Tomorrow

"I don't know where my apartment is."

On the other end, Luke heaved out a huge sigh. "Christ, Becky. Really making the most out of that holiday, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry and all that. I know you sent me pictures and stuff. Hang on." With one hand still holding her phone to her ear, Beca slowly parsed through the emails on her laptop. "Err...what's the subject line again?"

"You let me pick out your new apartment, had me manage the interior design, and then signed the lease without seeing it or even knowing where it is?!" he replied disdainfully. "Were you even aware you bought a five-M condo?"

"I don't need to know all these things, okay? I just need –"

"I emailed you a hundred details about the apartment. I even had Dax email you again before you left Four Seasons just to be sure –"

"Dax hasn't emailed me anything in the last ten days. Subject line, Lucas. Today."

"Then fire him. I do the bulk of his work anyway, so why not pay me double to remember all the little details of your life, like your home address and brand of tampon –"

"Why are you so bitchy?" Beca whined.

"Because I am at an auction!" he hissed back. "Judd Apatow just unloaded his place in Malibu. And right now, there's a bunch of judgmental old hussies looking at me instead of that hideous 1950s Grete Jalk sofa."

"Oops." Beca tried to sound contrite, although she couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Sorry. You didn't have to quote the catalog, you stuffy ass."

"I'm going out." It was silent for a few moments, except for some rustling and voices in the background. "If I lose the Patek Philippe rose gold calatrava wristwatch, I'll kill you."

"Jeez. You know what? Forget the address. It's not like I can go there now, with renovations and all –"

"Becky," Luke growled in exasperation. "The renovations finished three weeks ago!"

"...oh." 'Coked up to my eyeballs the past month' would probably not be a very good excuse for missing that email – and besides, this is exactly why she hired Luke: to care for such petty details. "Uh, glad you took care of it, I guess? Good job, you."

"You were in Ibiza when I gave you the update – fuck, why do I even bother?" Silence on the other end again. "I just sent you a link. By all means, will you please check it out now?"

The link led to the Architectural Digest website. Tour Beca Mitchell's New 4.5 Million TriBeCa Penthouse. "What the fuck, you showed it off to Condé Nast?!"

"I called you for permission at Mykonos. It's good publicity – and, well, Keegan's mandate."

She could hardly remember going to Greece, let alone having all these phone calls with Luke. Unbelievable.

"Becky?"

She cleared her throat. "What?"

"…the Bebop just requested landing on JFK." The Bebop is their personal nickname for Beca's Cessna Citation Latitude, a gift from Residual Heat Records when she won her first Grammy.

"…and?"

"Are you on it?"

Beca yawned and leaned back on the reclined leather seat, looking around the toffee interiors and polished wood veneers of the cabin. "Yep."

"And you couldn't have mentioned this before you left La Môle?!"

"I really, really need you to stop scolding me."

"When you start remembering shit for a change, I'll consider," Luke huffed. "I'll have someone pick you up, he'll bring you straight to your place."

"Great. That's all I need. Thanks, Lukey."

"See what happens when you have reliable people? For the love of god, fire Dax! You can afford a hundred assistants now. Keegan's surprised you kept him for so long."

"Ugh. You're so efficient, I've completely forgotten about him."

"Better said in a pay raise, Becky."

"You're already one of the highest-paid publicists in LA. Don't be greedy."

"I had to try and dupe more money out of you, eh? Anyway, I'll line up interviews for a P.A. next week. Dax is a goddamn nitwit."

"Blubber."

Luke got the reference. "You fucking nerd," he chuckled, his irritation quickly disappearing. "Oddment."

"Tweak."


Tour Beca Mitchell's New 4.5 Million TriBeCa Penthouse

Architectural Digest | Text by Gillian Kaplan |Photos by Ryan Osmond

Beca Mitchell made waves last month by packing up for NYC (and dividing Residual Heat Records in the process), and now the two-time Grammy Award winner is ready to move into her new 25th floor residence. The penthouse, located in The Palasso in TriBeCa and bought for $4.5 million, required three months of complete renovation by Rockwell Group to suit the producer's tastes.

According to her publicist Lucas Gainsbourg, Mitchell – more popular by stage name STOKR – simply noted the following criteria for her new bachelorette pad: 1) Bright open space. 2) Garage setup - Fast and the Furious. 3) Nothing harsh. 4) Good acoustics. Since Mitchell is reportedly traveling the globe for the next two months as a much-needed vacation, it was up to lead architect Gerard Cohler to elevate these formless ideas into a luxurious, sleek home.

