Page 1 of Knot Just A Fan

CHAPTER 1

Briella

NOW

New Year’sEve always has potential. It could be the most exhilarating night of the year. Glitter and sequins reflecting lights and candles. Champagne fizzing in everyone’s manicured hands. Dresses picked out for this one night only. And, of course, music.

The most meaningful events in my life have always had a soundtrack—music that highlights the moments that demand my attention, and remind me how fast they disappear. And Arcadia Echo’s music has been the soundtrack to every moment that’s mattered to me in the past nine years, one way or another.

Unfortunately, in my thirty-one years on this planet, I’ve yet to experience a single New Year’s Eve that was anything but a disappointment. So I saypotentialwith a little more wistful hope every year.

This is the year I stop waiting for something to happen, because for this last decade, there’s been one person I wanted it to happen with. And no amount of rumors winging their way through crowds and online comments has ever been able to persuade my mind to completely forget him. Even after eight years on separate continents.

In life, I figure you maybe getonesecond chance. This is mine, so tonight, I’ve got to say something, or go utterly fucking insane.

So, action or madness. Or maybe—jackpot!—both. Let’s find out.

“What song do you reckon they’ve chosen for midnight?” Cami asks. We’re painting our nails at our kitchen table in the two-bed flat we share in a small but bustling market town in Oxfordshire, not far from Reading. We’ve been here since graduating from the London Academy of Finishing, having picked it for the relatively easy access to London, Reading, or the south west of England, for our jobs within the post-Academy Arts Guild.

“Hmm, hard to say.” I glance up at my best friend and take a sip of the gin & tonic she’s expertly poured. Bless her, I know she’s trying to calm my nerves, and she doesn’t really give a rip what Arcadia Echo plays. You’ll never catch her jamming out to the most heart-wrenching, enigmatic, creative art rock band in the world. Her latest fixation is a goth violin quartet that plays metal covers. “They’ve never played the same exact setlist twice. But this is their homecoming gig, so—” I shrug.

As I set my glass down, I manage to smudge the polish on my right pinkie and fix it before it dries. “Last New Year’s Eve they opened, so their set finished well before midnight.” It’s sad that I know that, since the gig was in Los Angeles and I was here in England. But my professional connection to them—along with the personal one that’s a frayed thread I can’t let go of—means I’ve never stopped following their career. Wherever it’s taken them.

In a way, it’s kept me feeling like the person I was before they left.

“Huh,” Cami says. “What were we doing last New Year’s? My memory’s shit.”

“Well, I was shooting that mini-festival in Brighton. But you definitely weren’t there. Weren’t you with?—”

“Oh, right. Yes.” Cami squeezes her eyes shut, giving me a clear view of her purple-shadowed eyes. She scrubs a hand down her face. “I spent the evening watching Gerald play his MMO, shouting into his headset with his online mates. Oh, the glamour.”

I snicker then turn this into an empathetic groan. “Ah. Yeah. The era of Gerald.” I cap the glittery magenta bottle and splay my fingernails in the air, inspecting my work. Since my face is usually hidden behind my camera, I like to keep the rest of me as eye-catching as possible. I mean, at this point, it can’t hurt.

An unmatched Omega in her early thirties can dream, can’t she?

I sigh and glance at Cami’s untouched drink as I start on the other hand. She’s sitting there, black hair in braids wound around two buns on top of her head, a bottle of nail polish in each hand, lost in thought. She looks like she’s about to say something, biting her cheek and raising an eyebrow.

Indecision isn’t how I’d describe my best friend. From the day we met at the Academy until our acceptance into the Artists' Guild, Camilla Douglas has glowed with confidence and certainty. Two things I’ve never excelled at. Which might be part of my problem.

We shared classes during intro level at the Academy and have been inseparable ever since, despite being opposites in nearly everything. I managed a first on my exams, even after all the lectures we spent straining to stifle cackles from the back row, while Cami scraped by with a 3:1.

But the irony of that below-average result is that while I was able to study and write and defend arguments, my photography seems only ever as good as the equipment I can afford. And Cami, as a painter and illustrator, is nothing short of masterfulwith whatever she gets her hands on. The way she captures the slightest nuance and turns it into a dazzling portrait is stunning, and rare.

Goes to show it doesn’t matter how high a grade you snag. Without innate talent, you’ll rely on things outside yourself to truly shine. I wish someone had told sixteen-year-old me that.

Cami lets out a whooshing sigh and I nudge her glass closer to her hand. “Mate, you’ve gotta catch up. You’ll never make it through tomorrow if you’re out of practice.”

She laughs and sets a polish bottle down to take a big gulp. “Okay, back to tomorrow. Best midnight song.”

“Sweeter Than,” I blurt. “The faces Grayson tends to pull when he’s singing that bridge, with the confetti dropping and the lights.” I give a little groan. I’ve never seen it live despite being the band’s photographer for an entire year, because that song wasn’t even written until they left the UK for those eight long years. Eight years I spent trying to get over Grayson Cove.

Cami gives an appreciative grunt, and I’m reminded that if I didn’t have her to talk to about the band—about Grayson—even about mundane things like song choices, I would honestly be wondering if I’d lost it completely. If I’d made it all up. Unless she’s humoring me. But then, Cami rarely has the patience or inclination to humor anyone.

“All right. I’m going with gold,” she says. “Not usually my color, but fuck it.” She turns her brown eyes on me, full lips smirking. “Are you going to finally pull your thumb out and talk to him, then? The sooner you do, the sooner we can get to the good stuff.”

I talked with him many times, back when we worked together. And in the last two months leading up to this gig. But she meanstalk-talk. As in, admit that I have never let go of what happened before they left.

I cap my bottle again and empty my gin and tonic, swirling it around my mouth before I swallow it. “I have to. At least if I tell him and he laughs it off, I’ll have my answer.”

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