No, she didn’t. She didn’t care, either.
I needed my space. I longed to be back in Austin, in one of the apartments near UT’s downtown campus, going to school and making friends with people there who I’d cherish for the rest of my life. I’d never felt grounded, settled the way I had during my time in Austin—despite how it fell apart at the end. I still wondered if I could get it back.
But I’d given up Austin, and London was my home. Here I’d been so half-hearted about friendships, so leery about getting close to someone, that I didn’t have those connections I craved.
I trailed behind my stepmother. Maybe if I got my own flat near my university, I’d come to love London. There were so many things to do in the city, surely I could find my place. I needed to get out from under my father and Harriet’s heavy thumbs. I closed my eyes, wishing for the warm acceptance that had cloaked me in Austin. I’d planned to be there forever. My home base.
Losing the roots I’d put down hurt. Though not as much as losing my mother or Nash.
I sighed.
Poor Nash.
His mother’s death would devastate him. I needed to be there.
“I don’t want you, you stupid bitch.”
Even after all this time, those words rang through my head, shortening my breaths. Maybe I shouldn’t go.
I mulled the decision through the night and the next day, even as I packed. As I moved, I realized my ability to pack and travel remained an intrinsic part of me. Perhaps I was destined for a life as a vagabond. My years-long stops in Nepal and Austin had just been minor blips.
Resolved to put my pain aside, to honor the boy I’d once loved and be there for Nash—in the event it turned out he needed me—I headed to the Eurotunnel. A restlessness filled me as I arrived in Calais, a desire to see Nash, to touch him, followed by a need to run away, to hide from the pain and shame of the last time I saw him. I hated this push-and-pull I always felt when I thought of Nash. I hated that even after all this time, he still held so much sway over my happiness.
I had booked a lovely room at La Réserve Paris, mere steps from the Champs-Élysées. I appreciated the silk-damask walls and the large suites, each with its own terrace overlooking Avenue Montaigne. Once settled in my room, having tipped the bellhop handsomely to bring my luggage to the bedroom’s large closet, I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window and considered my options.
I was here, in the same city as Nash’s grandfather. I assumed, based on my most recent search, that Nash’s mother would be buried in the family cemetery near the Syad estate. I didn’t feel as confident about my decision to come here now, but I had two days to decide whether or not to attend the funeral.
I spent both of those days waffling. Nash might need me, but he’d have built relationships with his bandmates by now. From the stories I’d read, Nash and Jax seemed closest, but Bridger was solid and would surely be there for him during this time of need. They’d been three for a long time, though they’d added a fourth member to the band in recent months when Jax switched from bass to rhythm guitar. All I knew was the new addition was a woman. I didn’t like to think about it much beyond that.
Plus, Nash had Cam and Steve, maybe even Hugh.
I walked the streets of Paris and chewed my lip until it was raw.
In the end, I kept thinking about how much I’d missed him at my mother’s funeral.
So when the hour arrived, I dressed in a fitted black dress from an up-and-coming American designer because I loved the understated, tucked pleats, which made my waist look even narrower and added a couple of inches to my legs. At five four, I’d never be willowy like Lindsay or Nash’s mother.
Perhaps it was vain to think of my clothes right now, but I had to look my best—I had to beat back the anxiety that clawed at me on the drive to the funeral. I sighed with relief when I was able to enter without fanfare and take a seat toward the back.
I bowed my head, trying to be inconspicuous, and I startled when someone settled next to me. Hugh.
“He’ll be glad you’re here,” Hugh said. “It’s been a hell of a year.”
I made a noncommittal sound, refusing to admit I’d cried over every new picture of Nash with another model or actress. Even when he was “between relationships” he was surrounded by beautiful women.
“He needs you, Aya.”
I shook my head. “Nash needs no one.”
Hugh sighed, but before he could say anything else, the mass started. I craned my neck to get a glimpse of Nash, who sat next to his ailing grandfather near the front. Tears threatened as I realized Nash would be back in this church for another service sooner rather than later.
As soon as my gaze landed on his profile, Nash stiffened. He raised his head, scanning the cavernous sanctuary until his eyes found mine. The storms I saw there brewed hotter than ever before.
33
Nash
Aya was here? After years of missing her, she was here. Why? Why would she show up now after years of refusing contact?
My pulse thrummed in my neck, and I clenched my fists as adrenaline surged. The world seemed clearer, sharper—more painful.
I’d begun to stand when Pop Syad growled, “What are you doing?”
“Aya…”
“You can see the girl after we bury your mother.”
The final conversation I’d had with my mom spun through my mind, making my chest ache and my palms clammy. My heart sped up as I settled back against the velvet cushion. I couldn’t relax, didn’t hear much of anything during the service. I’d become accustomed to retreating from pain, from any kind of feelings, really.
I squeezed my eyes tight, wishing I could go back, take back what I’d said—find a way to fix our broken relationship so it didn’t end with her tears and my anger.
To appease Pop Syad, I managed to wait until the pallbearers carried my mother’s coffin from the sanctuary before I charged toward the back of the church, Aya’s name on my lips.
“Why are you here?” I growled even as I yanked her into my arms. A sob built in my throat as I pressed my nose into my spot where her neck met her shoulder. I needed this, just as I needed to tell her why this ragged hurt and the guilt would never leave me.
She rose on her tiptoes, cradling my head in her slender arms.
* * *
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Author Note
Dear Readers,
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Obviously, this novel is fiction. As such, I have taken a bit of poetic license with the final scene between Nash and Aya, which I wanted to address: n-BOMre is a highly toxic hallucinogen. Yes, you can still have issues if it is swallowed versus if the drug dissolves under the tongue. There are many known problems, including possible organ failure, associated with this substance. No, NARCAN is not an antidote to nBOMe. NARCAN is used to treat opioid overdose. My note of NARCAN in the book was based on ER protocol when the chemicals within a drug are not known (the whole better to be safe than sorry philosophy).
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I touch on the very real problem of substance abuse in this series. As you’ve noted, there’s alcoholism, which deeply impacts lives, but also a variety of other drugs mentioned (cocaine, n-BOMe, to name a few). Of course, wealthy and famous people aren’t the only ones who struggle with addiction. Many, many people do, but there is help available. Please call the Alcohol and Drug Addition Hotline at (877) 907-6531 to talk to someone about your options.