He rose to the occasion by doing a modern industrial redesign that can simply be summed up in one word: cool.

The whole floor plan's wide, airy interiors have a lot of pleasant au naturale light, coming mostly from the floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking panoramic view of downtown Manhattan. Cohler used a dark gray and white palette to accentuate the matte slate tile, with touches of warm wood and leather in fixtures and furniture to balance out the stark windows and ash marble pillars. Wood beams were also added to the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling to add more warmth.

The living room features stools, couches and leather lounge chairs from Alvar Aalto, as well as a 1970 cocktail table by Fernand Dresse and Arman side tables. All are arrayed on a custom-made Swedish rug from Hakimian. Mitchell is a known collector of boxing-style vintage concert posters, and on the adjoining wall, mounted on a free-hanging LED installation, is the best of her collection: an extremely rare museum-quality 1969 concert poster of Jimi Hendrix at the Seattle Center Coliseum. The conservation-framed LED displays, which also feature in other rooms of the penthouse, are especially designed by artist Erwin Redl in collaboration with Victor Hunt Designlab.

Off to one side is a fully-stocked bar with a J. Randall Powers bespoke liquor cabinet, the inside painted a rich matte crimson to better highlight Mitchell's favored scotches. The kitchen is outfitted with a Wolf range, hood, and ovens, as well as a fridge and undercounter liquor storage unit by Sub-Zero. The stone and wood countertops, cabinetry and stools are by Le Corbusier, and the dining table by the window – which seats four to six – is by Casamidy's.

The entire penthouse is equipped with an audiophile surround sound system by Focal. Cohler converted the two extra bedrooms into a fully-equipped studio and a private den, where the rest of Mitchell's conservation-framed poster collection is kept in recessed custom-made Le Corbusier file cabinets. A sliding door leads to the terrace, which has an elevated open-air Jacuzzi outfitted with Italian mosaic tiles and set in an ipe wood deck.

For the spacious loft-style second floor, Cohler installed a floating glass-and-teak staircase. He also added a single curved floating wall covered in Bergamo fabric to give privacy to the master bedroom, master bath, dressing room and walk-in closet. The master bedroom, which bathes in the same gorgeous natural lighting as the living room and dining room, has a dramatic view of the city as well. Tall, unobtrusive Poliform cerused-oak shelves house Mitchell's numerous records and books. All beddings and linen on the Bruno Moinard Éditions bed are from Pratesi, while the lovely gray carpet is by Beauvais.

In the master bath, a Kohler tub with Dornbracht fittings sits right next to the window. It is joined by a roomy circular shower with a 4-feet wide shower head, also from Dornbracht, and a double vanity. The white crystallized-glass floor is by Architectural Systems. Both master bath and bedroom lead to a walk-in closet and dressing room with Ebanista furnishings and Hakimian rugs.

The airy penthouse can be quickly transformed into a hushed enclave with Cohler's addition of discreet Pratesi shades. At night, controlled lighting by West Elm can turn the entire place from a serene home to party central with the turn of a knob, depending on Mitchell's mood.

To complete all the amenities of her new place, The Palasso grants Mitchell private elevator access, garage access, fitness center membership, and access to the rooftop pool. Hotel amenities such as housekeeping, concierge, private chef, and maid services are also included.

"Beca is intuitive. It's one of the first things you learn about her. It bleeds into all aspects of her life, particularly her music, and it's important that the design reflects that," Cohler commented on the entire overhaul process. "She runs by instinct, and so unnecessariness gets to her – put in one bulb too much, or one record out of place, and she's bound to notice. On our first meeting I told her I had the incredible luck of designing her previous home in LA, when it was still owned by Keegan Murphy. She did not hesitate telling me that the house always felt too gregarious. She wanted her next home to have a more blasé vibe.

"Then she showed me this little paper, with these four vague phrases to summarize her vision, and between the two of us it somehow made complete sense. Luke [Gainsbourg] also provided some insight on her daily habits, which greatly helped with the final result. The interiors perfectly complement her high-rolling yet laidback lifestyle. It's as bold and contemporary as she is, but it's also intimate."

/


Intimate, though, was the last thing on her mind when she stepped off the elevator and entered the foyer.

