Moving On

NY Chatter

The New Liam

Calling all Hendersluts!

It looks like our boy has finally outgrown his party phase and could be looking to settle down.

Liam Henderson has flown under the radar for several months now, following the early conclusion of his European tour, and has hardly been spotted out in the public eye since he checked himself into an East Hampton rehab center in April.

Sources close to the rock star claim that Liam has been taking the time to focus on himself. Looks like the hard work has been paying off!

His latest album, ~Tainted Reflection~, which was released just last month, has been sitting comfortably at the top of the Billboard 200 chart for three weeks now without any sign of stepping down.

While the entire world anticipated an exposé on his breakup with rising artist Freya Coleman, the golden king of rock provided no such tell-all.

~Tainted Reflection~ instead focuses on Liam’s apparent struggle with alcoholism and mental health issues.

If you haven’t checked out Liam’s new album, we strongly suggest you grab three boxes of tissues and get listening!

Do you think Liam is ready for a new leading lady? Comment below!

Comments:

rock_nrollgrl_32: could he be any hotter? 😍

hrtbeats_chick_45: seriously do not listen to this album unless you are emotionally stable…i cried for days

OG_henderslut: *sigh* …marry me please and thank you

Lady_of_the_lake_90: I always knew she’d be good for him!

espressoenthusiast_1234: just listened…like dayummm he’s rlly been thru it 😨

dolphn_lvr_4lyfe_04: omfg thank u freya coleman!

FREYA

“Up next, we have Liam Henderson’s title track from his newest album, ~Tainted Reflection~,” said the DJ’s voice over the coffee shop speakers.

~Please, no. Not again.~

Despite the seven months that I’d been away, I still felt the sharp pang of anxiety every time I heard his name.

I set my phone down on the countertop and anxiously searched the contents of my purse for my earbuds.

~Shit. I didn’t bring them.~

I glanced back up to the barista, who was in the middle of making my latte, and watched anxiously as he fumbled with the espresso machine.

~Come on.~

Any time I heard his name, all of the days and weeks and months that I’d spent diligently trying to make my memories fade were for nothing.

Hearing his voice was worse.

As much as I tried to maintain a wall to keep him out of the new life I’d built for myself in Amsterdam, I still couldn’t keep him from seeping through the cracks.

The first chords of ~Tainted Reflection~ strummed across the radio airwaves, stirring the dormant, sickening feeling in my gut.

“Cherry lipsticks, stiletto heels

They all served their purpose

Beautiful faces, empty feels

Distractions from reflective surfaces”

~I can’t do this.~

Tears clouded my vision as I turned and ran from the café, not bothering to wait for my latte.

As I ran through the streets of Amsterdam, all too aware of the memories that they invoked, I berated myself for choosing to live in the one place that would forever hold such scathingly beautiful memories.

~I moved here to paint~, I often told myself.

~I moved here to focus on me.~

And yet, even through the success I’d seen in the past several months and the fact that I awoke daily feeling proud of myself that my dreams hadn’t wandered back to him…

I couldn’t remove his presence from my paintings.

I found myself painting the geometric pattern inside of his eyes or the contours of his face in almost everything.

It was a frustratingly unbreakable habit.

So much so that I’d purposely avoided using the color gold entirely for a few months.

But with one of my most recent works, the one that I’d labored over for months and quite nearly poured my entire soul into, I finally decided to embrace the mental image forever burned into my mind.

~Beastly Lights.~

It was my greatest achievement artistically and had sold just the previous week for twice what I had made on all of my other works combined.

I should have been thrilled.

But the more I thought about parting with it, with the closest thing I had to a piece of ~him~, the more anxious I felt.

I stormed through the doors of Onbekend, hardly attempting to rein in my hysteria.

“Freya?” came Aleida’s startled voice as she caught sight of me through the window in her husband’s office.

“Where is it?” I blurted out, brushing the nearly dried tears from my face.

I stopped before the wall where my painting had hung for the past month.

It was empty.

“~Beastly Lights~—what have you done with it?” I demanded, spinning around to face Aleida.

“It—” Aleida paused, scanning my face. “It shipped out this morning,” she said finally.

“I want it back.”

No—I ~needed~ it back… Whether to keep the feelings painted into it to myself, or to destroy it, I wasn’t sure.

“Freya,” Aleida replied, “it’s gone.”

“It can’t be gone,” I shot back, instantly feeling guilty for my abrasive tone. “Tell them I changed my mind.”

“I can’t—it’s—it’s too late,” she said, frowning. “The buyer was anonymous. You know that.”

I pictured my painting on someone else’s wall.

The raw emotion etched into every inch of the canvas.

The piece of myself that I knew I could never replicate.

And it would be nothing more than a decoration for some stranger’s home. A source of conversation at dinner parties, perhaps.

My life—my heart—reduced to an anecdote.

LIAM

~Take responsibility for your actions, and fix whatever is in your power.~

It was the latest challenge from Doctor Kumur, my therapist, who was slowly whipping me into shape session by session.

I was three and a half months sober.

Meditating daily and practicing mindfulness.

Learning how to manage my anger issues.

It hadn’t been an overnight transformation, and I was certainly still working on becoming someone I could actually be proud of.

But three and a half months earlier, staring into the depths of my toilet, my shaking hands gripping to the sides of the ceramic bowl for dear life, I’d made a decision.

I would no longer be a slave to my own impulses.

I stared out of my massive living room window into the depths of New York City.

