Heidi Tretheway - Tyler & Stella

I twist my hands in my lap, waiting to be dismissed, but Heath pulls a laminated pass on a lanyard out of his desk drawer and flips it over to me.

“Don’t look so grim. I’ve also got a reward for you—you’re covering the Indie Day concert.” Heath’s tobacco-stained grin says he’s proud of giving me this.

“Thanks,” I choke out, accepting the pass to one of the biggest outdoor indie rock concerts of the summer. It’s on Independence Day, of course, so I mentally scratch my Fourth of July plans.

“Get me a story on that by noon Friday,” Heath says. “And close the door behind you.”

I’m dismissed.

I know I should call Beryl but I can’t bring myself to dial all ten numbers. The weight of my betrayal threatens to crush me and I leave work early on the pretense of digging up more information on Tattoo Thief.

Instead, I walk aimlessly on the High Line, an elevated park on an old rail track.

On Tuesday, I’m no closer to a story about Tattoo Thief and I spend the morning at my desk trolling old articles about the band, looking for some nugget that could spark a fresh story without involving Gavin or Beryl again.

I feel like a prisoner waiting for her execution.

Neil’s on the other side of the newsroom telling a loud, animated story about his latest one-star restaurant review, and several reporters gather around him.

I hate this side of the business, being a critic, tearing down what other people create. I write honest reviews, but I always try to find something redeeming about a performance a band’s spent years honing.

When my desk phone rings I want to let it go to voicemail, but considering that I hate being on the other end, a reporter leaving a voicemail for a source, I relent to its beeping and pick it up.

“Indie Voice . This is Stella Ramsey.”

“Stella. You’re Beryl’s … friend?” The voice is a growl, pouring ice in my veins. This is not a friendly chat.

My mouth drops open and I struggle to remember what to do with it: breathe, move my lips, push air through my throat. Now speak.

“Stella? Are you there?” I scramble to place the familiar rasp. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve fielded calls from publications and reporters whose names are every bit as famous as Tattoo Thief’s.

“Urg, sorry. How may I help you?” I pride myself on composure, but now I’m fumbling for easy words.

“You know what this is about. The video. Tell me what happened.” The growl is lower and so commanding that I stutter out the same comments I gave a dozen media outlets.

“Uh, I wrote a story about the video Gavin Slater made. For Beryl. It was such a good song that I thought the world needed to see it. I thought—”

I keep talking, defending the very thing I’ve beaten myself up over ever since I hit SEND. My thoughts snag on a critical fact: no one should know that Beryl is my friend.

When reporters badgered me about getting in touch with Beryl, I told them I didn’t know her last name or contact details. The only reason her first name is mentioned in my story at all is because the video begins with Gavin’s sweet, heartfelt statement: “Hey, Beryl. This is for you.”

Realization hits me. That voice. I feel like I’ve tripped on the bumpy yellow warning strip in the subway and I’m falling toward the tracks.

“Stop it, Stella.” Gavin Slater’s sharp tone cuts off my babble. “You stole it from Beryl. That was a private video between us and I don’t know how you got in the middle of it, but you had no right to take it.”

I hear his barely contained rage and I gasp for air and grasp for words. I stick with the one phrase that’s burned in my brain. “Gavin, I’m sorry. I’m so sor—” My voice breaks as I try to apologize, and I choke back a sob.

“Do you realize how badly you hurt Beryl? I’m used to the press pulling this kind of shit, taking anything they can get from me, breaking any promise of confidentiality. But Beryl trusted you. She said you were her best friend.”

I hear the past tense in his statement and I blubber and shake, holding the phone in a death grip.

“She didn’t even know the video was out there until it went viral. Her boss had to show it to her. You didn’t even give her a heads-up, like, ‘Hey, I fucked you over and stole a private moment, so be prepared.’ She thought I did it. The rest of the band—my best friends—thought she did it. And the first call I got was from Chief, our manager, screaming about our label suing us for breach of contract!”

Gavin’s voice rises with each statement and I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I never considered that Tattoo Thief’s label would be anything less than thrilled by Gavin’s video.

“And the worst part?” Gavin barks out an ironic laugh. “The worst part is I fucking blamed her for it, too. I thought she sold me out. After everything I trusted her with, you undermined that trust. And she knows it.”

That lands the hardest blow and I sniffle and hiccup between sobs, but I’m trying desperately to stay quiet so I don’t attract the attention of my coworkers.

Gavin draws a ragged breath. “You owe Beryl an apology. Are you ready for that?” His voice is hard and I feel panicked. What could I possibly say to her that would be enough?

“Yes. You’re right,” I whisper. I’m not sure he hears me because the line is quiet. Finally, Gavin breaks the silence.

“Good. Then we understand each other. Here’s how you’re going to make it up to her: meet us at Frankies Spuntino in Greenwich Village tonight at nine. She deserves to hear your apology in person.”

“She deserves so much more than that,” I say, and I know it’s true. She deserves better than a frenemy who steals her private moments and makes them public. A fresh wave of self-loathing hits me and I want to drown in a bottle of something strong.

“You’re right, Stella. Beryl is precious to me, but I also know your friendship is precious to her. You’ve got to make it right.”

“I don’t know how.” It comes out like a desperate sigh.

Gavin’s voice softens. “Stella. Listen to me. I’ve spent the last two months beating myself up over something I did that caused irreparable damage. I know how hard it is to ask for forgiveness, and how much harder it is to forgive yourself.”

I nod but can’t manage words.

Gavin goes on. “Let’s start here. I forgive you. What you did isn’t unforgivable. The trust you broke can be mended. You’ve just got to find a way to give it to Beryl and see if she’ll accept it.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. I can’t promise that Beryl will forgive you right away, or ever. But I want you to try. She deserves it.”

I’m beyond nervous. I whisper my name to the hostess and follow her to the back of the restaurant. She opens one of the double doors to a private dining room and ushers me inside.

I gape. There are nearly a dozen people here, talking and laughing as they stand around a large table that’s set for dinner. I recognize members of the band Tattoo Thief, and at the far end of the room near the head of the table, Gavin stands with his arm circling Beryl’s waist.

She looks amazing in a tight black dress that shows off her curves. She’s deep in conversation with Gavin and her eyes sparkle as she smiles at him.

She looks like she’s in love.

I stand awkwardly by the door, my feet frozen in place even though I need to go to her and apologize. Beryl turns and her expression shifts from happiness to rage.

I want to run but Gavin catches Beryl’s arm and holds her close to him as he whispers in her ear. Her lips move angrily and her eyes dart back to me.