A chill settled upon her before she could even get to the middle of the living room. Low lights were turned on despite the late afternoon, and the dim light managed to make the penthouse both expansive and claustrophobic. There was a hint of wrapping plastic in the thick orchid-scented potpourri wafting from somewhere. The carefully-arranged bowl of chocolates in the coffee table, probably meant to be welcoming, didn't diminish the iciness of the place. The large-scale view of downtown Manhattan, supposedly so dramatic and exciting, was oppressive and bleak. There was nothing in sight that she previously owned except the Louis Vuitton valise she arrived with. Nobody's house could be this excessive.

Something akin to panic was slowly building in her stomach. Overwhelmed, Beca let herself sink to the floor, burying her face into her clammy hands. This place is a tomb and she was nothing in its enormously consumerist wake. She had fucking turned into Patrick Bateman. Her fridge probably full of Perrier and tinned caviar and shit. It was all too fucking beautiful and synthetic and soulless – the chrome sconces buffed to perfection, the rich leather chairs nobody has ever sat on, rugs that probably cost twelve thousand dollars apiece.

She needed to take the edge off.


A local friend of a friend of a trusted 'friend' from LA can supply her blow – pure as driven snow, he promised over the phone. She forced herself to bite back an eager agreement. Think of that infuriating nasal drip. Sandpaper tongue. That time you fucked so hard you woke up with a broken clavicle. The sweet fucking rush in your veins. The best damn sex you've ever had. God, I can't stop thinking about it.

"No," she ground out through clenched teeth. "Just speed."

"Thirty minutes," he replied. "Send something up."


She only got off the floor when the pills arrived – Adderall in a literal silver platter, covered by a damn silver dome, sitting side-by-side with a complimentary bag of weed. The invoice was tucked underneath.

The rest of the tray brought by the butler contained dinner from the New York Times-lauded bistro downstairs: lobster bisque, lamb chops, crème brulee. Beca directed the butler to the cavernous kitchen and watched him arrange her meal on the dark walnut dining table, drugs and all. Dude even brought a bong. He quietly loaded it with tap water before setting it on the counter.

"Will that be all, Miss –"

"Beca. Just Beca." She pulled out a handful of bills for the dealer and handed it to him. More than anything, she wanted to be left alone.


She took her first pill right after dinner.

Half an hour later and she was fucking rolling. It was already dark out, and the soft lights of her new apartment bathed everything in a calm, inviting glow. She sprang up from the couch, blasting music and walking in circles, exploring everything her new place had to offer, finding the most interesting things: gigantic wood bowls from Pottery Barn. A poster of Blake Lively under her pillow, which Luke probably had Gerard put in as a fucking joke. At the den, a goosedown rug, soft as a shih tzu. Silk Ralph Lauren robes. Gold Italian handcrafted taps. Black sesame sherbet in the fridge. VPI Classic Direct turntable in her bedroom. A tall recessed safe programmed to her birthday, filled to the brim with bills. Neat rows of the best scotch at the bar. Balvenie. Glenlivet. Talisker. Laphroaig.

She settled on an armchair and smoked a bowl, facing the glorious New York skyline, and wondered what the fuck she was being so anxious about earlier. She was no longer poor. Hasn't been for the last four years. She came from smuggling leftovers from outdoor cafe tables to this. She hasn't eaten stale bread in ages. She had boxing memberships and a private garage with a sweet Ferrari and Ducati. A 25th floor penthouse so baller it had a fucking outdoor jacuzzi. The world is full of yes men and stunning women. No one could ever take this away from her. She even had more time now. Nowhere she was fucking supposed to be. Not that she was even aspiring for anything else at this point. Life is a stupid repetitive story about nothing – always expository, no obvious climax, and certainly no fucking end in sight. She could get a cat. Have it survive on the finest scraps. Get it a fucking nanny when she was out of town. But what if she died of an overdose? Until anyone notices, the hungry cat would probably eat her face. How many real friends did she have? Stacie, Luke, Chloe – shit, she promised to go see Stacie. Her best friend. Who probably waited the entire day for her to show up. She had broken so many promises already. She missed Christmas with her dad and Sheila. Dax sent them Bergdorf scarves and Savile Row ties. Dad had joked that she probably wanted them to go hang themselves. She should drop by Barden sometime. Grin at the surprised, overjoyed look on his face. Life is a breeze and she was ecstatic about the future. Em performing on Saturday Night Live next week. Dinner at Mugaritz. Gigs at London and Perth next quarter. Fat Amy getting hitched this March.

