“Bro, this is going to guarantee movie deals, documentary deals, merch drops, late-night interviews?—”
“Tristan,” I snap. “Stop thinking like a publicist.”
There’s a pause.
Then Tristan answers, softer:
“Okay. I’ll think like your friend instead.”
Good.
Because the fire in my chest is too much to hold alone.
I hang up.
Step out of the car.
The wind whips my hair, stings my face, rattles through me like electricity.
I walk to the cliff’s edge where Jade once pressed her forehead to mine and told me she believed I was more than the world made me.
I lift my phone.
I switch to front camera.
The wind is loud. My eyes burn. My breath fogs the lens.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “It’s me. Leo.”
My heart pounds.
“Jade… this one’s for you.”
And I hit record.
The wind on the cliffs is brutal tonight.
It cuts across my face, grabs at my jacket, rattles my bones. Waves slam into the rocks below, white foam exploding in the dark like the ocean’s pissed off at the world too.
It fits my mood.
I’m standing where I used to bring her.
Where she’d lean against my chest and talk about soccer and stargazing and getting the hell out of every small-minded place we’d ever known.
Now I’m here alone.
Phone in my hand.
Heart in my throat.
Her face on my screen.
I’ve watched her Boston vlog at least ten times in the last three hours.
Her voice saying:“You can start again. Every day if you need to.”
She’s becoming more than a girl.
