Strings Attached

Chapter 1 | Caroline

“I see you.”

I snatched the AirPod out of my ear and minimized Spotify.

“You see what?” I asked, arching an eyebrow and glancing up to see Katy peering over my gray cubicle wall. Her yellow cat-eye vintage glasses caught the sun, nearly blinding me.

She snorted, smoothing her fuzzy pink cardigan before ruffling it up again. “You did that weird finger thing you do when you’re listening to a song you like. You were totally zoning out during the Zoom call with Portland.” She dragged out Portland for dramatic effect, causing my cubicle neighbor, Harry, to purse his lips into an irritated little pout. His neatly combed mustache twitched in protest.

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Girl. That meeting was high stakes. They were talking about doubling next quarter’s sales goals.”

How many slightly flavored waters in a big-ass can did we really have to sell? People were basically buying them for the cans. They were cool — we commissioned local artists to design them, so it was less about the water and more about collecting art.

That’s what had driven me to work so hard for so long. I wasn’t selling water. I was supporting artists.

I put a finger to my lips, giving her my best shut-up eyes. “Shh!” I peeked over at Harry, who had pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears and placed a semi-permanent scowl where his mouth used to be. Crisis averted.

“You could see that in the Zoom window?” I whispered. “Shit.”

Katy ignored my panic and walked around to the entrance of my cubicle, spinning my chair away from my desk. “Who are you listening to?” She popped open the Spotify app before I could stop her.

“Ah! Archer Anonymous. You wanted to get acquainted with these fine men before the show tonight? And what are we pairing with them?”

Katy knew the rules. Live music deserved the perfect food truck pairing.

I tapped my chin, considering. “Mmm. They give me mid 2010-indie vibes - The Kooks, Arctic Monkeys. A little raw, a little nostalgic. I’m thinking… chicken and waffles. A mix of comfort food and unexpected magic.”

Katy nodded solemnly as if I’d just made an important life decision.

I stretched, and my button-up pulled free from my pencil skirt, my too-tight bun strained against my scalp. Actually, everything was too tight.

I checked my inbox—thirty unread emails. My boss, Braydon Tart, had flagged one URGENT even though it was about a campaign that wouldn’t launch for another month. A coworker was copying my ideas in a team thread. Mentally, I was already at the show with a beer in hand.

Katy, as always, read me like a book. “One more hour.”

I sighed. High performance had consequences. If you hit the top sales numbers last quarter, they expected you to do it again. And again. And again. No breaks. No mistakes.

Katy glanced around, ensuring no prying eyes. “You know, you’re not stuck. You could do something else altogether.”

I scoffed. “Not everyone is as brave as you.”

I first knew I wanted to be her friend when I overheard some guy whisper about her ‘ridiculous’ flouncy vintage dresses—how she was ‘too big’ to get away with hideous fashion, according to his completely wrong opinion.

Katy had marched right up to him, looked him dead in the eye, and said,

“You know, it’s entirely within your control to pretend I don’t exist. And since I had no idea you existed until right now, I’d be happy to return the favor.”

The look on his face when he realized how irrelevant he was to her? Priceless.

If it had been me, I would’ve stammered, ducked into the bathroom, and cleaned up my mascara.

But Katy? She smiled, walked away, and never gave him another thought.

She pushed her glasses to the tip of her nose. “Sweetie,” she said, voice softer now, “you’re stronger than you realize.”

I picked up my phone, tapped on my favorite social media app, and scrolled to Archer Anonymous, ignoring the blush rising on my cheek. Compliments weren’t for me. Avoidance was my best bet.

“He’s kinda cute, no?” I held up my phone, showing her a video from last night’s show.

The lead singer had dark, messy hair, constantly pushing it away from his sharp, blue-green eyes—sly, intense, and just a little wild. Tattoos covered his lean arms and peeked over the neckline of his shirt.

