ARE WE HUMAN?

Jamie swallows hard and tries desperately to think of something to say. But what can he? Genevieve said it herself: she didn’t want his sympathy, and no amount of apologies from him ( or anyone, for that matter ) could give her back what she lost.

Despite her earlier warning, he does feel sorry for her. Her entire world was taken from her, not so simply lost, as his. Jamie could play music again, if he just had the courage to pick an instrument up. Genevieve couldn’t even dance if she tried. He feels guilty, suddenly, for the choices he’s made. That’s what they are, after all: choices. Genevieve was not awarded the same luxury as he.

“Yeah, I guess it did,” Jamie concedes, but he doesn’t know if it’s for her sake or his own. Passion got him somewhere, once. Made him happy. Gave him a purpose. Without it, of course, he’s been utterly lost. Life seems to merely pass by him now, just days on a calendar.

Jamie looks at her, really looks at her, searching her face for an answer to his question. 

“But what do we have now?”

He supposes Rob’s gives him a purpose. He keeps it open because that’s what the old man wanted– what he trusted him to do– but mostly, selfishly, it’s just a reason to get up in the morning. A means to an end. He isn’t sure what the end is. Fucking dying, probably. Right here in Devinstone, where he started. 

He takes another drink.

“I mean–” he tries again, offers her the bottle of whiskey– “what are you going to do now?”

Taking the bottle back from him is a bad idea. In fact, staying here at all is a bad idea. She hardly knows Jamie outside of his annoyingly close proximity to the few people in town she can call her friends. There’s still a mortifying possibility that he could throw all her insecurities right back at her once the fog clears and they’ve come out of their funk.

But Genevieve can’t find herself to feel worried. Letting her walls down just leaves her feeling... tired. The liquor might be partly to blame, but Genevieve still takes his words and weighs it heavily in her mind. What do they have? This town, and whatever’s washed up on its shore just like them. There’s no glory to be found in Devinstone — not for her, anyway. 

“I thought about teaching dance — long ago, before everything fell to shit,” she admits, the confession surprising even herself. “It’s so ridiculous. Now, I’m going to do... abso-lute-ly nothing. It’s fitting, isn’t it? I am nothing, therefore I do nothing — I’m sure some old, mon-monoymous philosopher has said that before.” Okay, she’s officially drunk too much. Best to stop before she starts trying to do sloppy pirouettes. 

She takes another sip, as though more alcohol can drown out the words she’s already said out loud, and then holds the treacherous bottle back out to him. “At least I don’t have to work. Must be horrible, if you have to drink to get through the days.” She was admittedly a little jealous of Jamie; he had something in his life that was still his own, even if it was just a shoddy little record store. What did she have aside from her bitterness? 

genevieve drake + social media | instagram.

Refuses to hand control of her socials over to her father’s campaign team. While Genevieve does run everything by them first to make sure it “fits the Drake image,” everything is posted personally by her. Before moving back home to Devinstone, her feed was filled with nothing but shots of her from the dance studio. While the NYC Ballet Company posted immaculate snapshots of Genevieve in dancer regalia, her own personal feed was filled with piles of ruined slippers and bloody toes. Now with all the free time in the world, she’s been forced to diversify her feed. Her father’s team refuses to let her disparage her hometown online, so she doesn’t put much effort into the captions at all if she can’t let her true thoughts shine through. But as much as she does claim to despise Devinstone, Genevieve does take the time to promote locally-owned businesses she is admittedly fond of, wanting to help out the few people she doesn’t actively loathe that much. She does have a bit of internet clout thanks to her high-profile family and all the years she spent with NYCBC, but she doesn’t actually think much of internet fame. 

Geogie didn’t know what was the other woman’s rush into getting on the ride as fast as she was, but she decided not to question things as much anymore. Following along, she got on the car next to the other, pulling the safety bar down over them, “if you keep on shaking the cart, we probably won’t be all that safe. I said to myself I wasn’t going to ask, but are you okay?”

