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PROLOGUE
“In the Stars” by Benson Boone
ROSE-DECEMBER
My knees shake with every step. My hands tremble, and my lungs burn from holding my breath. He’s in there. In that dark-blue, metal canister. In that heart-shaped necklace, too, resting just beside the urn.
The one around my neck has his fingerprint. I couldn’t bring myself to carry his ashes.
I pause, the white walls and chemical smell are making my mind spin. Sucking in air through my nose is a mistake. My stomach protests and a queasy feeling creeps up my throat. I swallow it down, straightening my back, and lifting my chin. Everything hurts. I can’t breathe!
I can feel my parents' eyes on me as I take the final steps up to the table. Everyone in the room is watching me. Judging. My eyes are glued to the blank white wall as I prepare myself to look at the urn. Three deep breaths, and then I drop my gaze and suck in a ragged sob. The pain burns a hole in my chest, and I can't help but scold him one last time.
“I can’t believe you left me,” I hiss, but my voice cracks, and no matter how hard I try to hold on to anger, all I feel is broken. There’s no cure for this kind of pain. No way to make it hurt less.
I reach a shaking hand out, caressing the swirling silver lines of the urn with my fingers.
“I hate this,” I whisper as my throat closes, aching painfully because I’m holding back the worst of my sobs.
I can still feel him in my soul. But he’s too far away for me to reach now.
“Ghost,” by Justin Bieber, plays on the sound system, and the lyrics are like a knife through my heart.
Photos of the man who’s been reduced to ash are all around the room, but none of them compare to the man he was. None of these photos capture his true beauty. The vibrancy of his smile and the shine in his green eyes. His floppy blond hair. You can’t hear his infectious laugh or feel his comforting hugs.
Strong arms wrap around me from behind as if they could trap my broken heart inside my chest if they hold on tight enough.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye… I never got to tell him how much I love him. How much I need him!” My cries of anguish and grief shake me violently. “I just want him back…bring him back,” I beg, but I don’t know who I’m begging. The man doing his best to hold me up in his arms, or the universe? No, it’s neither of those. I’m begging the man who’s already been cremated. “Don’t leave me again…” I whisper as tears fall freely now.
I don’t know how long I cry for as I stand there and fall apart in solid arms, but at some point, the tears dry up, even if the pain never fades. Does your body know? Does it know when every last tear your soul has to offer has been shed? I feel like I could cry until I drown in my own devastation. But nothing more comes.
“I have to leave… I have to get out of here…” I shake my head, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. There’s too much pain here. I can’t take it. I can barely handle my own pain right now.
So I do the only thing I can. I run, and I don’t stop. I just keep running. From the men I’ve lost. From the death and the pain. I just run until my chest burns and my legs ache. And then I keep running.
But if I keep running, will anyone be left when I finally stop?
Or are they lost to me too?
Have I lost myself?
CHAPTER ONE
“Self Destruction Mode” by the Chainsmokers and bludnymph
ROSE-AUGUST 4 MONTHS AGO
Standing out on the sidewalk of my new home, I look for any sign of my big brother, who should already be here. Phoenix is three hours late, but he’s typically late to everything these days, so I didn’t start panicking until thirty minutes ago. But I can’t get into the apartment building without him… His name is the one on the lease.
I gnaw at the broken skin around my fingernails, flinching as the skin peels back too far and I bleed. My anxiety makes everything harder, but my fingers suffer the most. In an attempt to save my other fingers from their bloody fate, I pull out a pen and start biting the cap.
When I hear a familiar sound, my heart sinks. “Fuck,” I sigh.
The revving of an engine, specifically from a V8 Mustang, kills every last ounce of hope I was holding on to.
I know it’s him. I don’t need to see the matte black car with its red racing stripe down the middle to know it’s him. It’s a sound I’ve grown used to over the last four years, and it immediately brings back an onslaught of cringe-worthy memories.
Like the last time I was in the passenger seat crying my heart out to my stepbrother.
