Easton.
He watches me, and I feel ... hopeful.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I open my mouth to speak, but pain cuts through my throat, and a raspy voice leaves my lips. “Ev—” I wince at the tenderness. “Eva—” Evangeline. My name is Evangeline.
“Eva?”
Eva. No one has ever called me that before. It sounds nice when he says it. Strong. Like someone I want to be.
I nod, and he smiles.
This place, the food, his smile ... it can’t be real. The comfort puts a weight on my chest and lightens me all at once. My eyes burn. I can’t cry.
“Thank you,” I croak, cross my arms, and shift my gaze to the side in the hope he’ll leave before I humiliate myself.
He takes the hint and clears his throat. “Okay, well, I’ll give you some space.”
I nod without meeting his eyes.
Then, he disappears out of the room, and a piece of me crumbles.Come back.Don’t leave me alone. But another part of me exhales a breath of relief.
A few moments later, I hear it through the open window. The first pluck of a guitar string. I’ve made it to the music. Closer than I’ve ever been. Except, it’s not just any music. It’sWild Horses. Tears slip past my lashes and down my cheeks. I hear my mother’s voice with every strum. The music and her memory blend to entwine like silk and caress my soul.
He can’t know it’s my mother’s song, but I imagine whoever brought me to this white room of Heaven made him play it just for me.
I cry harder.
I cry for so long I doubt I’ll ever stop.
Easton
(Fifteen years old)
Her olive skin looks tanner up close, her hair darker and her frame smaller. My frown deepens as I watch her sleep with tear tracks still on her cheeks.
Running a hand through my hair, I wince at the guilt simmering in my gut. She obviously wanted to be alone; I don’t think she wanted me to see her cry. But I couldn’t stop myself from checking on her when I heard her tears finally stop.
My gaze slides to the full plate of food on the side table. She hasn’t eaten anything yet.
I’ve never seen anyone so exhausted before. I sure as hell didn’t mean to make her cry. I just wanted to make her feel better—the way music makes me feel better. Instead, I screwed it all up.
I push a breath past my lips.
My gaze settles on her closed eyes, and an ache washes over me. I don’t know why—why it hurts to look at her. Why my hands shake at seeing her up close. I don’t know anything about her. But I feel like I do.
Eva.
A year is a long time to watch someone from your bedroom window. To watch her come back, almost night after night. Sometimes, she’s so tired she barely makes it across the yard. Sometimes, she doesn’t show at all. But when she does, she always pushes herself. Always makes it to the shed. Until last night anyway.
Eva.
“Easton.”
I jolt at my mom’s voice coming from near my room.