“Don’t I look okay?” Genevive clearly didn’t — no well-adjusted adult would have been that eager to get on a children’s ride. “I’m just trying to avoid someone, and if I have to be a hundred feet in the air then so be it.” Right as she said that, their car began rolling up. Most likely it was because the person starting the ride got sick and tired of hearing Genevieve whine, but Genevieve liked to think it was because of her sheer will. “I wasn’t going to ask because I don’t really care, but were you planning on riding this alone?” The question was innocent, but the tone was more than a tad judgemental. As if Genevieve had any right to be, but that never stopped her.

“I just happened to be having a fashion nightmare.” Riva chuckled, “Your nicotine urge is welcome.” She beamed before she then tilted her head, “Yes, I don’t intend to start up on that. Again. It’s been years, and I don’t want to get sucked back into that.” The blonde wasn’t about to shatter a good few years without a smoke for a couple of minutes behind a carnival tent with someone she knew only by face, “Gum sounds great.” She replied and beamed, “Are you–?” She started, hoping Genevieve would cut her off and nod, knowing that she was asking whose daughter she was.

Genevieve dug into her dress pocket to fish out her pack of gum, right before tossing it over to the blonde. “Save one for me — I don’t intend to quit no matter how horrible my breath smells.”  At least she was aware that it was an ugly habit. Genevieve took pride in the fact that at least she didn’t JUUL — yet, anyway. “Am I what?” she asked with a quirk of her brow, urging her to finish her question. There was never an easy way out with Genevieve. There were many ways that sentence could end: Are you an addict? Are you Chinese? Are you Senator Drake’s bitchy daughter? She’d heard them all.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown indeed. Roo echoes Genevieve’s sigh with a needlessly theatrical one of his very own, watching the girl pass by with a look of thinly veiled disdain. “She should’ve really used the money she’s spent on that corndog to buy a mirror. How on earth can she possibly think it’s socially acceptable to inflict that on us?” It’s unkind, unnecessarily so, yet Roo makes no attempt to withdraw the comment. “Without us, it truly would be like a zoo here. I mean, if you weren’t here, I’d lose my mind. I rely on your refined company to stay sane in this wasteland.” He rests his head on her shoulder, allowing another dramatic sigh to escape. “Don’t ever leave me, okay?”

“Ignorance truly is bliss. I’m kind of jealous — maybe if I was just as self-unaware as her, I’d be happier with living a miserable life.” Just as Genevieve couldn’t stand the town, most of its townspeople despised how stuck-up and callous Senator Drake’s daughter was. Yet it never made a difference in the polls, so she saw no reason to discontinue being a menace to polite society. And it’s not as if being brutally honest was a crime. Rupert was one of the few who understood that, who didn’t think it was abhorrent to behave abhorrently. Besides, nothing they said or did was twice as bad as what some of the townspeople did regularly. “You make it less miserable. Wouldn’t abandon you even if I could — here the hell would I go? You know what it’s like, living a life of very limited options.”

Brandon had just been finishing up with a person suspected of stealing from his own work when he was headed back to his office. He had stopped to talk to a fellow officer, congratulating the officer on a well deserved promotion. As he came down the hall, he was taken off guard by a woman’s voice. He turned on his heel to come face to face with Genevieve. Brandon had grown up knowing of her. Despite her being younger than him, he still knew of her family quite well. He nodded his head as the woman spoke. Clearly, it was important if she was coming to him directly and he didn’t already have an appointment with the woman. 

Grabbing his key from his pocket, he stuck in the handle and opened up the door. “Yeah, of course.” His brow was furrowed as he slipped into his office before her. “Have a seat here,” he offered to her with the gesture of his hand before shutting the door behind them. It seemed like a serious enough manner to close the door. “Is, uh, everything okay?” Most of the time, he did not get caught off guard by the residents of Devinstone coming into the station like this. “And you can just call me, Brandon, please.” Detective Wallace felt stuffy and formal. He hardly used it unless he was working cases in Boston. 

Genevieve quirked a brow at his casual demeanor. It wasn’t as though she had much of a chance to hang out with police officers, but she did expect them to be more formal. “And you can call me Genevieve Drake,” she responded coolly, entering in the room without a second glance back. 

