ME
Not this year, East. But I’ll see you at Dad’s for Thanksgiving, okay?
Without waiting for his reply, I mute my device before locking the screen and sliding it inside my purse, pushing the gnawing guilt to the back of my mind as I follow Hayley onto the sidewalk.
Once we’ve entered the restaurant, even having taken a moment to stop and pose for the seven by-standing photographers—something Ineverdo these days, but Sentinel’s new protocol, whatever that is, has me feeling magnanimous—I spot Reese at our usual table. She waves us over with a grin.
“I’ve just gotten off a call with your father, and he’s promised he’ll be home for a week at the end of the month, so make sure you mark your calendars.”
Hayley and I nod dutifully even as we shoot each other a grin. My father makes plans but tends to promptly forget all about them when work calls.
I slide into my seat as Hayley inputs the dates into our joint calendar on her cell, when Reese leans across the table with a grin.
“Where have all the paparazzi gone, girls? I could actually park my car tonight without needing to worry about accidentally hitting one of them.”
Hayley takes center stage, informing her mother of my new security courtesy of the studio and DeMarco Holdings when the opening bars of “Iris” reach my ears, making me stiffen immediately.
A cold sweat forms on my brow as tears prickle my eyes and my veins turn to ice. Breaths stuttering in my throat, nausea claws at my belly.
My brain is instantly awash with memories of Ford while alternately pushing away those dark days from five years ago.
I rise to stand on shaky legs, my eyes unseeing as I make my way toward the front of the restaurant.
Images of Ford flash through my mind, simultaneously muting and amplifying my agony, and my feet pick up the pace until I reach the hostess’s podium. Inga, daughter of Fern’s proprietor, greets me with a concerned smile.
“Is everything alri?—”
“I need you to turn it off.” My words are halted, my voice trembling, and I’m altogether sure my knees are about to buckle beneath me as Inga frowns in confusion.
“The song,” I clarify, my tone becoming desperate when I notice a vase of orange and coral peonies decorating the podium. “Please. Turn it off.”
Damon reaches me, concern painted across his dark features right as Hayley appears at my other side, and I jolt when she places her hands on my shoulders. When I pivot to face her, her eyes fill with understanding, and my shoulders sag with relief at her steadfast presence.
“Inga, if you wouldn’t mind…”
But it’s too late. My sister’s voice fades into the background as the sound of John Rzeznik’s achingly beautiful voice sends me hurdling back to the moment that changed everything.
I swipe my hands down my tear-streaked face, irritated beyond belief when fresh tears continue to fall.
“Motherfucker!”
My announcement is for no one aside from Tessa, who is eating the oats I’ve thieved from Circle H’s stable, oblivious to the pain in my chest that lingers right around where my heart dwells. I can’t go back to Broken Hart. I can’t see East or Grampie. I can’t face the inevitable questions. Not in this state, and the acknowledgment makes me silently scream in sheer frustration.
“Stop.Crying.You.Idiot.”
I enunciate each word succinctly before my throat constricts, and I slam my eyes shut, allowing a fresh wave of tears to stream down my flushed cheeks.
I wish Hayley was here.
For quite possibly the first time since our parents married, I find myself wishing that Reese would have allowed Hayleyto spend even just a few weeks of the summer break at Broken Hart instead of visiting my father’s European offices as they usually do.
From the first time I met Hayley on our first day at The Persephone Stage School when we were twelve years old, she’s been my person. It had been kismet when my father finally met her mother, and following a whirlwind engagement, we were no longer best friends.
We were sisters, too.
If she were here, she’d know exactly the right thing to say.
Visions of earlier this evening trickle through my mind, intensifying the hurt tenfold, and I curse myself for thinking a man like Ford Holloway could ever see me as anything more than his friend’s baby sister.
