnifying glass appears, and I punch in the band’s name. The screen refreshes, and I press on a little picture that looks like Zee singing at a microphone. My entire screen fills with pictures of the band. I scroll down a few times. There are some shots of the band onstage, one that I’m sure was taken at the Gladstone and even a solo shot of Mackenzie. I scroll through the comments for exactly three seconds before I abort, much preferring Veronica’s PG-13 “he’s gorgeous” to the thirsty ones under his picture.

There is a ring around the profile pic, and because I’ve turned down this dark road, I figure I might as well continue.

I click on it to display the band’s stories and regret my decision immediately.

The first picture that flashes is one of the band taken at what appears to be a backstage area. The guys are sweaty as if they’ve just finished their set, and surrounding them are a group of women—all very gorgeous and all very young.

Mackenzie has his arm around one of them.

At least, I think he does.

Before I can confirm, a new picture pops up. It’s of Zee and the bassist, Benjamin, and it looks like they are in a club with a bottle of champagne between them.

I click back to watch the stories again. This time I screenshot the first picture.

At closer inspection, Mackenzie’s hand isn’t around her. It’s just hovering above her shoulders.

Relief rushes through me.

I try zooming in even closer just to confirm, but as I do, a notification pops up on my Instagram app.

Wasted_Words:

You alive?

I startle at the unexpected pop-up and accidentally throw my phone. It bounces off the corner of the coffee table and then slides across the living room floor.

I retrieve it with a loud “shit” and hold my breath until I confirm the screen isn’t cracked and there are no other visible damages before scrolling to my messages and opening the unread one.

Wasted_Words.

Who the hell is Wasted_Words?

I click on the tiny profile pic and am taken to a page that I’ve never seen before. Most of the posts are of nature: a lake so calm you can see the perfect reflection of the brightly colored fall trees, a stone shaped like a heart, and a sky so bright with stars you can see the Milky Way. There are no face pics. Just one of a hand on the neck of a guitar.

I know that hand.

I click back to my messages and type.

Annalise Harris:

I am alive. It was touch and go for a while there earlier. Harmony made pie.

Three dots appear, then a message.

Wasted_Words:

Is it weird that I’m craving her seven-oat cookies?

Annalise Harris: