My hand grips the banister so tightly my fingers ache. My knees give way, and I collapse to the carpet halfway down the stairs. I don’t understand. I can’t understand. But I know — I just know — that I’ll never see her again.
Mum.
My throat burns. I scramble back up, tripping on my own feet, running down the hallway. My door slams behind me, and I dive under the covers, burying myself in the dark. The sheets smell like her perfume — lavender and soap — and it breaks me all over again.
“Mum,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Mum, please.”
But the only answer I get is the rain against the window and the echo of my father’s sobs downstairs.
And that’s when I know.
She’s gone.
Forty Three
Henry
Sunday morning, and the heavens had opened. The forecast said there might be a chance of rain, but this was a downpour. I left Matilda inside while I loaded up the car, ready for the drive back. My apprehension was still there about heading back to reality, but it had dimmed slightly with the knowledge that Matilda felt the same as I did. She had told me she loved me last night, and it was the greatest moment of my life.
“Henry!” Matilda called out into the rain. “Is that everything?” She was wrapped in my hoodie that swamped her, but she looked so bloody snug and cute. I ran over to her, my clothes sodden after only a few minutes in the rain.
“Yeah, all set. Are you ready?” I pulled her in close but not enough to get her soaked too. She beamed up at me, gripping the collar of my jacket.
“No, I want to stay here forever,” she whispered against my lips.
“I think my business might crumble without you,” I half-mocked, half-meant it. She laughed.
“Oh, don’t remind me about work. Did I ever tell you my boss is a right tyrant?” she teased, locking her playful eyes onto mine.
“Yeah, I heard he can be a real hard-arse. Might be softening with old age though.”
“Old age?! Be careful—you’re not that much older than me.” She whacked me playfully on the arm and I pulled her in closer, not caring about my wet clothes. Guess I’m still a bit of a selfish prick.
The bitterness of the cold air mixed with our breaths, steam billowing around our faces just inches apart.
“Let’s go home, Mr. Chase,” she smiled against me.
“Okay, sunshine.”
The rain splattered against the windshield, the wipers squeaking as they flicked back and forth. Our wet clothes and the air around us carried that unmistakable scent—the sharp, earthy freshness of wet pavement. It rushed through the car.
Matilda inhaled sharply. “God, I love that smell,” she murmured, almost to herself.
I glanced over, one hand steady on the wheel, the other drumming against my thigh. A slow smile curved her lips.
“Like electricity and rain,” she said softly, “like the whole world is about to change.”
I smiled at that. I knew what she meant. I’ve always loved thunderstorms. They had a sense of tranquility that nothing else could compare to. I never understood people who were scared of them. A part of me saw storms as the earth’s way of letting out its emotions, and I could relate to that. Like the world spent its time bottling everything up until it couldn’t take it anymore, and then released it all in a thunderous roar of lightning, rain, and earth-cracking sound.
For a while, the road, the storm, and the hum between us blurred together—charged, alive, impossibly close—and I drank it all in.
The rain hammered down, fat drops slanting across the windshield in a relentless blur. The wipers could hardly keep up, smearing water faster than they cleared it. I leaned forward, squinting through the mess while Matilda flipped through the radio channels, her brows furrowed in concentration.
“Here we go,” she declared, asStyleby Taylor Swift filled the car.
I groaned. “You can’t be serious. This? This is what you call music?”
“Yes!” she shot back, laughing. “Don’t even start—Taylor is a queen.” Then she broke out singing something about James Dean.
