Prologue
Mia
Istill remember the moment I knew that I was in love with Grayson Harris, before everyone knew his name. Before every girl in the world thought they felt the way I did—the way I still do. He was sitting on his porch one day in October, strumming that old, beat up guitar that his dad gave him for his tenth birthday right before he died. He was playing some popular song I couldn’t remember the name of, oblivious to the world around him—including me.
Twelve Years Ago…
I was sitting in the Harris’ kitchen one afternoon, working on homework with his sister. Johanna and I were in many of the same classes and had recently been assigned a group project in one of them. While we were working, Grayson had come inside from practicing, engaged in some kind of argument with his mom. I had been over to the Harris’ house several times after befriending Johanna, and it seemed that the arguments between them were a regular occurrence.
“Grayson,” I overheard from the next room. “If you really think that I’d let you make a career out of music just because your father did, you’ve got another thing coming. You saw how that ended. Why would you want to put me through that again?”
“I’m a fucking adult,” he yelled. “You don’t get to have a say in what I do anymore.”
“You’re a senior in high school,” she scoffed. “That hardly makes you an adult. My house, my rules, Grayson.”
“Fine,” he fired back. “I’m going to make it, Mom. I’m going to make a bigger name for myself than Dad ever did, and you’re going to regret ever saying that.”
“Don’t expect me to keep supporting you, then. You can go to college, or you can pack your things and get out.”
A door slammed, and Grayson burst into the kitchen.
“Fuck!” he yelled before noticing me and his sister at the table.
He turned his back to us immediately, leaning over the sink as if he were trying to keep himself from throwing up.
I didn’t know what made me feel like I should say something—but I did.
“For what it’s worth—I think you’ll be great out there. You’ll make it, Grayson. I know you will.”
Later in the day, after our homework was finished and the sky shifted to a soft, orange glow, I curled up on my front porch swing with a blanket and a book I wouldn’t end up reading. Looking above the pages, my eyes drifted across the street.
Grayson always sat outside to play guitar around this time. Every evening like clockwork, he’d be out there with his legs kicked up, guitar in hand, and his head slightly tilted in focus as his fingers danced along the strings. It was like my own secret concert—a ritual I didn’t realize meant so much to me until he didn’t show.
I waited for him longer than I cared to admit, my fingers gripping the edges of the book as the sun slipped beneath the rooftops and the sky grew dark. The swing creaked softly beneath me as I wished for some kind of movement from across the street, but his porch stayed empty. Silent.
I had no idea at the time, but the conversation I’d heard in his kitchen would be the last time I’d hear his voice.
I wouldn’t see Grayson Harris again for almost twelve years.
But even then… I never really stopped waiting.
Chapter one
"Closer" - The Chainsmokers and Halsey
Mia
My alarm blares, far too early for how late I stayed up the night before. I groan and bury my face into my pillow, wishing I could ignore the outside world. Feeling the softness of the sheets against my skin and the weight of the duvet, I want nothing more than to stay in the inviting warmth of my bed for the rest of the morning.
Of course, it’s one of the days I actually need to be in the office. I love my life as a concert photographer, but the late nights it often comes with and the inevitable early morning that follows is not always ideal.
I spend most nights at different concerts around town, taking photos for a publication company in Dallas that specializes in creating content and media for bands. It’s been a dream, being able to turn my love for music into a career. Most of the time, my job doesn’t feel like work at all. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
I reluctantly throw the covers to the other side of the bed and drag myself through a very half-assed version of my morning routine. Dabbing foundation across my face and a little concealer underneath my eyes, with a swipe of mascara I look at the girl staring back at me in the mirror.
She’s exhausted.
No amount of eyeshadow, mascara, or even my ability to craft the perfect wing on my eyeliner is going to change that.