“Look, if everything was “okay” then I wouldn’t be here,” she snapped as she plopped down in a rather undignified manner. Not that being a brat was anything out of the ordinary for her, but it was clear that her words held more nervousness than their usual snark. 

“My father is Senator Steven Drake,” she explained as she pulled the incriminating letter out of her bag and sliding it on the desk. The delivery of that fact didn’t have the usual huff of pride held whenever Genevieve bragged about her impressive family tree. “Which is why I don’t think this is just some stupid prank like some of the other officers might suggest. After all, it’s not the first time someone had it out for my family.” But it was the first time someone targeted her at her house, and that’s what was so significant.

“I got that in my mailbox, in a blank envelope.” It was all she could say, leaving him to discover the threatening words himself: YOU’LL GET WHAT’S COMING, DRAKE. “I don’t know who it’s from — that’s where you come in.” Her hands dug into her bag again, this time fishing out her lighter and a cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked only after she took a drag, filling the office with smoke.

>>>    @devinstonestarters​

“Don’t get me wrong–” the fire-haired girl started, looking at the person next to her, they didn’t ask for this, but since when did a southern girl wait for someone else to start anything? “I love the weather here, it’s like, cool, and breezy, and who would hate this?” Her drawl leached out of every word, “but oh my goodness,  I ain’t ever gonna get used to this tea, this ain’t tea, this is–” She turned her nose up at it, “it’s just– ew.” 

“‘Ew’ is putting it nicely.” The hick wasn’t wrong — Devinstone’s lack of taste leeched even into its beverages. All her tea own tea was imported and made at home — her taste buds deserved only the best. “The coffee is just barely tolerable,” Genevieve quipped as she took a sip of her own soy latte. “Have you tried mixing it with whiskey? It’s the only way I can stand to drink it.”

[ carry ] my muse carries your muse to their house

“You’re such a klutz.” Turns out Saira Sakoung did have flaws. Genevieve could hardly believe it, even as she piggybacked a sand-coated Saira back to her house. Genevieve may have been out of shape for a ballerina — a retired ballerina, but a sudden surge of strength appeared the second she saw Saira trip over a sandcastle on the beach. “Some kid is going to be crushed when he sees the debris Saira-zilla left behind.”

Opening the door took a bit of finagling, but they were soon inside Genevieve’s ridiculously large Cider Hill residence. Genevieve tried not to grunt as she gently set Saira down on the couch. She didn’t even bat an eye at the sand fell off of Saira and onto the expensive furniture — this was Saira, after all, and even the mess she left behind somehow looked impressive.

Years of dancing gave Genevieve her own fair share of twisted ankles, and she didn’t hesitate to prop up Saira’s injured leg and ice it. Genevieve wasn’t happy that her friend got injured, but she glad that there was some kind of opportunity for her to show off her skills to the woman she’d admired for so long.

“It could be worse,” Genevieve said, and that was about as reassuring as she could be. “You can borrow my old crutches, but it’s best if you stay here and rest it for a moment.” It was more of an order than a suggestion, and it did feel a bit weird to be the one bossing Saira around. She couldn’t say she didn’t like it, though.

[ hospital ] my muse awakens in a hospital, finding your muse by their side, asking what happened

The very last thing she expected to see was Saira, all the way in New York and right by her hospital bed. “How the hell did you get in here?” Despite the painful haze her head was in, Genevieve was positive she had told the hospital to only allow family inside her room. Sure, Saira was the older sister Genevieve never had, but she didn’t want anyone but her fathers to see her so broken like this.

Instead of answering her question, Saira begins asking some of her own. Genevieve buries her face into her pillow, unable to face Saira as she tries to block out the noise. The truth was, Genevieve didn’t entirely understand why she was at the hospital either. The doctors explained it multiple times, but it still didn’t make any sense to her. Why was she in a car accident, why had she undergone surgery, why wasn’t she dancing?

“You need to leave, Saira.” Her voice is muffled and watery, but the words are still sharp. “Please, just go.” The tears are hot and angry, burning a saltwater hole into the pillow. She hates Saira for seeing her like this, and she hates herself for being unable to hold herself together.

