“I’m fine,” she insists, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that says otherwise.
“Your pride is always your downfall, Pia,” I murmur, shaking my head. “I’ll call Sherry and make sure she comes by tomorrow. The masseuse will stay a couple of hours after my session to help you relax.”
I wait for her to push back, to roll her eyes, to give me one of her stubborn excuses about not needing anyone’s help. That’s always been Pia—digging her heels in, making me work twice as hard to convince her that she deserves to be taken care of too. But this time, she only sighs, her shoulders softening into the bed, surrendering in a way that almost breaks me.
“Goodnight, Haydn. I love you,” she says, her voice light, almost wistful, like the words are both a comfort and a goodbye.
“Goodnight, Pia,” I reply, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. My lips linger just a moment longer than they should, drinking in the warmth of her skin, the quiet intimacy of a gesture I know I’ll replay in my mind a thousand times. “Love you too. And if you dream about fireflies tonight, it means someone’s thinking about how much they love you.”
Her lips curve into a faint smile, and she lets out a soft laugh, one that’s more air than sound. “Then I hope it’s you,” she murmurs, her words like a whisper carried on a breeze, her smile still there even as her eyes flutter shut.
My chest tightens, the ache spreading through me like wildfire. I hope so too, I think, though the words stay trapped in my throat. I want to tell her, to shout it, to carve it into every corner of the world where she might look for answers.
I hope it’s me she dreams about tonight. I hope it’s me she chooses tomorrow. And if it’s not, I hope she’ll know that loving her has been both the most beautiful and the most excruciating thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Keane
My day wentfrom “we finally got ahold of your family” to being shipped off to some house with a couple of strangers. Strangers who still haven’t explained where the fuck my parents are.
I should be asking these people if they even know who I am. Keane Patrick Stone. If that doesn’t ring a bell, they should atleast recognize my father. Hello? I’m Kit Fucking Stone’s son. He’s not just famous—he’s a goddamn legend, a name spoken in the same breath as Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, or Bruce Springsteen. I know people. This could qualify as kidnapping, for all I know.
Just take me to my father. He’ll fix this. He’ll bring in the best doctors, the best therapists, whatever the hell I need to make my brain and mouth work together again. Maybe that’s what I need: a miracle. Or at least someone who knows what they’re doing—not this stranger who’s somehow calling the shots for me.
Don’t get me wrong—this Ophelia person? Beautiful. Lovely, even. The kind of woman my mother might tolerate at first but never approve of in the long run. Too bland, she’d probably say.Not sophisticated enough for her precious Keane.Love my mother but she makes me sound like God’s gift to the world and no one deserves me. I’m pretty sure no one will want to be with me after realizing I’m a fucking messandI carry the burden of two entitled parents who . . . fuck I somehow feel like maybe not being close to them might be a good thing.
They are overbearing and I can see my mother making an excuse to the press about my condition because no one should know that her son was in a coma and barely able to function.
Is this why I’m in the capable hands of this Ophelia woman? She’s some PR person or something?
No really, who is Ophelia? Were we friends? Did I know her? Or worse . . . were we something more?
Nah, a woman like her wouldn’t give a second glance to a guy like me. Too many tattoos, hair too long, and too many fans throwing their pussy at me on any given day.
Yeah, Ophelia makes no sense. But then, why is she in charge of me? She doesn’t seem like family. Maybe she’s some kind of miracle doctor here to save my sorry ass. Yeah, that’s got to be it. I wanted to ask her—hell, demand her medical credentials—butof course, my fucking mouth refused to cooperate. All I can do is blink.
And as I remember that, I rewind the conversation. She mentioned we were everything. What the fuck does that mean?
Fuck this can’t be real. I went from a famous songwriter to blink once for yes and twice for no. What the fuck happened to me? Rowan would have a blast if he saw me in this condition.
Where the fuck is he? Where is my family, damn it?
Since I’m truly lost and apparently I’m this Ophelia woman’s everything, I let her wheel me onto a flight to Portland. I’m now in a very strange house in a room that looks just like the hospital bedroom but bigger and with a lot of shit.
So yeah, I’m in Portland. Not Seattle, where I belong. Not my house, my life, my things. I should tell her about my place, tell her to take me back there. If I could just remember my address. If I could make her understand, maybe she could check on my dog. My dog. His name was . . . shit. I can’t remember his name.
That hole is driving me fucking insane.
The frustration wells up, hot and suffocating. My fingers curl into the blanket draped over me, twisting the fabric as if it might somehow steady me in this haze. My body doesn’t feel like mine. My thoughts are shattered glass, fragments scattered so far I can’t even begin to piece them back together.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps. Heavy, uneven, pacing just outside the room.
I freeze, my pulse quickening, the air in my chest thick and jagged. What now?
There’s muffled mumbling—low voices I can’t quite make out. It’s not the rhythmic steps of a nurse, not the careful movements of a doctor. No, this is different. It’s messy, disorganized, and it sends a flicker of unease crawling up my spine.
And then . . . silence.