I was quite literally on top of the world, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I was starting to feel like it too.

“What’s up, brother?”

My head snapped around as Jeb sauntered into my living room.

His hair was pulled up into a bun on the top of his head, which typically meant that he was already fucked up or on his way to being in that state soon.

“Jesus, dude, where have you been?” he added, heading straight to the liquor cabinet. “So, we finally partying tonight or what? I’ve got my guy coming through in an hour and he can get us pretty much anything.”

I continued to stare out into the beautiful New York sunset, feeling a sense of satisfaction overwhelming me.

I’d been putting it off for months, but he was making it much easier than I’d imagined.

“Bro,” Jeb exclaimed, peering into the cabinet, which was completely empty. “You’re still on that sobriety bullshit?”

I turned around slowly, smiling. “I am—yeah.”

“Great, so I’m going out with Nancy fucking Reagan tonight?” Jeb rolled his eyes, digging into his pockets for a cigarette.

“No,” I replied. “I’m not going out with you.”

Jeb smirked, lighting his cigarette. “Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

“I just thought it would be better for me to tell you in person,” I replied.

“Tell me what?” Jeb took a long drag and plopped down onto the couch with disinterest.

“That you’re out of the band,” I replied coolly.

“Ha-fucking-ha,” he scoffed.

“I’m serious.”

He studied me for a moment, searching for some sort of a tell, and then I watched the realization play out across his face.

Disbelief turned to shock, then shock to rage.

Jeb pressed the lit end of his cigarette into the leather couch, snuffing it out, then flicked it in disgust onto the floor.

“You know you can’t do that,” he said quietly, standing suddenly. “I have a goddamn contract.”

“I can, actually,” I said, crossing my arms. “Harri agrees. You’re out.”

His shoulders tensed ever so slightly as he contemplated believing me.

“Oh! I see how it is,” he spat back, raising his voice. “You think because you’re King Dick around here you can call all of the shots?”

He was standing mere feet away from me now, his eyes boring into mine with venom. “Still not how it works, you fucking whining ~bitch~. My contract was for five years. So go fuck yourself.”

I smiled, absorbing his insults.

Honestly, I’d expected worse.

“Well, see—here’s the thing about ~that~…” I replied, refusing to break eye contact. “Actually, Mase, could you help me out here?”

The office door swung open and Mason walked into the living room with a briefcase.

“I’d be happy to,” he replied, crossing the room to take a seat on the couch, then carefully opening the case to extract a massive stack of papers.

“After reviewing said contract, I came across Clause 27F, Article Three, which I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Mason flipped several pages into the packet before locating the one he was looking for. “Ah, here it is.”

Jeb’s gaze flickered uncertainly between Mason and me.

“I’ve gone ahead and highlighted the lines that pertain to this case so you can read them for yourself,” Mason continued. “That is—assuming you can…read?”

I stifled a laugh.

“You sonofa—” Jeb growled.

“Essentially, it states that if all other band members, ~and~ the band’s manager, agree upon the removal of a singular member, then said member can, in fact, be removed.”

Jeb snatched the contract, his eyes widening as he read the highlighted portion. “But Wyatt would never—”

“Apparently, he would,” I interjected. “Turns out he’s less of an asshole when I’m less of a drunk.”

Jeb began tearing through the pages like a madman, his hands trembling.

“This article, of course, supersedes contract duration, as referenced in Clause 9A,” Mason added, smiling. “I highlighted that as well.”

“I need…to call my…” Jeb murmured to himself, clenching the paper so tightly that I was sure it would tear.

Without another word, Jeb stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

“I miss him already,” Mason mused, cracking a smile. He turned to me. “Seriously though…thank you for doing that.”

“No—thank you,” I replied, sticking out my hand to shake his.

Though we hadn’t spoken much in the past few months, I couldn’t help but notice how different Mason seemed these days.

He was much more confident, more put together—the symptoms of sobriety.

It occurred to me that maybe Mason and I had more in common than I’d ever thought.

And maybe, like me, he was missing her too…

I couldn’t help myself.

“How is she?” I asked quietly, dropping my eyes.

Mason sighed, turning to pack up his briefcase. “She’s good. Happy, I think.”

~She’s happy.~

It was all I needed to hear.

If Freya could be happy—if she could move on with her life—then maybe I could too.

I hoped so.

Once Mason had gone, I sat alone in my living room, mindlessly strumming the chorus of the song I’d been too afraid to add to my album.

It wasn’t for the world to hear. It was just for ~her~.

There was a certain level of tragedy in the fact that Freya would never hear it.

Luce

How would you feel about playing a charity concert next week? Proceeds go toward Alzheimer’s research.

Liam

where?

Luce

Berlin

Luce

It’s a pop-up show and their headliner just backed out.

Luce

It would look really great for you

Liam

I need to think about it

Luce

Just let me know by tomorrow.

Liam

👌

I set the phone down, staring back out the window at the cityscape.

~Berlin.~

I hadn’t been since the tour.

In fact, I’d tried to avoid Europe as much as possible, though I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the painful memories, or out of fear that I would try to see her.

That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

I wondered what Freya would do if she heard about the show; Berlin wasn’t far from Amsterdam, after all.

And according to the tabloid magazines that seemed to take pleasure out of destroying my life, she’d been living there for months now.

Painting.

Thriving.

Would she come to see me?

~Yeah, right.~

~Freya moved to another continent to get away from me.~

And yet, I couldn’t help but weigh the slightest of possibilities.

What if she did?