Page 45 of Fallen Hero

“Never—”

“Jenny reminds me of someone I knew. Selfish to the core.”

I wanted to know more, but just that tidbit of information looked like it cost him to say out loud. I knew better than most some things were better left unsaid, left in the dark, left alone.

Maybe I was that something—better left alone with my scars.

“You were a journalist.” I wasn’t sure where Mason was going with this, but it was outside of the normal I wanted tonight. “Do you miss it?”

I turned back to the city lights. In any other city in the world, I would’ve thought the cityscape was beautiful. I would’ve marveled at the engineering. I would’ve wanted to take the glass elevator up to the top floor of the world’s tallest building. But the view was spoiled knowing who’d built those buildings and the conditions they’d worked under. The pain and corruption.

“I’ve always loved writing,” I admitted. “My mom used to read my short stories.”

The constant ache of sorrow throbbed in my heart. Good memories that were bittersweet. Memories I never allowed myself. They only served to make all the ones after Lili disappeared worse. My parents had been loving. We’d been happy. As far as I knew, we were just an average, normal family. My father had kept his secrets hidden. Maybe I should’ve been angry at him, but I wasn’t. I was grateful. He’d shielded us. He’d given us normal. He’d lived with the burden and never let it touch me or my sister.

“Yeah?” he prompted.

“I think I was around eight when it started. ‘The Boy Who Stole the Bike.’” I couldn’t stop my smile. “It was a mystery. A bad one, as the title gave away who stole the bike. But my mom pretended like it was the best story she’d ever read. When she was done with the five handwritten pages of junk, she asked me to write her another one. Once a week, I’d give her a badly written story, and once a week, she’d act like I cured cancer.

“They got longer and longer, I learned how to develop characters. And that’s when I truly fell in love with storytelling. For a few hours every night, I could be someone else. I could feel what they felt. I could solve problems that weren’t mine. I wanted to write mysteries or maybe fantasy. Create worlds where dragons existed, fanciful beasts with claws and rows of teeth. Heroes who were larger than life, heroines who were strong—who slayed those dragons. But I knew being a novelist was a long shot, and I needed to pay my bills, so I went into journalism. I still got to write, just not fiction.”

Now I lived in that world, where monsters were real and there were no immortal heroes to swoop in and eradicate the villains. I couldn’t bend reality and go back in time and save the girl. I could write every day from now until my last breath on earth, and the story wouldn’t be complete.

Lili’s story had run out of pages. It had abruptly ended in the middle. There hadn’t been a hero to save her. Just The End.

“Not romance?” he teased.

I shrugged away Mason’s question. I’d shared enough. “I guess even back then I didn’t believe in happily ever afters,” I lied.

I had believed.

“I think you’re lying.”

His accusation held no heat, merely calling me out on my bullshit.

If nothing else, Mason was honest.

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.”

As long as we were on the topic of romance . . .

“Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Still looking for the future Mrs. Mason Hughes?”

“Fuck. No.”

Well, that was firm.

“What about you? Still looking for the future Mr. Calista Ventura?”

“Fuck. No.”

I heard him chuckle but didn’t take my eyes off the view. I didn’t want to see him smile. I didn’t want to see how that handsome face transformed when he laughed. I’d had enough for one day.

“Do you ever get tired of your own thoughts?” I asked.