Suddenly there’s a gentle weight on her back, a soft and comforting reminder that as much as she’d wish, Genevieve was not alone. It said, I’m right here, and I understand. 

[ sleepy ] for my muse to slowly fall alseep on your muse

“Oh look, another dumb bitch got hit by a car.” Genevieve took another sip of her wine, as per the rules of her own K-Drama drinking game. Binging them with Saira had made her somewhat of an expert on every ridiculous trope, and she discovered that they were much more enjoyable when she wasn’t sober. This one was by far Genevieve’s least favorite; the female protagonist’s bangs weren’t flattering and the main love interest was a total dud. She couldn’t help but cheer every time one of them got in a near-death experience and booed so loudly when they survived that Saira’s neighbors could surely hear her. 

But after hours of binge-watching, she’d finally calmed down from her rowdiness. She comfortably laid slumped over Saira’s lap, struggling to keep her eyes open long enough to read the subtitles all the way through. She couldn’t believe Saira managed to convince her to stay over for another episode, but it wasn’t as if she had anything else going on to keep her from staying over.

[ drunk ]  your muse takes care of my very drunk muse 

This was the very last thing her legs deserved after a full day of rehearsal. They screamed out in pain as she knelt down next to Divya by the toilet, aching to get up and walk away from the mess Genevieve got herself into. Yet here she was, pulling Divya’s dark hair out of her face as the fellow dancer emptied her guts into the porcelain bowl.

“You’re so repulsive.” Genevieve’s face scrunched up in disgust as Divya continued to gag. “You’re lucky Tyler isn’t here to see this — I’d break up with you if I were him. Sloppy drunks are so not attractive.”

“His name isn’t—” Whatever Divya was about to say got interrupted by another wave of vomit erupting out of her mouth. Genevieve rolled her eyes up to the bathroom ceiling, trying to look at anything but the grotesque scene right beside her.

After a few more moments of retching, Divya groaned and rested her cheek on the toilet seat, much to Genevieve’s chagrin. “I did not come all the way here just to have you fall asleep on me.” Sure, Genevieve had muscles, but they were still so sore and were not willing to drag Divya’s unconscious ass out of the bathroom. “Seriously, Divya, I’m not fucking around. Get up.”

With some urging and just a little bit of dragging, she finally had Divya tucked into bed with a glass of water in hand and a wastebasket at her bedside. “Drink,” Genevieve ordered, as though she was reprimanding an unruly child. Divya opened her mouth to say something, only to be cut off. “Your breath stinks and I’m not in the mood for your drunken ramblings. The sooner you shut up, the sooner you can go to sleep and the sooner I can take the bubble bath I so dearly deserve.”

It really would have been better for everyone if Althea stayed at home with a bottle or two of liquor, instead of going out when she knew she was terrible at handling her liquor. She was a lightweight, the lightest of them all, a fact she knew very well but one she found easy to ignore when nothing really seemed to matter anymore. It was easy to be a god damn mess when you didn’t care about much; her father would have a heart attack seeing her like this, surely, damaging the good Arnault family name. She really couldn’t blame the other woman, even as she immediately directed her harsh words at her, knowing she wouldn’t have been nearly as happy if their roles were reversed. Still, she simply took it, not able to find it in herself to fight. She merely rolled her eyes as the other woman instead directed her attention to the bartender and she kneeled down, carefully beginning to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass. “Not a single person cares for your unwelcome quips right now,” she pointed out, trying to keep herself balanced and focused on the glass as she gathered all the small pieces in one hand. “Get a drink in you, loosen up and perhaps, you’d be a bit more tolerable.”

There also wasn’t a single person who cared to be around a sloppy drunk, yet here Genevieve was, acting like the worst Patron Saint of Drunk Girls. “I’m not looking for life advice from someone who can’t literally and figuratively hold her liquor,” Genevieve said. Why was she even bothering to argue with a woman who looked so far gone? It wasn’t like Genevieve didn’t get the appeal of drinking so much she forgot her name. She just knew to stay classy and kept her sloppiness within the confines of her stupidly large house. “Or from someone who’s about to cut herself on glass. Stop picking those up before you bleed everywhere.” The sooner Genevieve could dump her off with whomever she came with, the better. But everyone around them seemed to either be pointedly ignoring them or unable to look away from the wreckage. No one stepped up to claim this mess, leaving Genevieve feeling responsible to clean it up. She may not have been a nice person, but she wasn’t so vile she’d leave a vulnerable woman alone at a bar. “God, don’t tell me you came here alone.”

