What’s worse? I don’t even regret it. It kills me, but I don’t. Because I know he’ll take care of her, and she’ll take care of him. And that’s enough for me to swallow the pain and keep my mouth shut.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Nova Marshall
PAST (2021)
––––––––
“The guitar is your first wings. It’s assigned
and designed to unfold your vision and imagination.”
Carlos Santana
Steven barges into my room without knocking, as usual, muttering something about being late even though I’m literally sitting cross-legged on the floor with one boot halfway laced. Fleur darts around him like a missile, her tail wagging, nails clicking against the hardwood. He scowls down at her, muttering, “This monster’s going to trip me one of these days,” before dumping himself onto my bed like he owns it.
I roll my eyes, tugging on the second boot—red leather with little yellow stitching that doesn’t match my pink dress at all, which is exactly why I like it. “Don’t act like you don’t secretly love her,” I say, brushing my hair back with my fingers. Fleur hops onto the bed right next to him, sniffing at his hoodie before darting away again, probably to plot her next ambush.
Steven just grunts, folding his arms across his chest, the eternal grumpy bear. His gaze flicks around my room like he hasn’t seen it a million times already: the stacks of CDs leaning precariously near my desk, the posters plastered across the walls—Christina Aguilera, Avril Lavigne, Fleetwood Mac, a couple of Britney Spears and Beyoncé. There are tiny potted flowers on my windowsill, baby blossoms I keep trying to keep alive. He pretends not to care, but his eyes always linger on Christina the longest, probably because I never shut up about her.
“Do you seriously need this many CDs?” Steven mutters, crouching by the leaning tower of jewel cases stacked beside my desk. He picks one up with the kind of careless touch that makes my stomach jolt.
It’sStripped.
My chest softens instantly.Vincent gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday.He’d wrapped it in shiny paper that didn’t quite fit and tied it with a lopsided bow, grinning the whole time because he knew exactly what it meant to me. He was proud of himself, proud that he’d gotten it right. That memory warms me even now, even if thinking about him still hurts.
I snatch the CD from Steven’s hands before he can smudge the cover. “Yes. I need this many. Don’t insult the Queen.”
He blinks, eyebrows raised. “Queen?”
“Christina Aguilera,” I say, clutching the CD to my chest like it’s sacred. “My queen. My idol.”
Steven leans back on his heels, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. He glances around at the walls plastered with posters—Christina blowing a kiss in one corner, Avril Lavigne scowling in another, Stevie Nicks shimmering like a goddess under stage lights. “You’ve basically turned your room into a shrine,” he deadpans. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes,” I shoot back, grinning despite myself. “If you ever so much as breathe wrong about her, I’ll throw you out. And then Fleur will finish you off.”
Right on cue, Fleur darts across the room, her little paws tapping against the wood, tail wagging furiously. She barks once, sharp and decisive, like she’s agreeing with me.
Steven chuckles, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. “Traitor,” he mutters to the dog, though his face softens in that way it always does when he thinks I’m not looking.
I slideStrippedcarefully back into the pile, lingering on it a second longer than I should. When I look up, Steven’s still watching me—not the CDs, not the posters, but me. His eyes are steady, too steady, and it makes something shift low in my chest.
“Seriously though,” he says quietly, “I get it. Music matters to you.”
I smile. “You know, one day Fleur’s going to learn to love you too.”
Steven snorts. “Doubt it. That dog’s plotting my murder.”
I bite back a laugh, tugging at his sleeve until he stands. “She’ll come around. Everyone ends up loving you eventually.”
He freezes just for a second, something flashing in his eyes before he turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Come on. We’re going to miss the previews.”
-*?? . ??? ? ?.-*??
At the cinema, the air smells like butter and salt, the kind that sticks to your hair. Steven buys popcorn and my favorite fruit jellies. We slide into our seats, Fleur not with us this time.
The lights dim and the previews roll, and Steven’s already leaning back like he owns the place, one arm stretched casually along the back of my chair. I should be used to it by now, but my heart still does a little flutter. I shake it off, focusing on the screen.
