None of us learned to keep a house.
We always had someone there, paid to do it for us.
At boarding school, we were expected to keep our space neat, but that was all.
I learned to care for myself in college.
Liam and Adam too.
But Bash?
Somehow, he always knew. He took it upon himself. He wanted to care for the people he loved.
Emotionally.
And practically.
The way I would. That's what he always said. I know you can sear a steak, Simon. But can you sear your heart?
I'd tell him his metaphor made no sense.
He'd find another.
He'd find a million ways to tell me I needed to open my heart.
He had his flaws. Plenty of them.
But he was more vibrant and bright and alive than anyone.
More in love with love.
Usually, I curse the concept for what it did to him.
Today, I understand.
Today, I stop and feel it.
A little at first. Between sips of coffee and bites of crumb cake—Trish insists. When I take my eyes off my shoes to watch waves crash into the cliffside.
When the light in the ballroom catches the chandelier and I hear his laugh in my ears, as vividly as ever.
Trish fixes a fancy meal. Agrees to my arrangements for Opal. My messages for my brothers.
After dinner, I sit on the lawn outside, watching the sun sink into the ocean, letting memories of Bash overwhelm me.
After two hours in the dark, I go to his room.
Even though he rarely used it—he and Liam went to an all-boys boarding school with much stricter weekend leave policies than the school Vanessa and I attended—
Even though he hasn't lived here for years—
The room is Bash.
All lush fabrics and vibrant colors.
As headstrong and romantic as Bash.
He's gone.
He's gone, forever, and he's never coming back.
It hits me again.
Again.
Not the massive waves that threatened to grind me to sand, the ones I felt after the news.
Or the small ones I tried to dam.
Something in between.
Something I can't block anymore.
I lie on his bed, and I put on his favorite album, and I let it wash over me.
A little at a time.
Then all at once.
Chapter Forty-Four
SIMON
For days, I play Bash's old CDs, watch his DVDs in the home theater, flip through his barely touched collection of books.
For a romantic, he wasn't much of a reader.
Only poetry. Because it was short and sweet and as intense as he was.
I find the poetry book I gave him as a graduation present.
I read every single line.
The sweet sonnets. The odes to love. The erotic.
The pages are worn, dog-eared, covered in scribbles.
Not notes on the poems themselves.
His own lines.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I prefer slant rhymes
And going down on you
Silly and sexual and loving all the same.
I close my eyes, but that doesn't stem the tears or the memories.
The first time he confessed he was in love.
The night he laid outside, in the stars, heartbroken because a woman left him.
The morning he told me he was sleeping with a married woman.
I know you'll never approve, Simon, but I need you to understand.
I love her.
Not the way I've loved anyone else.
More.
So much I can taste it.
The birthday party he spent with two concerns.
Meeting Celine after.
And convincing me to fuck Vanessa.
Keep staring, Simon. I need another twenty. I already have Adam's cash. He bet you'd look for thirty seconds. He believes in your restraint. Liam? Not so much. Said a lot I shouldn't repeat.
I know, I know.
You stare because she's gorgeous.
Because she's beautiful.
Because she's sexy, and you want her long legs wrapped around your waist.
And probably some fucked-up politically incorrect shit I won't ask you to face.
But that's all bullshit.
Not the assessment.
Vanessa is all kinds of gorgeous. And she's smart and powerful.
What's sexier than a smart woman?
And, yes, you're staring because you want to see her dress on your floor.
But you're staring because you want to see her wake up in your bed too.
Because you want her and you need her and you love her.
I teased him about it. Told him he was drunk. Drunk on champagne, not love.
He was wrong—I didn't love Vanessa yet.
But he was right too—I wanted her in every way and that scared me.
And I didn't resist her because she hated me.
Or because she frustrated me by besting me again and again.
Then, I was young and immature.
Now, I appreciate the challenge. The way she made me better.
She still does.
In a million ways.
And the one way Bash did.
I wouldn't be here if he hadn't asked for this promise.
I wouldn't be here if she hadn't torn me open.
Now that we've agreed not to tell lies, let's make a deal. It's my birthday. You owe me. I don't care that I'm twenty-five and old enough to not expect presents.
I learned this from you, Simon.
Playing all the cards I have.
And I know you.
Duty-bound until the end.
So how about it?
Promise me you'll try. Give Vanessa one night.