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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Someone famous once said, “The worst thing about heartache is that it never comes from your enemies.”
Well, the worst part about mine was that it could never be mended. There would be no talking it out over ice cream or sending anI’m sorrytext when one of us couldn’t sleep. The ache would always be there. I was going to live the rest of my life with this permanent crack—this scar—because the person who hurt my heart was dead.
Lyric and I shared everything, at least I assumed we had.
What else did she keep from me?
Why would she be at Caspian’s house if she wasn’t there to see Caspian? And how did Lincoln know about it? What did any of this have to do with him? Is that why he was at Caspian’s that morning? Is that why they fought?
I couldn’t just stand here and go ‘round and ‘round with Caspian at the theater. I couldn’t pretend everything was okay, either. Everything he said was cryptic at best, and at the end of the day it all boiled down to one thing: more secrets in the name of protection.
I needed room to breathe, and Caspian gave it to me. He promised to give me time to think, saying he had some things of his own to work out. I didn’t ask what they were. They didn’t matter, not right now, not to me.
I’d given up on the Sherlock Holmes expedition years ago. I’d accepted Lyric’s death. I buried my questions next to my grief. I moved on.
Now, here they all were—ghosts swarming around and haunting me all over again.
Thankfully, this week was tech week, and on top of rehearsals, I kept myself busy getting all the last-minute details in order for the ballet. When I was moving, I wasn’t thinking, so I made sure to keep moving.
Caspian showed up toward the end of the week. His handsome features were shadowed in something darker, something deeper, as if he were dealing with demons of his own. Our gazes caught, and my entire body thrummed with need. Even though I was upset with him, I missed him. He’d said Lyric’s visit had nothing to do with him, and I believed him. I couldn’t explain why. I just did. Maybe it was because every other time I’d made him promise me answers, he gave them to me. Why would this time be any different?
He leaned against the door frame, never pushing to come inside. And he was gone before rehearsal ended, leaving me with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
When I wasn’t at the theater or my studio, I was at home, walking along the edge of the ocean, begging it to bring me peace. The beach was pristine. The water was clear. The only trees were the ones hiding my house from the one next to it. There was no dark forest or murky water. There were no secrets here.
By the end of the week, after another long day of rehearsals, my body had become a vessel for pain. My limbs were sore, and my bones ached. My mind was exhausted from sleepless nights that flowed into busy days. But my heart—my heart was still beating. That had to count for something, right?
For the first time in a week, I just wanted to be still. I wanted to drown out the static in my head and be one with the heartbeat. No more questions. No anxiety over the performance. No grief. Just silence.
I went home and sat in the sand, letting the waves roll over my feet. The crests came closer together as the ocean prepared for what was to come. The scent of rain was in the air, a whisper of an oncoming storm.
I grabbed my sandals and headed inside. After a long bath, I climbed into bed and buried myself in the comfort of my pillow and blankets. Then I fell asleep to the tapping of raindrops on my sliding glass doors.
***
The next week went by in a flash, and tonight was Opening Night. The theater pulsed with energy. The house curtains were closed to conceal the layers of scenery. I turned on a few heaters backstage for the dancers because it surprisingly didn’t take much for the cold to settle into your bones. The dancers completed last minute touches on their makeup and costumes.
Even though this wasn’t a professional performance, it was largely anticipated and respected among high society because of my family’s name. On the other side of the curtain, men in tuxedos escorted women in cocktail dresses to their seats. I was pretty sure I even saw Brady at some point, with a beautiful blonde on his arm and a smile on his face. That made me happy. Servers handed out complimentary champagne in the foyer. Conversation floated through the air along with the low hum of classical music playing over the sound system.
I didn’t have to wonder if Caspian was out there. I knew he was. His presence radiated across the distance between us and wrapped around me the way it always had, warming me from the inside out. I didn’t see him, but I felt him—all the way to my bones. And on the stage, before the chaos of the evening began, there was a colorful bouquet of bright pink and white plumeria—the kind you’d find circled around a tourist’s neck in Hawaii—along with a note:Nothing smells as sweet as you, but these are a close second.I’d plucked one of the flowers and tucked it behind my ear.
I zipped back and forth between wings, ensuring everyone and everything was in place and ready to go. I was on my way to the control box when Lincoln stopped me.
“These are for you,” he said as he pulled a bouquet of red roses from behind his back and held them out. He glanced up at my ear and smirked. “I wanted to be first, but it looks like someone beat me to it.”
I fought a smile. “Do you not listen to anything I say?”
That was a dumb question. Lincoln never listened to anything anyone said.
“I know. Not until the end of the performance, blah, blah, blah. But with Dad having his party and all the excitement, I didn’t want to forget.”
Our father thought tonight would be a great night to announce to close friends and family that he’d decided to run for president. We all knew it was coming. He’d been talking about it for years. Tonight was about making it official. Mom had organized a post-ballet party to celebrate Opening Night and give Dad a platform to make his announcement. I didn’t mind sharing the spotlight with him. If it was up to me, he could have it all. I liked it right here, in the wings.
I accepted the flowers with a slight bow. “Thank you.”
Lincoln had actually dressed up for the occasion. He’d forgone his usual jeans and T-shirt and was wearing black pants with a black button-up. He even tucked it in and wore a belt. His curly hair was fixed, and he looked almost… normal—except for the tattoos snaking out of his collar onto his neck and spilling from his sleeves onto his hands and fingers. But his smile and the twinkle in his eyes softened his edges. A little.
