She sighs, then whispers: “My mom’s pregnant.”
I freeze. “What?”
That’s why she’s so scared. I undo her ponytail and stroke her messy hair.
“I’m trying to be happy. I really am. Sorry I didn’t come earlier.”
She always tries. Too hard.
“Mom and Dad told me about it when I got home. It’s a boy. They want to name him Asher. She’s five months pregnant. Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize.” I cut her off. She has no reason to be sorry for being afraid. Even the sun has the right to cry.
“You’re my Nova, aren’t you?” I murmur.
“I am,” she whispers.
Her breathing steadies as I stroke her hair. “And you’ll protect me, right?”
“Every day. I’ll be your heroine.” Her voice is soft, tired.
I smile and lie down beside her, pulling a blanket over us.
She closes her eyes, curling against me and I hold her close.
“I’ll protect you too. And together, we’ll protect Asher. We’ll be his guardian angels.” I whisper the words in her ear before we both drift into sleep. And I mean them. I will protect her. Always.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vincent Cooper
PRESENT (2023)
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"My music fights against the system
That teaches to live and die."
Bob Marley
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A month and a half ago, I quit one of the most prestigious music programs on the continent and got on a plane from Seattle to return to San Francisco, the city where I grew up. I did it to be near my best friend after avoiding him and Nova for four years.
In fact, the only person I truly avoided was Nova—and she knows it. I always talked to Steven on the phone and asked him about her because I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her directly. Hearing her voice for even a few seconds would have made mebook the first plane home and run to her. Or worse, I would never have left in the first place after graduation.
I also would have asked her to leave with me, like I had originally planned to, before Steven confessed to me that he was in love with her.
Three weeks ago, I started working as a guitarist at Speedy’s Pizza twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays, though I often fill in for Kill Temptation when they’re in the recording studio.
Three weeks ago, I saw Nova Marshall again—and found out she’s a waitress at the very same pizza place where I got my job. Her brown hair is shorter now than it was when I left, just brushing below her shoulders. She’s still beautiful. I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s even more beautiful than before.
When I went on stage and saw her, all I wanted to do was drop everything, climb down, and hold her in my arms forever. We were cleaning the place afterward, and I was being selfish as always. I asked her if she was mad at me, and we argued.
I sighed and abandoned the pen on the table along with the paper. “It’s not working. It’s worse than before.”
Dr. Jenkins nods and hands me a pad of white paper and a case of colored crayons.