She had so much clarity of thought and no one to share it with. When was the last time she really shared anything?


It was daylight when Beca popped her fourth pill. Now completely comfortable in her new home, she spent the whole morning in her bedroom. She put on Jimi Hendrix's Are You Experienced on the record and stretched out on the lavish bed. Eyes closed and yet completely aware of her surroundings, she let the music lull her into a temporary peace that lasted until early afternoon.

When she came to, she went downstairs. A cleaning maid, clearly concerned about her appearance, offered to make her something to eat.

"Water," she murmured, shuffling to the kitchen counter. The sun hurt her eyes.

She smoked a cigarette in the balcony and washed down two more pills before the maid left.


Aside from the fact that she couldn't feel her face, Beca felt completely fine. She couldn't have eaten or slept if her life depended on it; nothing mattered except that euphoric feeling. She simply existed. It was all she needed.

Her mind was a buzzing hive of excitement. She went to her new studio for only the second time, heart racing at the sight of the drum kit and electronic guitars neatly lined up on one end of the room. She started flicking on switches on the console, plugging in jacks, adjusting monitors and knobs.

There had been a lot of songs Beca wanted to cover for the longest time. She didn't intend to release them commercially or even lay down electronic beats on the tracks; it was simply something she wanted to do for herself. She started out by listing songs, then narrowing them down to the ones she could best work with. Before long she was furiously outlining arrangements on paper, occasionally looking up lyrics and chords on her laptop. There was a lot to be done.

The second part was the actual execution. Beca sat on the recording booth, tuning guitars while warming up her voice with techniques she learned from her Bella days. She could almost hear Aubrey's mockery in her head: can you go even more out of pitch, Mitchell? She allowed herself a chuckle. She hasn't thought of the blonde in a very long time.

She tried a few verses of The Strokes' I'll Try Anything Once, figuring the arrangement was the easiest: There is a time when we all fail / Some people take it pretty well / Some take it all out on themselves / Some they just take it out on friends. It was difficult without a sound engineer manning the console; Beca had to duck back out to the monitors and replay the recording a few times before getting the balance right. After that it was on to the full vocals and keyboard, then recording a very minimal percussion track with the vocals playing on her headphones. Hot Chip's Need You Now, Arctic Monkey's 505, Carly Simon's Nobody Does It Better, Depeche Mode's My Little Soul...after four hours of playing, drumming and singing, her voice was hoarse. She took a break, made herself an old-fashioned in the bar, and swallowed another Adderall. She'd lost track of how much she had taken. She didn't care.

By five in the morning she was hitting the drums to her interpretation of Joy Division's Isolation, pouring out her frustrations on the snare and cymbals as her own voice echoed in her ears. Mother, I tried, please believe me / I'm doing the best that I can / I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through / I'm ashamed of the person I am.


Beca often found it difficult to be a fan of her own music. There were always so many constructs to satisfy: her own aesthetics, Keegan's, the general public's. Restaurants or boutiques would play her tracks out of courtesy whenever she came in, and she'd be caught off-guard by the exhausted undertone only she could seem to hear. Her second album was especially aggravating – an attention whore of a record, she found it sounding more and more shallow and pretentious as time went by.

But when she finally sat and listened to the eight final tracks, single-handedly performed and completed in the past fourteen hours, she couldn't contain her pride. Her voice was raw in places, and parts of the guitar track would have to be polished; still, she was generally pleased with the outcome. She sounded like she had fucking heart. All was not lost.


It was warm enough for an hour in the tub. Beca stripped off all her clothes and dived in; her senses heightened to an unnatural sharpness, she could actually feel the cool water sloshing pleasantly against her oversensitive skin. Christ, even her bathroom had a view. She inhaled repeatedly from her bong, getting more light-headed by the minute, and let her mind drift.

When the jitters started, she fully submerged herself underwater. Facing the evening sky through a vacuum of bubbles brought on a strange feeling of diminutiveness. The world was expansive and quiet and she was the only one awake at this hour.

When she surfaced, nighttime had already changed to daytime. Well, that can't be right. She dry-swallowed another pill. In the blink of an eye, it was nighttime again.

The Adderall was no longer working. The splitting headache forced her out of the tub; she couldn't remember crawling to the kitchen until she was dry-heaving on the sink, forehead resting uncomfortably against the icy metal taps. Her stomach turned unpleasantly and she would have pulled her own guts out of her mouth just to make it stop.

