Since he woke up with her in his arms, and promptly tumbledout of bed because ofwhat the hands attached to those arms had been doing in his sleep, and that was how he discovered she was the most ticklish on the spots roughly three inches above her knees and halfway down her ribs and where the curve of her left shoulder met her neck.
It was one year, five months, and two weeks since he got to makehercoffee for once.
It was one year, five months, and thirteen days since Theo went back down to his studio. He grabbed a broom and a dustpan and swept up all the shattered dreams he’d left strewn on the floor, and then he fired up his burners and chose a length of glass tubing.
His hands shook, and they shook horrifically. There was nothing to be done about it now, nothing more than he was already doing with only marginal improvement. But this time, he leaned into it. Instead of fighting it, he let his new state guide the vision—because Audrey seemed to really like his hands just fine the way they were. And if she liked them, maybe he could grow to like them again too, flaws and all.
He started to make things again.
Yes, get back in the shop.
Working with your hands will clear your head.
It always did mine.
It feltgood.
It was one year and five months since he posted an ungloved photo of those hands Audrey liked so much on Lightm4st3r’s Instagram, wondering if she might see, if she might know. And she did. So he took a chance, and let her into his soul, and showed her his studio—and, with those hands, the stars.
But it was one year, four months, and twenty-seven days since he saw his mother again.
Since seeing her shattered him completely, all over again, straight to his severed soul.
Since he felt like he lost his father all over again.
Since he remembered what he was:
GARBAGE.
Your fault.
Your fault.
YOUR FAULT.
His voice in your head isn’t real.
It’s wishful thinking, a lie, a dream.
Dad’s dead and it’s your fault.
You killed him.
It was one year, four months, and twenty-seven days since Audrey was there to hold him together when he nearly came apart completely.
Since her words actually managed to penetrate his soul—because she was beautiful and honest and good, and she couldn’t lie, and if she said it, it had to be true.
It’s not your fault, Theo.
It was an accident.
He tried to save you.
You’re alive because he sacrificed himself for you.
Your dad loved you.
It was one year, four months, and twenty-seven days since he confessed that he lovedher, truly, madly, deeply, with every fiber of his being.