While the lead was bad-boy attractive, the drummer had Golden Retriever energy, a big smile, and bushy blonde hair. The third guy, half out of frame, played some obscure stringed instrument—probably a mandolin. Only one smudged, eyeliner-lined eye and perfectly coiffed hair made the video.

I clicked over to their latest post. A picture of the drummer asleep and cuddling his drumsticks on their tour bus.

The location tag? Lake Shore Drive.

My stomach did a tiny, stupid flip.

They were here. Right now. On the LSD. The route I took this morning.

I don’t know why that felt important. I’d only heard of them a week ago when Katy got us tickets, but now? Knowing they were in my city, right at this moment, made the whole thing feel… more real. More immediate.

Katy grabbed my phone and zoomed in on a shot of the lead singer pretending to sing into a gas nozzle at some roadside station in Missouri.

“Those tats? No. Not cute. Fucking hot. That’s some good bedtime reading. I’d read his back all night long.” She smothered her booming laugh and moved the zoom to the drummer. “I don’t know, though. The little drummer boy isn’t too bad either.”

A giggle bubbled to the surface and tumbled out of my mouth as I nodded in agreement—way too enthusiastically.

My phone dinged. Outlook. Braydon Tart. Subject line: “Urgent: Sales Numbers.”

I clicked my phone into airplane mode, turned off my screen, and grabbed my purse.

I’d been a “good employee” for three years. A top performer. A top seller.

What was one early escape?

I smirked. “Screw it. Let’s go.”

Chapter 2 | Ben

Since I was twelve, this had been the dream.

Now that I had it, I felt like absolute shit for wanting out.

I slouched deeper into my seat, pulling my sweatshirt over my legs like a blanket. The tour bus was blazing hot or freezing, never just right. The smell of old coffee and someone’s half-eaten burrito clung to the air, making my stomach turn.

I picked up my phone to distract myself and scrolled through my missed texts. Three unread. Each had the same question.

“How’s tour?”

That was all anyone asked about.

I switched over to social media. A necessary evil. My thumb hovered over our tagged posts from last night’s show.

People sang along.

People cheered when I talked to the audience.

People danced to songs we wrote in my mom’s attic three years ago.

That attic had magic. That was where we had recorded our first album. Before the manager. Before the tours.

Before all of this.

I clicked on a video. The crowd had been electric.

And yet—

I felt nothing.

I should have been grateful. People would have killed for this. But all I could think about was:

I hadn’t slept in a proper bed in two months.

I didn’t even know if my grandma was doing okay.

The last girl I dated stopped texting me five weeks ago.

I swiped over to my DMs, scrolling for her username. Still there. Still on read.

I hovered over the keyboard and typed, “Hey, how’s it going?”

Deleted it.

Then deleted the entire chat history.

What was the point?

I exhaled hard through my nose. This wasn’t real life. It was a loop of gas stations, sound checks, screaming fans, and nights staring at the bus ceiling, wondering what the hell I was missing.

Across from me, Tanner scrolled on his phone, looking half-bored, half-amused.

I nudged him. “Pretend you’re sleeping with the drumsticks tucked up like a teddy bear.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“For content.”

Tanner sighed dramatically, then tilted his head back, shut his eyes, and cracked his mouth open like he was snoring. He pulled his drumsticks to his chest and curled up like a kid clutching a stuffed animal.

The whole thing was so ridiculously fake that I couldn’t help but laugh.

I snapped the picture, captioned it “Tanner needs a gf,” and slapped on all the usual hashtags before hitting post.

Instantly, my phone pinged. Likes, comments, DMs.

I clicked it to silent and tossed it onto the table. Social media had gotten us a big enough fan base to get us a tour and a few hundred thousand streams a month, but I didn’t have to enjoy it.

Leo, our multi-talented string man, stared out the window at the skyline as we pulled into Chicago.

“That might be the best skyline yet,” he said, pressing a palm to the glass.

I followed his gaze. Damn.

