My heart pounds viciously. My skin burns the way it does when the anxiety in me reaches its boiling point. Facts—I scramble to find them, but nothing can comfort me through this. My hands tremble.
“Lex?” Chaz eases the mug away before it spills and sets it on the table. His brow creases with concern, the usual warmth in his eyes replaced by sadness. This wasn’t the reaction he expected.
But that look in his eyes is so familiar. Why is it so familiar? It’s that same sense of déjà vu I had when I first saw him, and it grows stronger whenever I see his childhood pictures. Then, out of nowhere, it strikes me like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky.
I see it so clearly. A boy sitting in the ostentatious reception area of Townsen Industries, his head bowed, curls falling over his forehead, shoulders slumped under a sadness far too heavy for someone so young. I was ten, and we’d stopped by to see my father. He’d been in a foul mood. Something about a woman being there and causing trouble. I wasn’t listening to the details; I just remembered how furious he was. My mother left with me soon after, and that was when I saw him. The boy, I’m now sure, was Chaz. He couldn’t have been much older than me. Eleven or twelve. But I felt his pain; it was that palpable. It seemed to claw at me.
“Why is he so sad?” I whispered to my mother, my gaze lingering on his downcast face. He looked up, and I saw the tears in his sepia-flecked eyes.
“That boy is none of your concern, Alexandra,” she snapped, her tone sharp and final as she quickly tugged me along without a second glance.
I thought of him long after, but I knew better than to ask again. Then, I guess the memory faded until this moment when it gripped me like a vice, squeezing the air from my lungs. Imanage to piece together the fragments, and the picture they make shakes me to my core.
Chaz’s father must have worked for Townsen Industries. There’s no other explanation for why he would have been there. Why it was that day and how it related to thewoman causing trouble,I don’t know. But I know they’re connected just as surely as I know it was him.
My stomach coils like barbed wire, and bile rises in my throat. The corporate machine my father controls—the machine I’ve spent my adult life wanting to escape—is the same one Chaz blames for the death of his father.
What perverse twist of fate would allow this? Of all the towns, of all the places, of all the people—how could this happen?
“Lex, what’s going on?” His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Talk to me. Is it because I said I love you? I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
He reaches for my hand, and I flinch, guilt crashing over me in tortured waves. “I . . .” My voice falters, breaking under the pressure of everything I can’t say. I shake my head helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
His hand hovers between us, his voice calm and steady despite the sad confusion in his eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking—feeling—you can tell me. We’ll figure it out.”
I want to believe that. I want to believe that the man who had just poured his heart out in song could somehow still look at me the same way after finding out the truth. But how could he? How could anyone love the daughter of a man who stole someone so beloved from him?
“I’m going to be sick.” I bolt to the bathroom in the basement, barely making it before my stomach turns inside out. Retching, the contents of my dinner spill into the toilet, but the guilt and sorrow remain relentless and gutting.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I hesitate outside the door for a second, the faint sound of her labored breathing making me feel like an intruder. But my protective instinct wins out. I knock softly and try the handle, finding it unlocked. “Lex, I’m coming in.”
When I step inside, she’s slumped against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest. Her face is pale, her hair sticking to her damp forehead. She won’t meet my eyes. I grab a washclothfrom beneath the sink, wet it under the tap, and crouch in front of her.
“Hey,” I say softly, pressing the cool cloth to her forehead. She closes her eyes, leaning into it just enough to break me.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks. “I’m so sorry I ruined the night.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I say gently. Her trembling shoulders and unsteady breathing have me worried that she might be on the verge of something more intense than a panic attack. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?”
She shakes her head, pressing her knees tighter against her chest. “My stomach’s okay, but I need my pills. I feel a headache coming on.”
“Do you have them here?”
“Yes, but I should go back to the cottage.”
“Why? I can take care of you.”
“Thank you, but that’s not your responsibility.”
Her response fucking hurts. I manage to keep my voice steady, though an edge creeps in. “Given that I just told you how I feel, I think we can safely assume I want that responsibility.”
She nods slightly, wrapping her arms around herself. “It wasn’t because you said you love me. I didn’t freak out because of that.”
I wait, giving her the chance to explain. But she doesn’t. “Then what is it?” I ask, desperate for something—anything—that makes sense.
“I cherish the song—your words. I’m not rejecting them or you. Please don’t think that.”
“To be honest, Lex. I don’t know what to think.”