It was the comedown. It was the worst feeling in the world.

She splashed some water on her face, hardly conscious of the freezing sensation or anything else. She could hardly move her own fingers.

When she straightened up, the block of kitchen knives on the far end of the counter caught her eye.


It was the satisfying zing sound of the knife being unearthed from the wood block that alerted her to reality. The icy metal implement felt foreign in her grip.

Fuck, Dad would be devastated.

And Emily. Em looks up to her.

Luke and Stacie, her two musketeers.

One deep cut to each arm and they would never be the same again.

Horrified, she flung the knife as far away as she could.


On the fourth day she could see oily shadows moving out of the corner of her eye. Every moving thing flickered and jumped like a badly-edited film; looking out the window or even her phone was unbearable.

The next few hours were spent trying to sleep. She asked the cleaning maid for Nyquil and laid on the couch, completely strung out for what felt like eternity, her thoughts too fast to even dwell on anything. Her entire body tingled unpleasantly – so many times she felt hooked insect legs creeping on her skin; she had bolted up in panic, running her hands frantically over the crawling sensations, finding nothing. The ceiling fluidly pulsated to whatever song her speakers played. This is why you get two-hundred-thousand-grand speakers, she thought, so you can enjoy the fuck out of them when you're high.

The tinny ringing of the cordless phone in the foyer didn't really register until it became too loud to be something from her hallucinations. She didn't move any of her tense muscles until she heard the elevator ping. Startled, she clenched her teeth – an unfortunate nervous habit – and recoiled at the sudden sting at the edge of her tongue, followed by the metallic taste of blood.

More stinging. Her hands were on her sides, but her face was smarting. A hand was slapping her cheek.

"Becky." Slap, slap. "Becky!"

Well, she definitely wasn't hallucinating this. "Fuck off, Luke," she groaned, finally opening her glassy eyes. The Brit was hovering over her, visibly upset; it quickly changed into anger when she tried to sit up.

"Fuck you!" He straightened, dumping a heavy duffel bag onto her knees in irritation. Beca didn't even blink at the dead weight. "The maids said you were gonna overdose, you lousy wanker!"

"That would have been exciting."

"Christ, Becky. What the bloody fuck are you on?" Luke sank to the floor next to her, one hand massaging the bridge of his nose as he scrutinized the contents of the coffee table. He grimaced upon seeing the pills. He then roughly seized her face, checking for nose burn as she feebly struggled to pull away. "Speed? Just speed?"

"Yeah, so leave me alone."

"You asshole. Not answering anybody for several days? Not fucking cool, mate!"

Beca didn't answer, opting instead to shake off Luke's bag from her knees as she closed her eyes again. 'Future Starts Slow' was playing – one of her absolute favorite tracks by The Kills. She had met Jamie Hines once. The guitarist had proceeded to call her music high trash. But she hardly felt offended – the man may be unpleasant, but he and Alison Mosshart made extraordinary music, and it scares her that none of her own tracks might ever compare to 'Magazine' or 'U.R.A. Fever'...

The sharp crack of Luke's palm as it smacked her in the face again brought her rudely to her senses. "What the fuck?" she yelled, ignoring the fact that each word only further gouged her painful throat. "Why are you even here? What the fuck do you want from me?"

Luke exhaled. "Keegan relocated me."

Well, shit.

Unlike Beca, Luke loved LA. He drove to In-N-Out thrice a week, showed off his abs in Malibu whenever he can, even had a doglike enthusiasm for speedy car rides in Beca's Ferrari. His Saturdays were rooftop bars and Lakers games while checking out celebrity patrons like Alessandra Ambrosio and David Beckham; his Sundays were farmers' markets and the Rose Bowl.

Beca and Keegan had previously agreed that Luke did not have to move with her to accomplish his PR duties. There was only one reason Keegan would change his mind.

"Fuck." Beca sat up, immediately feeling lightheaded. "Dude, no. I'll talk to him."

Luke shook his head. "It's cool. I was gonna suggest it, anyway. And I get to move back and forth for Emily." He clapped a hand to her shoulder resignedly, shaking it a bit. After his initial violent reaction, Beca realized he was actually relieved. "I thought you were dead. Nobody knew where you were. Stacie was crying and all, mate."

Thinking of Stacie made her chest hurt. "Sorry, dude. I'm fine, aren't I?"

"It would have sucked having to write your obituary, you massive thundercunt."

"Aww, you love me."