The buildings cut clean against the sky, steel and glass reflected the setting sun. On the left, Lake Michigan stretched into the horizon, blue fading to pink.

Chicago.

We were playing at Cubby Bear that night—the smallest venue of the tour, almost not worth it.

Almost.

Because it was still Chicago.

The place where I had spent every summer growing up at my grandma’s condo near Lake Michigan. The city where music had turned into something bigger than a hobby.

Going to all those music festivals each summer with Grandma and her parade of girlfriends had been the reason I started singing.

The summer I turned eighteen, she got me a fake ID so I could go to over-21 venues. That was when the 2010s indie scene rewired my brain.

I had seen Alt-J, Foster the People, and Arcade Fire before they blew up. I had watched small bands I’d never heard of becoming cult favorites overnight. It was intoxicating.

One day, we’d play Northerly Island or Salt Shed.

But not tonight.

Tonight, we would squeeze onto the tiny Cubby Bear stage, the crowd shoulder to shoulder, a mess of sticky beer floors and blinding stage lights.

I tried to stretch out, but the bus seats cramped my legs. I lifted my Arctic Monkeys tee, gave it a sniff, and gagged a little.

Laundry day was overdue.

At least we didn’t have to cram into Tanner’s mom’s minivan like the early days.

Tanner and I met in middle school chorus. I was twelve, awkward as hell, just trying to survive a solo without my voice cracking. After one rehearsal, he turned to me like I’d just performed at the Grammys. “Dude,” he said. “You’re like really good. I play drums. We should start a band.” He had a band name by lunch and a poster sketched out by seventh period.

Leo came a year later. He was the quiet kid, always tucked behind a book. One day, I passed the band room and heard something that didn’t sound like middle school band kids. Leo was in there alone, switching between electric guitar and harp, layering with a Loop Pedal he must have brought from home — like a damn genius. I just stood there listening until he noticed me and asked if I played. I didn’t. Not yet. But later that day, I picked up my dad’s old guitar.

I side-eyed Leo. “Should we stay?”

Leo smirked, already scrolling Redfin. “Wouldn’t mind calling it home base.”

Tanner, still fake-snoring, cracked one eye open and swiped Leo’s phone, shutting the app. “This bus is home now, friends.”

I grumbled. “Feels like it.”

I stretched my arms out, my fingers brushing the ceiling. The thought hit me—this was all I did.

Tour. Play. Promote. Repeat.

It had taken me years to get half-decent at guitar, but my vocals had been enough to distract from my mediocre string-plucking.

Leo could pick up an instrument and play it in hours. But me? I had to work at it.

The attention we got sometimes felt unearned.

And yet, on stage—

For that one hour of connection, when the crowd sang back our words, when everything clicked—

I loved it.

I loved it too much.

And then the music stopped, and I was back to this.

Silence.

I could still hear the ringing in my ears from the night before. The echo of the crowd.

But now?

Just the hum of the road. The occasional creak of the bus. The faint buzz of my bandmates’ phones.

That was the part I wasn’t sure I could live with.

Chapter 3 | Caroline

I changed into my high-waisted, wide-leg jeans that I had laid out on my bed this morning and slipped on a Maggie Speaks T-shirt I thrifted a few weeks ago.

I had to get it.

My aunt once told me about seeing them at a New Year’s Eve hotel party downtown. No one was paying attention, so she whooped and hollered just to make sure the band felt seen. That was years ago.

Now, a whole pile of their old merch sat abandoned at the thrift store.

Buying the tee wasn’t even a choice—it was an ode to one of my favorite people.

I yanked my hair out of the too-tight bun. It didn’t budge—like the bobby pins and rubber band had fused with my skull. I sighed, tossed it back up into a messy bun instead, and let a few curls break free.

I ringed a bronze shadow beneath my lash line, blended it into a soft wing, and added a fresh layer of my signature berry lipstick, which had faded to a tint throughout the day.

