I glance toward the front door — the porch where Ethan stood almost twelve hours ago, shutting down, pulling away like the moment meant nothing.
“I think so,” I whisper. “For the first time in a long time… I think I might be.”
Banks exhales like he’s been holding it for months.
“Good,” he says. “You deserve that feeling, Lu.”
I bite my lip. “Even if it’s… untouchable?”
“Especially then,” he murmurs. “Even wanting something you can’t have means you’re coming back to life.”
I press the notebook to my chest again — the lyrics humming inside me.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe wanting anything at all is a start.
My gaze drifts to the open notebook. The half-formed lyrics. The melody still humming in the air like a ghost.
Maybe… maybe I’m not broken beyond repair.
And maybe that’s the first dangerous thought I’ve had in a long time.
Because wanting a future means wanting things inside it. And wanting things… wantinghim…I close my eyes, pressing the heel of my hand to my sternum where the ache begins.
Untouchable.
Yeah. That’s the problem.
But for the first time in months, the idea of tomorrow doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a door I might—just might—be able to open.
Chapter 13
Lucky
Imust’vepassedoutagain.
One minute I’m strumming the same three chords, letting the vibration hum through my bones, telling myself it’s just a lazy afternoon on the porch. The next—
Cool drops tap my cheek.
I blink awake to the sky turning the color of bruised steel. A massive dark cloud crawls across the lake like something alive.
Shit.
I sit up too fast, and the lounger swings. My guitar nearly slides off my lap.
I must’ve fallen asleep right after lunch. Great. Real rockstar behavior: unconscious in broad daylight like a sedated housecat.
The wind kicks up hard enough to rattle the wind chimes. The first fat raindrops splatter on the deck boards.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, scooping my guitar and notebook and the empty iced tea glass I don’t even remember finishing. I hustle everything inside, dumping it all onto the kitchen counter in a messy pile.
The storm isn’t polite about its arrival.
Within seconds, leaves swirl across the porch like they’re fleeing something.
The sky growls — deep, rolling, familiar in the worst way.
