I couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing what was left of me. I didn’t want to watch her face when she realized half a man was all she’d get. So I made it easy for her to hate me; it was easier than watching her pity me.
Now Orion’s saying her band’s name like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just ripped open seven months’ worth of scar tissue.
And of course it’s nothing for him. He didn’t know about the secret relationship I had with his sister.
“You’re serious?” I ask, and my voice comes out rougher than I’d like.
“Dead serious. I already booked our flights. We leave on Wednesday.”
He says it like it’s simple. Like I haven’t spent half a year trying to walk without a limp and breathe without regret. Like stepping into a stadium where she might be, a place where I could accidentally run into her, won’t gut me from the inside out.
“You booked flights?” I ask, mostly to buy time so I can think of an excuse not to see Celeste. I’m not ready.
“Do you seriously think I’m gonna squeeze into a rental car with your giant ass for eleven hours? Of course, I booked flights. First class, so we can stretch our legs with minimal suffering.”
I snort despite myself.
He claps his hands once, like it’s all decided. “So, pack your shit. We’re going.”
I groan and drag a towel across my neck, sweat cooling on my skin. The last thing I want to do is be dragged to a concert filled with reminders ofher. I know Orion. If I say no, he’ll find another way.
And maybe, God help me, maybe I’m tired of hiding.
Tired of the quiet, the therapy sessions, the “progress” charts that make healing look like something you can graph.
Still, it feels too raw and too soon, but it’s been seven months.
“You sure this is a good idea?” I ask quietly. My voice comes out more vulnerable than I mean for it to.
Orion doesn’t answer right away. He studies me like he’s searching for cracks in a wall he watched me rebuild. “No, but sometimes the good ideas don’t get us anywhere. The bad ones, the ones that scare the shit out of us, those are the ones that push us forward.”
I hate that that makes sense, and that he’s right.
He usually is. That’s the problem with being friends with a man who thinks logic is therapy and emotional repression is a hobby.
He stands and taps his knuckles lightly against my shoulder; it’s our form of a hug. The wordless, immovable kind of loyalty that saysI’ve got youwithout needing to be said.
“We’re going,” he repeats. “Pack anyway, Lucy.”
“I have a cat, I can’t just up and leave him.” I blurt out before I can think better of it, I need an excuse not to go to this concert. I am not ready to potentially face Celeste.
He freezes, mid-step. “You have awhat?”
The regret is instant and absolute. I should’ve come up with a different excuse.
“It’s not a big deal, I just can’t take off without notice like I used to,” I grumble.
Orion blinks like I just confessed to joining a cult. “You? Lucian Sterling, emotional wall of doom, patron saint of isolation, got acat?”
“I was at the shelter planning on getting a dog.”
“Adog?What stopped you?”
I glance toward the floor, jaw flexing. “The cat.”
“Uh-huh,” Orion says. “And what’s this cat’s name?”
“It’s not important.”
