PROLOGUE
VIOLET
“HOAX” - TAYLOR SWIFT
FOUR YEARS AGO
I wasunder the impression that March equaled the start of spring—blooming flowers, sunshine, the hope of a new dawn. Shit like that.
However, the frigid gust of wind that stings my cheeks as I climb out of the Fourth Street and Washington Square subway station feels like an omen of despair.
I use two fingers to zoom in on the map on my phone screen, figuring out which direction I need to take to find my dropped pin. I have to go three blocks north, then take a right down Tenth Street, and that should lead me right to her door. Though, I’ve gotten lost three times so far today, so I’m not overly hopeful.
I asked Monica for the address in passing, making it sound like I was going to send her a card of some sort. Thankfully, Monica didn’t press for the occasion, because it’s nowhere close to her birthday or any other card-worthy holiday we’d be celebrating.
That was three weeks ago. I quietly booked my flight out here and then told my friends—her family—that I was going to spend the weekend with my parents in Palm Springs. I knew nobody would ask questions about that, because my parents don’t speak to them anymore. They don’t speak to anyone, including me.
Somehow, I make my way to the address Monica provided me. It’s a charming red-brick building with steps leading up to one entry, but numerous black fire escapes and white-framed windows looking out onto the street tell me they must all be apartments.
I walk up to the front door, finding a metal panel with unit numbers—each one paired with a circular button. I recheck my information, confirming that she’s 313, and press the buzzer for her apartment.
It goes unanswered.
“Come on, Elena. You fucking coward,” I growl, buzzing her again after a minute passes.
The wind picks up, and I wrap my coat tighter around myself. I definitely should’ve worn more layers. I didn’t pack for an extended stay, because hotels in Manhattan are expensive as fuck, and I have no idea how this interaction might go with her. I wanted to prepare myself for pain—more than the pain she already caused me when I woke up that morning months ago—and somehow, it felt like if all I had was a carry-on when I ran back to California with my tail between my legs, it’d hurt less.
Despite expecting this to all go poorly, I couldn’t not try. I gave her time and space. Six months’ worth of it, really, but I know her better than anyone on earth knows her. She’s been brewing and hiding and letting her emotions build. Eventually, the adrenaline and the shock are going to bottom out, and the grief and guilt will set in, if they haven’t already.
Partially, I’m fucking angry at her for isolating herself from me. Another part of me is fucking terrified that she blames me,and that she’ll never look me in the eye again without seeing him. Most of me, though, is just desperate to know exactly what’s going on inside her head so I can fix it. I’ve always been able to see her in ways others can’t. I’ve been able to read the words she can’t express, and I think that’s why she ran from me. She’s not ready to address this, and she knows the moment she looks into my eyes, all that she’s been suppressing is going to rise to the surface.
So, I’m angry with her, but more than anything, I fucking miss her. I’ve been destroyed without her, and I’m fearful of the guilt that comes alive when I look at her—the kind I felt that night when she was sleeping in my arms—but I’m not afraid enough to never see her face again.
I gave her three months to run and hide in New York, and now I’m cashing in. She’s going to see me, she’s going to talk to me, and she’s going to hear me out. I’m going to fix this, fix us, because even after everything, I still believe we’re meant to be.
Fate makes it hard to feel like it’s on my side when I realize she isn’t home right now, though.
I sigh, backtracking down the steps and taking a stroll around the block. I pick up a scarf, a sandwich, and a Coke from the bodega on the corner before I return to her building. I ring her buzzer three more times with no answer before I settle in on the bottom step and wait.
Either she’s inside right now and ignoring me—in which case, I’ll wait her out. Or she’s not home, and that just means I’ll be right here when she shows up. Even if I end up sitting here all night, New York is the city that never sleeps or whatever, so I don’t need to either. All I know is that I didn’t fly three thousand miles not to see her fucking face.
I put in my AirPods, bundling the scarf around my neck and chin, and tuck my hands inside my coat as the sun sinks low on the horizon, causing the temperature to drop further. Hozierblasts inside my ears, and nerves swirl in my bones, but I settle in to wait, feeling hopeful for the first time since that late night in January.
The sound of laughter startles me from the daze I must’ve dozed off into. My eyes fly open as I sit up straight, realizing I was leaning against the handrailing of the stairs. I check to ensure my backpack is still on the ground between my legs, thankful it didn’t get swiped.
It’s completely dark now, though the illumination of the city around me makes it feel damn near daylight. There are still dozens of people strolling along the sidewalks, dipping in and out of apartments, bars, and restaurants on the street in front of me. It’s lively and cheerful. I can understand why people love New York so much, though I’m not sure I’d ever be able to justify living somewhere where I can't see the stars.
I wonder if that’s why this is the place Elena ran to. I wonder if she’s trying to avoid the sky I remind her of.
That laugh chimes again, closer this time. I know that laugh better than I know my own heartbeat. I can still remember the way it racked against my chest the first time I heard the sound when I was just a kid. The way I’d do anything to hear it over and over.
I stand up, swiveling my head down both sides of the street in search of that laugh, of her. I don’t know how she’s going to react when she sees me, but I hope it’s enough to get me through her door and give me a chance to explain why I’m here.
I finally catch sight of her rounding the corner of a nearby alley. She’s not paying attention to where she’s going, arms linked between two people. A girl with short, platinum-blond hair and a blue beanie, and a tall, lanky man who gazes down at Elena like she hung the goddamn fucking moon.
She skips between them, dark curls bouncing, her beautiful face bright with carefree laughter.
What the fuck?