“Absolutely not –I haven’t been in this town long enough to be considered a spokesperson for anythin’.” The brunette let out a good natured laugh. “Except maybe my business, but that’s besides the point.” Lucy’d never been fond of being a spokesperson or influencer –been there, done that. “Bull –If that dad can fit on it to accompany his kids,” she continued, gesturing to the man and his two children, “then we certainly can.”

“Let me guess — you’re in the television business?” That accent. There was no way she hadn’t heard it before, and now she finally remembered where. Genevieve had spent many Monday nights in New York mocking it during ritualistic Bachelor viewings. Her mouth curved into a wicked grin, brimming with glee now that she knew the town rumor about the presence a former reality TV star was true. Things just got interesting, and she wanted to see how things played out. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’m curious to see which horse you’ll give that rose to.”

Make no mistake, he’s not here on his own volition. Consider it a peace offering – to keep himself in the clear, even if only for a little while. Mia’s somewhere near getting food for them – only after he tried, to the best of his abilities, to explain that he just couldn’t talk to anyone here. So, while he waits, he’s tucked away nearby in a corner of a tent with a cigarette in hand. The present pounding in his chest elevates when he sees Genevieve Drake–his biggest fucking fan–nearing and he makes a silent prayer that she makes a detour or at very least is looking for someone else in his general direction. But she stops, he’s shit out of luck, and she speaks. Nausea begins to gnaw at him while he lurks behind an impassive stare. “Freak show had an openin’ – a job is a job, y’ know? Talkin’ ‘bout openins’, our two-faced man dropped out if you’re interested.”

— a job is a job, y’know? Genevieve couldn’t say that she did. The only real job she ever had was being a dancer for the NYCBC, and it wasn’t as though she needed the salary. And she still didn’t, and thank god she could shield her uselessness with her parents’ money because she had no idea what she’d do. She just spent her days wandering through Devinstone and terrorizing those who actually worked for a living. “Can’t imagine why you’d think I’d be interested in parading around with you in this dump,” she responded coolly. “Also can’t imagine why else you’d be here — not that I spend my time trying to.”

“tacky? i would not go for that word. maybe… extremely traumatizing for every kid who would walk around your corpse would be more fitting.” alessandra thought out loud as they walked around groups of children and families. “if i were you, i’d wait until we stuffed our faces with all the food they sell before dropping dead! i’m not walking out of the gates without my giant pretzel. i heard they have ones that are sprinkled with cinnamon! that’s exciting! see? another reason to keep living!” the more talked, but more she probably made her friend want to run away, but she did not realize that just yet. “never ever? you’ve never had one? well, today is the day you life improves drastically. i might have zero skill in anything at all, but i will get you that unicorn.” she linked her arm with her gin’s and walked towards the stand she was talking about. “i might have tiny brain cells with no coordination whatsoever, but i’m sure i can make this one work. for you, i will! we’re not leaving until i get you that white and lilac unicorn right there.” as she pointed the designated toy, she did sound very hopeful for someone who never attemped to try any of the games they had around. “darts and balloons. should not be too hard, don’t you think?” 

"I think watching you run on a sugar high would be even more traumatizing. You’d be a menace.” At this rate, Genevieve was certain she stay alive solely because Sandrine could manage to talk Death out of taking her into the afterlife. The little chatterbox manages to steamroll over most of Genevieve’s prepped barbs, though she does her best to get a few in when she can. Sandrine’s earnest eagerness and enthusiasm is both nauseating and endearing. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone’s talented at something — maybe you just have a knack for making noise, whether it’s by talking or popping balloons.” She nudges Sandrine towards the booth and hands the attendant a stack of bills. “I have faith in you, kiddo.”