Katy plopped onto my couch in the same outfit she’d worn all day, karate-chopping my throw pillows like she was on HGTV. A goblet of rosé perched in her free hand.

She blasted the Archer Anonymous playlist from her phone, bopping her head as she chopped.

I grabbed a microbrew from the fridge, popping the top off with a satisfying hiss.

“Food or music first?” I asked, my eyes roaming over the beer label. A hand-drawn picture of a heavily breasted devil blowing raspberries stared back at me.

I wondered if the artist was local. Maybe we could recruit them for our water brand.

Not that they’d get credit. Compensation? Yes. Credit? Of course not.

I rolled my eyes.

“Food!” Katy called out. “I am not waiting until after the show. You nuts?” She emphasized her words with aggressive pillow chops.

“What was I thinking?” I agreed.

“Chicken and waffles, waffles and chicken—time to eat, put it in my belly,” I sang, doing a little dance for her. “It’s on Armitage. Just checked their socials. Let’s go before I faint.”

“Girl, none of that rhymed. Worse song ever,” Katy said before downing the rest of her drink.

Delete

Sweat pooled between my boobs the second I stepped into the humidity. If I’d realized it was this hot, I wouldn’t have worn pants.

But living in air conditioning 24/7 had destroyed my weather instincts.

Now, I was awkwardly squat-walking to the food truck, trying to peel my jeans from my thighs.

“You look dumb,” Katy murmured, removing her glasses. “I’d rather be blind than watch you do that.”

A breeze hit, and I tilted my face up, soaking in the relief. The smell of frying chicken clung to the air, mingling with the endless hum of conversation.

“It’s so hot,” I whined, pulling my shirt up enough to dry off my tit sweat. I tied it up to stay cool.

“You’re telling me? I had to baby powder my thighs just to survive this walk.” She lifted her skirt a tick, and sure enough, white powder clung to her legs, making us both laugh.

She froze, squinting into the distance. I nudged her elbow. “Put your glasses back on, Blindo.”

She perched them back on her nose and tilted her head. “Is that the drummer boy?”

“Huh?” I asked, confused. “Like the Christmas song?”

“Sweetie,” there was nothing sweet about the way she said it. It was a pure bless-your-heart tone. “The drummer from Archer Anonymous.”

I squinted, staring in the direction she faced, and nodded. “Yeah, might be. Can’t forget that hair.” His blonde, wavy hair bushed out at all angles in the humidity.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Katy said, already marching in his direction.

“No! We’ll look like fangirls.” I dug my heels in, but Katy was a woman on a mission.

“The band is tiny. They probably never get recognized. They’ll love it,” Katy shot back, grabbing my arm—the same one I was using to hold her back — yanking me forward instead.

He was standing near the food truck, munching on fried chicken wrapped in a waffle, like a taco. His head bopped to the playlist the food truck played through a speaker attached above the window.

“Hey, are you the drummer from Archer Anonymous?” Katy asked, holding out her hand for a handshake.

His eyes lit up, and a wide grin stretched across his face, still half-full of chicken. He spit it into his hand and nodded. Katy quickly dropped her hand, retracting her handshake offer. “Yes! Wow! You listen to us?”

“Yep! Catching your show tonight,” she said, expertly dodging the question—because, honestly, we discovered them, like, five days ago.

“Amazing!” He hopped up and down on his toes like a little kid. “We’re so excited to be in Chicago tonight. We have to leave in the morning, but would you want to meet after the show? Play tour guide for a bit?”

Katy glanced at me for permission, and I shrugged my agreement. “Why not?” I said with a smile. “We’ll give you the locals’ tour—with all the places no one talks about.”

“That’s perfect,” he said, grinning widely as a deep ravine of a dimple appeared on his cheek. “I’m bringing my bandmates. Is that cool?”

“Fine by me,” I nodded, and Katy did, too.

Something told me tonight was about to spiral in the best—and worst— ways.