The group exchanges increasingly worried looks, waiting for me to say something.Anything.
“Mia, come on,” Brandon urges me. “You’re scaring us. Where is he?”
“He’s gone,” I say, my voice rough, inhuman.
“What do you mean,gone?” Eric asks, stepping closer to me.
I look up to meet his eyes.
Finally, “His mom died tonight. During the show. He found out after seeing it on his voicemail right after. By the time I got to him…”
None of them dare to speak.
“He told me he needed space. That I wasn’t coming with him. He left with Johanna.”
My voice cracks.
“He didn’t even say goodbye.”
Rylee sinks into the booth with me, immediately wrapping her arms around me. The minute I feel her touch me, the dam breaks loose again. I fall into her shoulder, the tears I thought had run out spilling over again. I don’t want any of them to see me like this, but at this moment, I don’t care anymore.
Eric curses under his breath and puts his hand on Rylee’s free shoulder. Brandon sits down across from me and reaches to hold my hand. Tony kicks the nearest thing he could find with full force.
“Fuck!”
Jake finally steps onto the bus and freezes when he sees the scene. He’s never looked so stunned.
“What the hell happened?” he demands, looking around to survey the damage.
Brandon meets his eyes and says, simply, “Angela Harris passed away tonight.”
The last of the noise drains from the bus. No more jokes. No more celebration. Just the sound of grief.
Chapter thirty-eight
"Let Me Be Sad" - I Prevail
Grayson
What the fuck have I just done?
The minute the wheels of the plane touch down on the tarmac at PWM, I feel the cold creeping in. The trees are still bare, which makes no sense having just come from blazing hot Miami. The gray, overcast sky makes everything feel heavier. It’s fitting, honestly.
We pick up the rental car and Johanna sits quietly in the passenger seat beside me. I don’t think either of us has said more than two words since we left the venue and the tour behind. There’s plenty to say, but neither of us has the energy to lie to each other about how okay we aren’t.
I pull onto the street I’d grown up on and curse myself for insisting on driving. I don’t want to see this house. I don’t want to see Mia’s house. I don’t want to be reminded of what started here. Of what ended here.
My hands are locked on the steering wheel of the car, my knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. I linger like this for a moment before releasing my grasp to put the car in park and cut the engine.
God, I hate this.
“You ready?” Johanna asks, the sound of her voice startling me.
“No,” I scoff. “But we’re going in anyway, I guess.”
The porchlight is on. If you didn’t know what had just happened here, it almost looks inviting from the street. My feet feel like bricks as I trudge up the walk and onto the porch, Johanna not far behind me. I unlock the front door and force myself to step inside.
The air smells like lavender and antiseptic. Very hospital-like. It’s a stark difference from the smell of home cooked meals and our wood burning fireplace that I loved when I was a kid.
