Haydn arches an eyebrow. “His mother? Who was his mother?”
“Linda Stone. She was a famous actress,” I explain. “Until she married Kit Stone. That’s when she kind of shifted—started doing talk shows, celebrity interviews, that kind of thing. She was more of a personality than an actress after that.” I let out a bitter laugh. “She wasn’t thrilled about me, though. I wasn’t the ‘right’ kind of girl.”
Haydn studies me for a moment, then asks, “Did your brother like him?”
The question catches me off guard, and I stare at him, my brow furrowing. “Why does Constantine liking him matter?”
He shrugs, but there’s something in the way he does it that makes me think the question matters more to him than he’s letting on. “Your brother’s pretty protective of you. I just thought . . . maybe someone in your family didn’t like him.”
I let out a sigh, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. “Dad wasn’t thrilled, but that’s just Dad. He wasn’t happy about anyone we dated—ever. It was this whole ‘no one’s good enough for my kids’ thing. Typical overprotective father.” I glance down at my tea, swirling it again as I add quietly, “Constantine was . . . fine with him. We didn’t talk much about it, honestly.”
When I look back up at Haydn, he’s still watching me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip. Like he’s waiting for more. Like my answer wasn’t enough. His jaw shifts, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “What is it you really want to know?”
My voice falters, and I press my lips together, trying to find the words. “I didn’t mean to . . . I just . . . some things are hard to talk about, Haydn. The accident, Keane, all of it. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you or that I was trying to keep it from you.”
His gaze softens just slightly, his eyes searching mine. “I know you love me,” he says, his voice quieter but still holding firm. “But love isn’t just about saying the words. It’s about letting me in, letting me see all of it—even the parts you’re scared to share.”
I nod, the truth of his words settling inside me like a knot I can’t untangle. He’s right. I know he’s right. But knowing doesn’t make this easier. It doesn’t make the memories any less raw.
Taking a slow breath, I push myself to start. “Keane was one of the most loving people I’ve ever known, but he had his demons,” I say, my voice quieter than I’d like. “The kind of demons he didn’t want most people to see. His first time trying drugs was at his parents’ house—a party. He was nine, and one of his dad’s bandmates thought it would be funny to teach him how to snort cocaine.”
Haydn’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening, but he stays silent, letting me continue.
“It was so easy for him to spiral in that environment,” I say, my fingers curling against my knees. “His dad’s ‘entertaining room’ was always stocked. Liquor, drugs—you name it. It was all there, just waiting. He was intense, passionate, and when he was doing well, it was like nothing could touch him. But when he wasn’t . . . when he relapsed, it was like watching someone I loved unravel in front of me.”
I pause, the words catching in my throat. But Haydn doesn’t push, doesn’t look away, and it gives me just enough courage to keep going. “I graduated early from college and started working for Pria Decker at Decker Records. I mostly handled social media and marketing, but sometimes I’d do whatever they needed. It gave me something to hold on to when everything else felt like it was slipping away.”
His voice drops, quieter but still firm. “When did you decide to go into photography?”
I exhale, the question pulling me back to a place I’ve tried to bury. “I couldn’t stay in the music world anymore,” I say softly, my words feeling like they’re skimming the surface of something much deeper. “After he died, there was nothing left for me there. Too many memories, too much . . . loss.”
My eyes close briefly, as though that simple action could block out the past. “Photography was something I shared with my mom while growing up. After everything that happened, it felt like the only way to move forward. I had the resources to start fresh, so I did.”
“You had the resources?” Haydn’s tone is measured, but the question carries weight.
I nod, my fingers curling into my palm. “Enough to move here, to Portland. There was a settlement after the accident.” I frown because it didn’t make sense that even when the other driver died and there’s no fault, we still got some kind of payment. ‘They settled,’ is all my brother said. “I don’t understand all the details—Constantine handled it. I was in a coma for over a week, and by the time I woke up, he’d already taken charge of everything.”
Haydn’s brow furrows. “Constantine,” he repeats, his expression thoughtful. “I haven’t heard from your brother in ages, and now suddenly he’s part of all this?”
I want to tell him that he hasn’t heard from him since the playoffs when he kept making fun of him for fawning around his team like a fangirl in the middle of a Taylor Swift concert after party. However, I choose to ask, “Rowan mentioned him?”
“Yeah,” Haydn replies. “Something about how Constantine wouldn’t be thrilled to know Keane’s here.”
I let out a dry laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “That’s ridiculous. We were like a little family once—Francine, Constantine, Rowan, Keane, and me. After Keane . . . after he died, Rowan disappeared on us.”
Haydn leans forward slightly, his jaw tightening. “There’s more to this than you’re saying.”
“There isn’t,” I shoot back, though my voice wavers. “There’s nothing more.”
He exhales heavily, rubbing the back of his neck as though trying to work out an impossible puzzle. “Fine I was trying to fix this but you made the decision for me. It’s plan B.” He stands abruptly, his movements decisive.
“What’s plan B?” I ask hesitantly.
“I’m leaving. The staff will be around to take care of you. You’ll have all the help you need to watch Keane. But I think it’s better if I’m not part of this anymore.”
“This?” My voice rises, a mix of confusion and disbelief.
“Us,” he says.
