“I know, baby. I know,” Vincent whispers as he pulls me into his chest, holding me tight.
“Let me go! He had to save her, Vincent! He had to save her!” I sob into him.
My legs give out, and I collapse on the floor, dragging Vincent down with me. The others gather around, sitting close, stroking my hair and back.
“Just let it go, Nova. Let it out,” Vincent murmurs.
“Scream,” Steven adds quietly, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together.
Their words break something inside me. I bury my face in Vincent’s chest, soaking his shirt with tears, and pull Steven closer with my other hand. Then I scream.
I scream for Fleur. For Asher. For my dad. For college. For the money I don’t have. For Steven. For Maggie. For Aurora. For Max. For Will. For Sam. For Vincent.
But mostly, I scream for me.
I scream because I’m tired of life choosing everything for me, of watching it rip the people I love out of my arms.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Vincent Cooper
PRESENT (2023)
"A guitar is a very personal extension of the
person playing it. You have to be emotionally and
spiritually connected to your instrument. I'm very brutal on my instruments, but not all the time."
Eddie Van Halen
––––––––
"Good God!" Nova moans, squeezing my hand as she bites into a stress ball.
She’s lying on the couch in the tattoo studio—the same place where she got her purple star tattoo—staring at a spot on the wall behind me as she listens to the theme song of a children’s anime Steven introduced her to back in middle school.
It’s always strange to me. Nova Elizabeth Dehlia Marshall will do absolutely anything—she’d jump off a cliff without hesitation, eat something rancid just to know what salmonella feels like, and as a kid she once pressed her thumb against the hot steel part of an iron just to see if it was “too hot.” But when it comes to a tattoo needle? That, apparently, is torture.
The easier choice would be not to get a tattoo at all. But this is Nova. Stubborn as hell. And tattoos mean the world to her.
She’s curled on her side, clutching my hand with white knuckles while music blasts through my headphones. She’s pulled up her crop top—ironically printed with the face of Kilari’s cat, the anime she’s listening to—to bare her ribs where Jonah, the tattoo artist, carefully works.
She opens one eye, tosses the stress ball away, and sticks her tongue out at me in the sweetest, but most irritating way. She squeezes my hand again before shooting Jonah a half-dramatic glare and he only shrugs.
"I can't take it anymore," she groans, her voice louder than she realizes thanks to the headphones. She doesn’t even notice how hilarious she is.
I laugh and kiss the back of her hand. "Just a few more minutes. You’ve got this."
She closes her eyes and rests her head on the mat, pulling my arm close like a pillow. I let her, stealing a quiet moment to look at her—really look at her—without guilt.
Of course, I know she and Steven broke up. He told me himself. But knowing that doesn’t mean I’ll make a move on her. Not now. Not ever.
It’s been two months since the day we buried Fleur in my parents’ backyard, right in Nova’s favorite field of daisies.
That day destroyed her. For two weeks she barely left bed. Me and Maggie had to wash her with wet wipes, coax her to eat, take her to the bathroom. Then, one day, she snapped herselfback together—shower, work, fake radiant smile, as if Fleur hadn’t died and as if her breakup with Steven hadn’t gutted her.
But I can see the cracks. She curses herself for showing weakness, and now hides behind a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She avoids Steven like he avoids her. Neither of them can be in the same room without coming close to tears.
