Page 81 of Two Hit Wonder

For a moment, everything else fell away. The article, the betrayal, the argument. Just Ellie in her arms, warm and real and still here. Still fighting. Still the same person she'd always been, even if the ground beneath her feet had shifted.

"So this was all a trick." Maeve's voice shattered the quiet.

Iona pulled back, turning. Maeve's face had gone hard.

"A trap," Maeve continued. "To get me down here. To make me think this was something real when really I was just… what? A means to an end? To make us all think this was real. You lied."

"Maeve, that's not fair," Ellie said. "Everything we've done together has been real. The music is real. What you and Iona have is real."

"Is it? Because right now it feels like I've been played." Maeve's voice was rising. "Everyone in this room knew something I didn't. Everyone had their little secrets and their little plans and I was just stumbling around in the dark like an idiot."

"I didn't know," Iona said. "About Ellie. I found out just now, same as you."

"But you knew other things." Maeve's eyes locked onto hers. "Didn't you? Things you never told me. That's always been the problem with this, with us all. No honesty. No one ever tells the truth. Everything’s always edited."

"That's not—" Iona began.

"No." Cam stepped forward, face flushed, tears still wet on her cheeks. "You want to talk about problems? About what was always wrong with this band? The problem wasn't secrets, Maeve. The problem was you and your drinking."

"Cam," Ellie said sharply. "Don't."

"Why not? She wants honesty, let's give her honesty." Cam's voice was shaking but she didn't stop. "We all spent years tiptoeing around you. Pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. Watching you destroy yourself and destroy us and never saying a word because we were too scared of what would happen if we did."

"That's enough." Shepherd moved between them, hands raised. "Everyone needs to take a breath and calm down before someone says something they can't take back."

"I'm not calming down." Cam pushed past him. "I'm sick of pretending."

"Cam, please," Iona tried.

"Stop." Maeve's voice was quiet now. "Just stop."

But no one was stopping. Ellie was trying to reason with Cam, Cam was still going, Shepherd was attempting to restore some kind of order and failing spectacularly. Voices overlapping, building on each other, everyone talking and no one listening.

Iona stood in the middle of it and felt the world slow down.

She looked at Maeve, rigid and pale by the microphone stand. She looked at Cam, mascara-streaked and furious. At Ellie, exhausted and tearful. At Shepherd, frustrated and helpless.

And she thought about other moments. Better ones and worse ones.

Maeve in her bed three nights ago, asleep with her hair spread across the pillow, face soft in a way Iona had never seen before. The first time Iona had ever seen her truly peaceful.

The four of them in Ellie's parents' garage when they were fourteen, playing their first song together. They'd been terrible. Absolutely terrible. Cam couldn't keep time, Ellie kept forgetting the chord changes, Maeve's voice had cracked on the high notes. But they'd been laughing so hard by the end that none of it mattered.

And the night everything fell apart. The night when it ended.

Maeve’s drinking had been bad for months by then. Everyone knew it and no one talked about it. But that night she'd been worse than ever. She couldn't stand up straight. Couldn't remember the setlist. Had called Iona by her mother's name and then by no name at all, just staring at her with glassy, unfocused eyes like she was looking at a stranger.

Iona had tried to help her off the stage. Had got her as far as the dressing room. Had reached for her arm to steady her, to get her somewhere safer where she could sleep it off. And Maeve had turned, wild-eyed, and swung.

Her fist had caught Iona's cheekbone. The pain had been sharp and sudden and the floor had come up fast. Iona had lain there, tasting blood, watching Maeve stumble away without even realizing what she'd done. And Cam and Ellie had stood open-mouthed for longer than they should have, before bending over her and crying and pulling her to her feet.

The bruise had lasted two weeks. Iona had told everyone she'd walked into a door. She'd told Maeve nothing at all.

Because Maeve hadn't remembered. The next morning she'd been sick and sorry and full of shame, apologizing for the drinking, for the embarrassment, for being a mess. But she hadn't known about the punch. And Iona had decided, looking at her red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, that she never would. Some truths would only cause more pain. Then Maeve had gone. Maybe she’d sensed something, maybe it had been time, but that morning was the last time she’d seen Maeve Maureen MacDonnell until she’d walked up that path to that Scottish cottage.

She'd kept that secret for fifteen years.

"You want to know what really happened?" Cam's voice dragged Iona back to the present. She was pointing at Maeve now, face contorted. "You really want to know? You want truth? Honesty? You were so drunk you couldn't remember our names. So far gone that you couldn’t sing. So shit-faced that you punched her."