I swallow, the world suddenly too soft, too loud, too everything.
Maggie presses the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Nova. My beautiful, misguided friend. Please—please tell me you are going to talk to him before I drown in chrysanthemums and I decide to kill him with my bare hands.”
Roxy chooses that exact moment to escape her carrier, hop onto a pile of hydrangeas, and flop dramatically like she has found her new kingdom.
I let out a shaky, stupid, inevitable smile. “Yeah,” I breathe. “I think I will.”
Maggie groans so loudly half the flowers wilt in sympathy.
I pick up a daisy from the floor. “Just... Not now.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Nova Marshall
PRESENT (2023)
“If everything was perfect, you would never learn and you would never grow.”
Beyoncé
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, half-asleep and chewing on a donut, when the doorbell rings. It’s early—too early for anyone to be here—and for a second I consider ignoring it. But something in my chest tightens, a strange tug I can’t explain. I get up anyway and, with the donut still in my mouth, I hurry to the front door and pull it open. The entire doorway is covered in a blanket of tiny tissue-paper stars. Pink, yellow, blue, silver—every color imaginable. They’re scattered all over the hallway floor, fluttering slightly from the draft like they’re alive.
And right in the center, resting like something precious, is a small yellow box.
My heart skips, stutters, then starts beating way too fast.
“What... what is this?”
The box is adorable, almost childlike, covered in little hand-drawn stars. Some are crooked, some perfectly shaped—but all of them look made with care.
My fingers tremble as I kneel, gathering the stars into my hand—soft, weightless, delicate—and picking up the box. I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as my breathing falters.
This isn’t random. I know it washim.
Still holding the paper stars, I walk quickly to my room. Inside, Maggie is wrapped in my blankets, sleeping peacefully with Roxy curled in her arms, my little kitten purring against her chest. Maggie sneaks into my bed most nights, slipping under the covers like she belongs there. And she does. The truth is, having her near me, hearing her breathing beside mine... it makes me feel like we’re both safe.
I place a kiss on the top of her head and quietly sit beside her, letting the paper stars fall softly onto the desk. Then I pull the yellow box onto my lap.
I hesitate. My hands shake. And when I finally manage to open the box, tears burn my eyes.
Lying inside, perfectly preserved under a thin sheet of tissue paper, is a glossy, thick-edged photograph of Christina Aguilera.
A fucking signed photograph.
Her name.
Her handwriting.
Her signature.
Real.
My mouth falls open. A wounded, choked sound escapes my throat. “No... no way... no fucking way.”
My breath trembles. I press the autograph to my chest like it’s fragile, like it’s sacred, like it might disappear if I let go.
Before my heart can slow even a little, I notice the second item inside the box.
