A notebook.
Small. Worn. Familiar. When I recognize it, my heartbeat slams against my ribs.
No. No, it can’t be—
I reach for it with trembling fingers, pulling it close to me like it’s something living, something warm.
Vincent’s songbook. His real one. The one he never lets anyone touch. My chest tightens painfully as I flip it open.
On the inside cover, written in his messy, earnest handwriting, is a small dedication:
“Here is the map of my heart.
It’s all yours.
It belongs to you.
Just like every broken piece of my heart.
Do whatever you want with it, but never, ever, give it back.
Break it, smash it, I don’t care. Just keep it.
It’s all yours. I’m yours.”
Tears roll down my cheeks before I can wipe them away. My vision blurs and I press the notebook to my chest, curling over it like I need to shield it from the world.
I need him. I need him back right now.
Beneath the dedication, I notice another line—small, almost tucked away, as if he was afraid to write it... or terrified of what my answer might be.
My fingers tremble as my eyes drop to the words.
“If you’re ready to let me steal your heart properly this time, meet me at my parents’ house at eight tonight.
I’ll be on my knees—yeah, really—and you can take as long as you want to decide if you still want me.
I love you.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Nova Marshall
PRESENT (2023)
“Art is sacred. Punk rock is freedom. Expression and right to express is vital. Anyone can be artistic.”
Kurt Cobain
I’ve spent the entire day spiraling. Me and Maggie needed hours—actual hours—to rearrange the sea of flowers Vincent sent yesterday, and every time my eyes drifted to Christina Aguilera’s autograph, my brain short-circuited all over again.
I still haven’t read his songbook. I can’t. Not yet.
I want to open it when he’s gone, when I’m alone, when I can cling to his words like oxygen. When they’re all I have left of him for the night.
So instead I spent the whole morning pacing around the apartment like a lunatic. I tripped over my own feet at least twenty times. I don’t know how Maggie hasn’t murdered me with her bare hands yet. She and Will have been my emotional support squad all afternoon, and when I finally decided I’d accept Vincent’s invitation, I immediately started panicking about what to wear.
My hair was greasy, my clothes were tragic, and I desperately needed to brush my teeth.
