And if they’re still here, still shining…
Then so is he.
I squeeze his hand and whisper back, “That’s okay. We can make something out of pieces.”
His shoulders dip as he exhales, those words giving him room to breathe again.
We stay there in silence, the stars scattered above us like a shattered map.
Not whole. Not fixed.
But still burning.
Chapter 59Annalise
There’s a question at the forefront of my mind the next morning as I change into a knee-length sunflower dress and comb a brush through my shower-damp hair. It’s been sitting there for a few days, poking, festering, too petty to say aloud.
But as Chase wanders into the bedroom in a pair of sweatpants, his chest bare, I swallow my pride and blurt it out. “How come you sent all the guys a custom guitar?”
What I really meant to ask was,“Why didn’t you send anything to me?”
I watch him stall behind me in the mirror, mid-bend as he reaches for a stray T-shirt.
“What?” he says.
“Tag told me you sent him a guitar. That’s how he found you.” Swallowing, I go back to brushing my hair, distracting myself from the lump in my throat. “He said Rock and Zach got one too. They just never thought to trace the return address.”
Faltering, he scoops up the shirt and flings it over his shoulder, pivoting toface me. “I planned to send you one.”
I blink into the mirror, then set the brush aside. Swiveling around, I lean back against the edge of the dresser. “You did?”
“I, um…” He scratches his head. “I never got to finish it.”
A curious frown bends. “Oh.”
“I was taking my time with it. It was more…involved,” he says softly. “Then my vision went to shit and I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t see anything clearly.”
My eyes water. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to assume—”
“Don’t apologize, Annie. I should have sent it anyway. I never wanted to leave you with nothing.”
An ache spreads across my chest because I know whatleave youimplies. More than walking away. More than a tepid goodbye.
Something permanent.
I push off the dresser and take a step toward him. “Can I see it?”
Hesitation grips him for a heavy beat. Then he nods. “Yeah. It’s in the shed.”
He tosses the shirt aside and leads me out the back door, past the brittle patch of wild grass and down the uneven stone path toward the shed. Morning sunlight filters through the trees, dappling his shoulders in gold.
My pulse thunders with every step, unsure of what I’m about to see.
When Chase swings open the shed door, I’m hit with the scent of cedar shavings and dust, the kind that clings to forgotten projects. Everything is neat but worn, tools lining the wall, paint cans stacked like a timeline of lost plans. He crosses to a workbench, not needing clear vision to know where to go, and kneels near the corner of the shed.
He lifts the sticker-covered case that’s marked with memories from all the places we’ve toured before popping the latches and flipping it open.
Inside sits a guitar unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
