She whips around and my chest caves in. She’s crying. Her cheeks are tracked with black, her eyes bluer than I’ve ever seen them.
She deflates when she realizes it’s me who interrupted. “How’d you find me up here?”
I ignore the question. It’s not important. Nothing is when that face looks this sad. I stay a respectable distance away, burying my hands in my pockets. “What’s going on?”
She lets out a bitter laugh and shakes her head. “Nothing, Boston. Just go back to the party.”
And I fucking hate the way that sounds nothing like her. No taunting, no flirty edge, no teasing. Just sad and tired, andnothinglike Ariana Forkerro.
“Talk to me, Wedding Date.”
She goes a bit stiff at the nickname before shaking her head again. “I just needed a minute.”
Clearly. You’re sobbing on a rooftop, drunk as all hell.
“Up here?”
“I feel more alive up here,” she answers, and she moves so quickly that I dart forward as she steps up on the first bracket of the railing, flinging her arms in the air, champagne still in her hand. She lets out a long, loud scream that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Please do not fall. Oh god, please donotfall.
My heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the pain in her voice.
“Ari,” I beg.
“I’m all good, Boston!” she screams out to the sky, but there’s an edge to it. It’s a knife, cutting through her own skin, showing me all the pain that she keeps hidden and locked away. “I’m put together, just like I’m supposed to be!”
“Ari,” I plead again, taking another careful step forward.
I stare at the back of her head, adrenaline racing in my chest. She swings her arms out again, throwing her upper body over the railing, the bottle swaying in her hand. She rocks forward and I stop breathing.
The wind whips her ponytail around her face, blocking her vision.
All I can picture is her falling.
All I can picture is her slipping over that railing, and all I can hear in my ears is her scream on the way down.
“Ariana,” I say calmly, stepping onto the ledge right beside her. “Please, step back here.”
“I want to go back!” she screams out at the city. I stare at her with wide eyes, at the way her legs wobble because she’s drunk. My heart gets lodged in my throat. I’m totally out of my fucking element here. “I want to be young again! I want another chance! I fucked it all up!”
She stumbles forward, nearly dropping the bottle, and that’s enough for me. I storm forward, catching her wrist in my grip, and I yank her backward with far too much force. She fights against me for a second, but I pry the bottle from her hand and drop it on the ledge, hauling her backward until she is pressed against the wall, a safe distance from a free fall.
Her broken blue eyes meet mine. Haunted. They scan my face, full of tears, mascara smudged on her cheeks. She pops up her chin, like she has to be defiant, even now.
My heart tries to right itself, but it’s beating so fast that it’s all I can hear in my head. I bend down, meeting her eyes, ensuring she’s paying attention before I speak. And when I speak next, I speak very fucking carefully.
“You’re still young and you’re still alive. You get another chance every day. If you’re unhappy with your past, don’t let it bleed into your future.”
Her throat bobs, but she refuses to lower her gaze. Good. She’s still in there.
“Don’t act reckless on a roof because you’re angry at the world,” I growl at her, and she rolls her eyes, which boils my blood. “That’s how you wind up dead, your story ending exactly where you wish it wouldn’t.”
“I’m not so great once the smoke and mirrors are gone, am I?” she asks with a little hiccup, coughing out a bitter laugh, but all I see and all I hear is blinding and brutal pain.
I know that feeling, sweetheart. I know it well.
There’s more to her than she lets the world see. Much, much more.