"Screw you. You look like shit." Luke surveyed her sunken eyes with mild concern. "How long have you been awake?"

"I dunno," she croaked. "I took Adderall last…"

"The last time we talked before you decided to fall off the face of the fucking earth? That was four days ago." Luke got up and went to the kitchen; Beca barely noticed until he was back again, this time with a glass of orange juice. "Jesus, Becky, you'd die if it wasn't for me. Drink up."

Beca did her best to force down half of the contents. The juice managed to bring some semblance of warmth to her fingertips; she was also finally sure Luke was not just a figment of her imagination.

"Good to see you."

"Don't throw any parades, it's just orange juice," he huffed, his ears turning red nonetheless. "You need to sleep. Nyquil?"

"I've had a couple. It's not working."

"Best if you work that out in bed." Luke helped her up, slinging her arm over his shoulders and half-dragging her towards the stairs. They reached her bedroom with much difficulty; Beca was only able to tell they were there when Luke bodily deposited her on top on the sheets. He tucked the covers haphazardly around her and then proceeded to pull down the blinds.

Beca watched him with a twinge of fondness. Knowing he was here, watching over her and everything else, finally gave her mind the reprieve she didn't know she needed.

"Lukey."

"Mmm?"

"Don't tell Stacie," she murmured, already slipping into unconsciousness.


Loud bass woke her up from a dreamless sleep.

"Oh my god, Jude Law totally keeps texting me. I'll probably meet him later."

"Yeah, I bet you're really gonna hesitate on that one."

"Bitch, you're just jealous."

"Suck my dick."

"You did text him, like, fifty times."

"Why are we watching this?" Luke complained, just as Beca recognized the song: Azealia Banks' 212, a trashy earworm of a club song that seemed to automatically incite shameless grinding in every valley girl. "I see this scene all the time in real life."

"Shut up," came another voice, one so alarmingly close Beca's cheek vibrated with the words. "Beca loves this song, I love skanky Emma Watson, you're mooching my popcorn..."

Beca froze.

That was Stacie.

No – this was Stacie. She was fucking resting her head in Stacie's chest.

"You know Becky totally stammered in front of Emma Watson, right?"

"No shit," Stacie gasped. "She already met Emma Watson? Where?"

"Some dinner in LA a couple months ago. James invited Becky and me, and it turns out he and Emma Watson are chums too. They were together in that end of the world movie. Anyway, we get seated across Emma Watson and Becky is completely spazzing out. Then, in the middle of dinner, Emma Watson offers this rascal more wine. You know what she says?"

"What?"

"'English is not my first language'!"

"That is not how it went at all!" Beca cried, getting up and upsetting Stacie's bowl of popcorn. "And you," she glowered at Luke, "I told you not to tell Stacie!"

"You're an avoider, Becky," Luke chastised, quickly rushing to collect the popcorn off the sheets. "What were you gonna do, hole up here forever? Besides, someone had to watch you. Stacie was up for it."

"You really have to say Emma Watson's full name again and again, you weirdo? Emma, Luke. I charmed her pants off with that joke. We're on a first-name basis now."

"Damn. The doctor said you were dehydrated, but you seem to have bumped your head too." He put the popcorn bowl safely out of reach and pushed her back down on the bed. "Don't move too much, you'll pull it out."

She looked down and spotted an IV wire protruding from her wrist. "How long was I out?"

"Two days."

She turned to Stacie, who had been unusually quiet throughout the whole exchange; the taller brunette wasn't looking at her. Beca was appalled to hear her sniffling.

"Stace?"

She only managed a choked sob.

"I'm sorry," Beca mumbled. She reached out on her own accord, her own tears falling as she held her best friend tightly. "Don't cry, dude, it's all good now. I'm sorry."

"I waited," she replied brokenly.

"I know." Beca kissed her forehead. "I'll make it up to you."

"You'll sleep with me?"

Beca snorted. "No."

"Oh yeah, get it on," Luke said in a bored tone, watching them from his armchair while smugly eating popcorn. "You're already on the bed and all."

"Gross."

"We can do it on that sweet tub in your bathroom," Stacie wheedled, one hand unexpectedly squeezing Beca's left breast; she yelped and pushed her off. Stacie, however, hugged her again. "Fuck, Beca. I won't judge if hookers and blow are your thing, but you really took it too far this time."

Beca said nothing, just stroked her hair while eyeing Luke.

