I cross my arms, my confusion giving way to irritation. “What are you talking about?”
Lang’s jaw tightens. “You don’t see it, do you?” His words are measured, each one hitting like a stone dropped into a still pond. “Maybe Keane isn’t the only one who doesn’t remember those years together. Look deeper, Ophelia. Before you fuck up your life—again. That relationship was toxic.”
I gape at him, my thoughts spinning like the blurred headlights in my photo. His words don’t make sense—none of this makes sense. But before I can press him, he stands, brushing past the moment like it’s nothing.
“You’re wrong,” I argue.
He shakes his head. “When someone dies, we bury the bad and keep the good. It’s what we do as humans.” He pauses, grins, and says, “He’s alive, and you have the right to unbury the shit before this goes bad.”
I open my mouth and close it because maybe he’s right. I buried a lot of things that didn’t make sense because he was gone.
“By the way,” he adds, already swiping at his tablet again, “I’ll contact your brother about this NDA. In the meantime, go home and change. My star photographer has to look perfect.”
I open my mouth to argue, but no words come. Instead, I turn and leave.
As I head to the parking lot, my mind refuses to quiet. What did Lang mean? I replay his words over and over, searching forclarity. Keane isn’t the only one who doesn’t remember? How could that even be true? I remember everything—or at least, I think I do. The late-night talks, the whirlwind trips, the way his music felt like a living, breathing thing in our relationship.
But do I?
Lang’s words dig at something buried deep, something I’ve avoided for years. Love yourself more than you loved him.
How can I? How do I untangle who I was with Keane from who I’ve become without him? And what happens if Lang is right—if the pieces I’ve clung to aren’t the whole picture?
Chapter Forty-Five
Keane
Ophelia steps into the room,the soft click of her heels tapping against the floor. She looks completely different from the version of her I’ve grown used to. Her sleek hair catches the light, the ends brushing against the collar of a tailored blouse. Gold earrings glint as she adjusts one, her movements practicedand precise. For a moment, I forget she’s here to see me; she looks like she’s heading somewhere fancy. Not here.
“Lang just told me we were toxic,” she announces. She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “The cold son of a bitch who’s had a frozen heart for years suddenly thinks he’s my personal therapist and can give me advice surrounding my love life. That’s priceless, isn’t it?”
“Lang?” I ask, the name tugging at a distant memory, but not hard enough to fully surface.
“You probably remember him as the manager of Too Far From Grace,” she says, her tone clipped.
I do remember Too Far From Grace. Beacon, the frontman, and I were friendly—not tight, though, not like he was with other musicians. He liked Rowan better, which was weird because my brother has nothing to do with the music world.But they always seemed familiar, almost like best friends. It was always weird.
Beacon’s bandmates were the same way. They had their circle, and I wasn’t in it. Not like Sinners of Seattle. Now those guys? Partying with Rocco and Zeke was legendary. The rest were okay at best. Then it clicks, Lang’s the tight ass manager who liked to call me Nepo-Stone every time he could.
It wasn’t like that though. Dad didn’t support my career. He encouraged me not to follow his footsteps and always said I should be more like my brother. I stare at Ophelia because I don’t understand why I can remember all this and can’t remember her at all.
“I recall the asshole,” I say.
“Yet, you don’t remember me. Or us,” she snaps, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Her lips press into a thin line before she adds bitterly, “Apparently, I don’t remember us either, according to Lang.”
I get why she’s angry. I am too. I remember how I feel about her, but not her or our relationship. She can keep telling mehow great our relationship was. Those dates while going hiking or just me visiting her in college because I missed her sound . . . cheesy and not something I would do but I guess it happened. There are pictures that she keeps showing me. Sure there’s me and her and . . . nothing. It sparks nothing.
Why can’t I remember that big chunk of my life? Five years gone. The neurologist said something about amnesia and how things come together slowly at some point but I don’t see that coming back any time soon.
“Why toxic?” I ask, automatically questioning why. Lately, it seems to be the only word I use. That and what.
“He said I was trapped in Hurricane Keane. Something about how we weren’t good for each other. Toxic. Or were you the toxic one? I didn’t stay to get the whole explanation.”
I study her, taking in the polished exterior and the tension in her voice. “That makes sense. Honestly, you look like a good girl,” I say after a moment. “Not someone I would date.”
Her head snaps toward me, her brows shooting up. “What?” The shriek in her voice is almost endearing.
“Were you dating me because I was a bad boy?” I ask, the words leaving my mouth before I fully process them. I’m not sure if I’m teasing or genuinely curious.
