His eyes bore into mine now, eyes green like a lively forest, eyes that once terrified me, only to pull me in and make me feel loved, make me feel his.
I clear my throat, ready my voice before swiping the wetness off my cheeks. “She had a stroke in her sleep,” I tell him, my words barely above a whisper. “She went peacefully,” I assure. Then add, my voice cracking, “At least that’s how she looked when I found her.”
“Jesus,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut at the thought. He seems to shift forward as he opens them again, saying, “I didn’t even know until…” he trails off, his gaze focused on the set of keys resting on the table in front of him. As if needing an excuse, he rushes out, “I found the emails and letters last night. My dad thought they were for him, and he’s not really big on opening things, which is dumb because—”
“Is it over?” Dean’s voice crashes through what little sanity I’m holding on to. Holden’s head snaps to the sound, to Dean standing with one foot in the room.
His eyes narrow first at Dean, and then at me. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move an inch.
Dean does, though. He steps toward me, his face conveying a level of concern I’ve grown accustomed to. He attempts to ignore Holden completely, but I can sense the questions I know are building. So many of them. I wonder which one he’ll choose first. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head, the first truth I’ve given him since Esme’s death.
I am not okay.
Because Esme is gone.
And Holden Eastwood is not only in this room, but he’s suddenly back in my life—a life that was already spiraling out of control.
3
Jamie
I wish you’d never picked up a pen.
I wish you’d never put that pen to paper.
And I wish what came of it was nothing but harsh lines, sharp angles, and pure ugliness.
I wish you’d never picked up a pen.
That way, the people who mattered wouldn’t have encouraged you to follow that path.
Those Lines.
Those Angles.
That Ugliness.
I wish you’d never listened to those people.
They’re nothing but hopeless believers,
reckless dreamers,
and willing liars.
They’ll convince you you’re special—gifted in ways you never even thought. They’ll motivate you, inspire this so-called “passion” inside you. And you’ll trust in them enough to pour your heart, your hurt, onto a canvas.
A canvas that will later be entered into an art contest.
He’ll show up that night, completely unexpected. He should’ve been at physical therapy for his busted knee, but he’ll be there—for you—even though you told him not to.
It’s the only time you’ll see him in a suit, and even though he’ll be on crutches, he’ll still walk in with that same cocky swagger you used to find annoying.
His face will light up when he sees you, the remnants of his cuts and bruises from the attack still there but far less prominent.
The way he looks at you...
The way he watches you...
The way he smiles at you…
But it’s nothing more than a fleeting moment shared in silence because when he sees your work, the brightness in his eyes will dull, and the light inside you will diminish.
He’ll never have seen that piece before, never have been an eyewitness to the pain of your past.
After a long moment of staring at the work, the boy who captures your breath by his mere presence will turn to you, his heartbreak filling his eyes with liquid sorrow he’ll never release. But then he’ll smile when he turns to you, tells you, “You’re going to win.”
“You haven’t even seen the others.”
“I don’t need to.”
Want to know something crazy?
You do win.
And the pride and elation that will ooze from him makes you feel like you’re six years old again, dancing on a stage, forcing your feet to move in ways you’ve rehearsed dozens of times before.
That night, you’ll celebrate with the people who mean everything to you—him and Esme and Zeke—in the same diner, the same booth where you spend almost every Wednesday losing yourself in pointless emotions. Afterward, he’ll ask Esme to drop by the hardware store on the way home. He’ll buy hooks and nails, and then you’ll go home together—to the pool house in Esme’s yard. A pool house that Zeke and Esme had turned into yours while you were at the hospital, unwilling to leave his side. He’ll place the canvas in the middle of the bed and force you to look at it with him.
It’ll be the first time you’ve worked with mixed media—paint and ink and torn paper along with whatever else you could find. It’s three separate panels, each panel seen through a window. The first one is your mother asleep on the couch, her arm hanging off the edge, fingers curled around a bottle of alcohol. Next to the empty bottle is a tiny pair of ballet shoes.
The next is of her in front of the stove; flames set ablaze behind her as she smiles down at you, blood pouring from her nose, her mouth.
The last one is her on her deathbed, sunken eyes, ashen skin, and black wings made of actual feathers.
In front of each window, a girl watches the scene from the outside looking in.
In each panel, your mother ages.
You do not.
It’s dark and depressing, but it’s you.
And it’s me.
“It’s phenomenal, Jamie,” he’ll say. And you’ll nod because it’s all you can do not to fall apart. “So…” He’ll crack the tiniest of smiles. “Did you wear a tutu with those ballet shoes, you adorable little shit?”
You’ll laugh and nod again because he’ll somehow know how to piece you together. “I had a ballet recital when I was six,” you’ll tell him. “And my mom was in the audience, clapping and cheering louder than anyone. I thought I was the best girl there because that’s how she made me feel. It turns out she was just drunk. Someone must have called the cops because they were waiting in the parking lot for her when it was over and made her do a sobriety test in front of everyone. It was the first time I was taken from her… It’s the day I lost my innocence.”
He’ll hang your winning artwork on the wall opposite the bed, and even though you’ll find it morbid, he’ll convince you otherwise.
He’ll tell you that now, the younger you can see the new you, and she’ll know that the heartache and the pain and the anguish will ebb and it will flow, but it isn’t always, and it isn’t forever, because when she sees who you are now, how you are now, she’ll know it will be okay.
You will be okay.
You’ll fall asleep the same way you do most nights—in the safest place in the world—in his arms. But when you wake a few hours later, he’ll no longer be there, in your arms or your bed. Instead, he’ll be pacing—limping—at the foot of the bed, and you’ll hear the harshness of his breaths slice through the surrounding silence. You’ll sit up, flick on the lamp, and his eyes will snap to yours. “I didn’t make plans for you,” he’ll say. “All this time, it was about Mia and her baby, and I… I never made plans for you.” His words will be rushed, no room for oxygen. “We’ll be graduating in a couple of months, and then… then what?”