"You're burned out, Beca," he said quietly. "We think you should go to rehab. Or therapy –"

"Not now, Luke!" Stacie snarled, breaking free of Beca's grasp to face him angrily. "For a nationality so famous for manners, you have the worst fucking timing –"

"We have to suss this out now! She's gonna be stretched to breaking point with all those concerts next quarter –"

"It is always fucking business with you! My friend almost died –"

"Our friend, Stacie. It's exactly why she needs this, okay? She –"

"I'm not going to rehab."

Both of them fell silent at Beca's firm tone. Now having their attention, she continued. "I'm not getting therapy either. I know I sound like I'm in denial, but I just...I need some time to figure out my shit. How I'm gonna do it is another story entirely, but it's not gonna start with me zoning out on Xanax while being cooped up in some fancy wellness spa."

Unfortunately, they seemed unconvinced – particularly Luke, who was pinching the bridge of his nose again, a dead giveaway whenever he was stressed. "These people are professionals, Becky. They can really help you."

"I'm sure. But this is fine. Having you here is fine." She leaned back on the pillows. "I just want to feel normal, okay?"

"Becky –"

"Then start acting like it!" Stacie interrupted, voice now raised in frustration. "Lay off the coke, be sober at least three times a week, stop jet-setting away from whatever fucking demons you have. Focus on your fucking self, Beca! Be that person you were a year ago, when Luke and I didn't have to babysit you all the time!"

Beca's eyes were stinging again. Stunned, she glanced from Stacie's tearstained face, to Luke's stony expression.

"Fuck."

She gripped her hair with both hands, unable to look at them anymore. They were putting up with her. And all this time she thought they were also having the time of their lives. "You...you both feel this way?"

"No," Luke muttered limply. "I don't –

"What did I tell you on your interview, Lucas?"

"Call it as I see it. Right." Luke swallowed uneasily at her icy tone. "I run a script on your mobile to keep your GPS tracker on all the time," he admitted. "It's just…less messy, especially when you're out of town. Those local gals that drive you home when you're wasted in Majorca or Santorini or wherever? Now you know they don't magically appear, mate."

And Beca knew better than ask Stacie – all the recent instances she had to fly out to LA was mostly due to Beca's pigheadedness. That time she crashed her motorcycle on Pacific Coast Highway, that time she had a nervous breakdown after almost getting caught in possession of cocaine, that time she was charged with assault for punching the asshole who tore into Cynthia Rose for being a 'nigger', that time she had the worst hangover after her LA farewell party – Stacie was there. Regardless of time, distance, and personal expense, Stacie would drop everything and appear by her side to bail her out, watch her in the hospital, wrestle her to bed. Beca never even had to ask.

Stacie finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry," she whispered, like all the fight had gone out of her. "It's harsh, but you need to hear this from us. You only ever listen to us."

She could hardly trust herself to speak. Her mind was straining to catch up with all the painful emotions clawing at her chest. If she even tried to open her mouth, what was there to say? Sorry for being selfish? Luke and Stacie were way past apologies now. They had to see her do something. She had to do something.

"Give me a month," she heard herself plead. "I honestly don't know what I'm doing anymore, and you're probably tired of dealing with my crap, but…I can still turn this around."

Stacie and Luke exchanged glances, and it broke Beca's heart even more that they couldn't take her word as it is anymore, even when she was asking for so little. They had formed their own alliance – to save her from her self-perpetuated downward spiral, that much was obvious; but also, to doubt her.

Luke sighed. "She'd still be on holiday next month, Stace. It's her best chance at a clean slate."

At this, Stacie's gray eyes bored on Beca's intently. "Do what you have to. But if you still haven't got your act together after one month, I'm checking you into rehab myself...and there will be nothing wacky or sexual about it."

Beca nodded.

"Good." Stacie clutched the back of her neck. Pressed their foreheads together, the way they did during Beca's wildest gigs at Tomorrowland or Electric Daisy Carnival – after they've both dropped acid, the music is at its peak, and the girls are all over them but they just don't care because they're living the life together and they're best mates and nothing can tear their bond apart. "I'll never fucking tire of dealing with you, babe. I just have to see you try."

"I hear you," she answered, willing herself not to cry again. "I won't let you down."


Songs used in this chapter:

The Strokes - I'll Try Anything Once

Joy Division - Isolation

Film Luke and Stacie were watching: Sofia Coppola's The Bling Ring

I swear it only gets better after this. I actually wrote jokes, people. Hang in there!