“Are you moving?” I asked when the elevator doors opened.
He spun around, seeming startled at my voice. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I can’t keep drowning in it, you know?” He meant the grief.
And yeah. I knew. Most days it felt like I was suffocating.
He’d dyed his blond hair dark brown and let his beard grow out to a rugged scruff. He looked like hell.
“Going to LA,” he said, although I didn’t ask.
My heart broke all over again.
I came here because I knew if anyone understood my pain, it would be him. Now he was leaving, and I had no one to share my grief with, no one who understood.
I was alone… again.
He walked across the room, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his charcoal gray sweatpants. “You were good for her.” His blue eyes shined with unshed tears.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So were you.”
He shook his head. “Maybe once. Not anymore.” He blew out a small breath and smiled to himself. “I used to sing to her all the time when she was little. She fucking loved that shit.” His smile grew. “We’d make up our own words depending on what we were doing. Stupid shit like,the bubbles in my bath get big and bigger, big and bigger, big and bigger—instead ofthe wheels on the bus. When she’d fall down and look up at me with these big, wide eyes, I’d just saytoughen up, soldier,and she never cried.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and raked it through his hair. “She never fucking cried.”
I didn’t bother with things like etiquette or all the things my parents drilled into my head over the years about appearances. This man was in pain. He was hurting more than I was.
I took a step forward and circled my arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug.
We stayed like that as the seconds ticked by in silence. We stood there as two people who shared the same broken heart. Until finally, I inhaled a deep breath and let him go.
“Take care of yourself, Tatum,” he said as he stepped away from me. His blue eyes held mine. “And be careful.”
I almost asked him what that was supposed to mean, but he turned his back and walked over to the window again.
And just like that, I said goodbye to the last bit of thread that held me to Lyric.
In a moment of weakness, I went by Caspian’s house on my way home. I was hurt. I was angry. I needed someone to shoulder my pain, and the only logical person was him.
Right?
Wrong.
With grief, there was no logic.
He wasn’t there, and the butler wouldn’t answer my questions. Surprise.
Then a few days later during dinner, Lincoln let it slip that Caspian had gone to college in Ayelswick.Europe.It wasn’t enough to ignore me. He had to put an ocean between us to make sure it stuck.
Stalking him was fruitless. His only social media was Instagram, and all he ever did was post inanimate objects with captions that quoted dead poets and philosophers. You would think giving someone your virginity was enough grounds for them to press thefollow backbutton, but as usual, Caspian Donahue was the exception to the rule. Some girls might take his rejection and wallow in self-pity. I was fueled by determination. I refused to be the girl who was forgettable.
Huntingtons don’t give up.If I had inherited any trait at all from my dad, it was his ruthless motivation to prove people wrong. I buried myself in school and dance, determined to be the smartest, the strongest, the best. I was invited to parties that I never went to. A few girls from school offered to hang out or go shopping. I always had a good excuse not to go. I wasn’t interested in parties or friends. I had enough guilt looming over me like a cloud. I was here, and she wasn’t. I would grow up, and she wouldn’t. I couldn’t add partying and finding a new bestie to the list of things that I could enjoy, but Lyric never would.
I landed a role as a soloist inSleeping Beautywith SAB. Practices were brutal and free time was a delusion. One night after a particularly intense rehearsal, I found a small gold box wrapped in purple ribbon on the front seat of my car. Inside, there was a tube of Orajel with a note that simply read:I heard this helps when you want to feel numb.
I knew that handwriting. I’d seen it once before on a breakfast tray after the worst—and best—night of my life.
Why was Caspian leaving gifts in my car? Better yet,how? He was on another continent living his life while I merely existed.
On a whim, I slipped off my shoes and rubbed the ointment over and between my toes, surprised when it actually worked. The stinging pain from oncoming blisters disappeared. For the first time in months, I sat back, closed my eyes, and breathed.How did he know I needed this?
Because he always knew.
I still hated him, but I appreciated the gesture.
Too bad the Orajel didn’t work the same way when I rubbed it over my heart.