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He didn’t answer.
“Noah!”
“He died…He died yesterday.”
“What?”
“Amelia—”
“No.” I fought back my tears. “No.”
“Shh,” he whispered, moving to the bed, lifting me into his arms.
“It’s my fault,” I said, holding on to him. “It’s my fault…Noah—”
I cried. I sobbed for him they way I did when Noah and I broke up as teenagers, my tears soaking his shirt. My heart ached in a way I never realized it could for anyone but Noah.
Chapter Twelve
Noah
One Day Later
“Noah.”
“Ms. London, any comments?”
“Will you be staying together?”
“When are the funerals?”
“Noah, how do you feel knowing it was your family behind this?”
It was neverending, the flashes, the screaming and pushing. We got no space, no room to breathe, as Daniel, along with a few other bodyguards he had hired, made room for us to get into the airport. I held onto Amelia as tightly as possible as we pushed through. And they followed us inside. We were like zoo animals to them.
The only peace, the moment we were free, was when we had to get through security, and even they gawked. The didn’t speak, but at least they weren’t snapping pics—
“Dude, seriously?” Daniel snapped at one of the men behind the machine who took a picture of Amelia as she walked through the metal detector, her sunglasses still on. Grabbing my jacket when I got to the other side, I took her hand again, walking as quickly as possible to our gate.
We weren’t able to get a private plane on short notice, and it wouldn’t have been big enough for the bodies—both Austin’s and Esther’s, who the Chicago PD declared died on-scene, though she was too badly burnt for them to really know, nor were they going to investigate. So I bought out all of flight UM4707 to Los Angeles.
I handed over our tickets, and silently we got on board. Amelia walked right past the flight attendant, taking her seat quietly by the window.
“Austin didn’t want to be buried in Chicago?” She whispered, unable to look at me when I sat down.
“No. He felt like this city had too many gravestones with his last name already.”
She bit her lip, and I held her hand.
We wouldn’t be able to come here for a while.
One Week Later
“My mother, Esther London, was a diva. She had to start every morning with a grande iced sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk and a cup of nuts. Her heart was divided between many passions—acting, her husbands, the men she wished were her husbands,” she joked, getting more than a few low chuckles, “and last, but most importantly, my sisters and me. It was no secret that she demanded the best from us. And what some people might have seen as an overbearing Hollywood icon, we saw as a free-spirited, fun-loving mother with a vision. I…I loved her deeply. I will always love her deeply. And I’m proud to be her daughter.”
Amelia stood up beside me, wrapping her arms around Antigone, who had given the speech for them. I’m sure people were expecting Amelia, however she couldn’t just do it and I couldn’t blame her. We had Austin’s funeral yesterday, and twenty people showed up. Twenty. Most of them were from various agencies I figured he had been in contact with. The news had called him a hero, and he was, but he wasn’t a celebrity, so even though Amelia had personally planned out everything and called everyone she knew, they all told her the same thing: they’d come to Esther’s, and they were sorry for our loss. Like that meant anything.
In the end, I guess it was better than being around a bunch of fake people, with fake tears, pretending they actually gave a damn.
