“Why?”
“No clue.” I laugh, even though it’s not funny. “We didn’t get that far before she ran away.”
“Okay, I don’t get any of this. I thought she was ghosting you?”
“She was.” She just showed up, and I was totally unprepared. Shit, it really shouldn’t have happened this way.
“So she just appeared here? Why? I mean, what’s the point? She doesn’t answer your messages, but suddenly she’s living in the same city and turning up in the record store where you work?”
“I told her where I work. It’s not a secret.”
“It’s all a bit strange. You know that, don’t you?”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing strange about it. It’s just extremely complicated.
“Why did she run away?”
“I don’t know, man,” I groan. “If I knew that, I would be able to see the whole thing more clearly.”
“So ask her,” he retorts, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Sure. This time she’ll definitely answer me.” I can’t disguise the bitterness in my voice. We fall silent, and I take a sip of mycoffee and make a face when I discover it’s only lukewarm. I hate cold coffee.
“What did you say her name is?” Beck asks a little later.
“Rayne,” I say, and in a weird way it feels good to use her real name.
“Rayne? As inRayne Bellamy?”
“No, that’s ridiculous, of course not—” I break off, and all at once the world stands still. Rayne. Mockingbird. No photo of her whole face on her account, no mention of her name.
Liam. “Mockingbird,” the song. She messaged me just two days before Liam contacted us. He said his daughter had found our video on YouTube and that she would have liked to meet us, but that wasn’t an option because she had school. He always visited us in Boston and we never flew to LA, so we never met his family. None of us thought anything of it.
The countless articles about the accident. Her name was mentioned repeatedly, that’s why it sounded so familiar. I remember pixelated photos of a petite girl with purple hair and large sunglasses covering half her face. Her hair was hidden by her hat today; she must have tucked it completely underneath.
“Fuck,” I whisper. My ears are ringing. How could I have missed this? God, what an idiot I am. She used the name of one of her father’s songs as her Instagram handle, and I didn’t get it.
But it’s her. Birdy is Rayne Bellamy.
Chapter 4
Rayne
Better Days—Dermot Kennedy
The front door slams behind me with a loud bang. Breathing heavily, I sink down against the door and close my eyes for a moment. Tears burn behind my eyelids, and I have a lump in my throat. Shit. This has gone totally wrong.
My heart aches. I screwed up in the worst possible way, just because I didn’t think things through. My hands clench into fists and I bite my lower lip to suppress the sobs that are threatening to break out, even though Grandma isn’t here to hear them. The house is completely silent, and I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t be able to talk to her, anyway.
Grandma’s house in Back Bay is too big for an old woman and a teenager, two people who barely know each other. Everything in this house feels off. The creaky wooden floors, the dark green walls. Dark furniture, dark picture frames. The whole house is dark. The rooms aren’t small, but they feel that way because they’re so cluttered. Tall bookshelves are stacked with leather-bound volumesthat nobody reads. Sideboards are dotted with candles that never burn. Gilded mirrors and lamp bases add a touch of brightness, but that’s about it.
Grandma’s house is the total opposite of our welcoming villa in LA, where the living room and kitchen were part of the same space. The entire first story was open plan, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the ocean. Here, all you can see out the windows are tiny gardens and backyards. There are wide streets with old-fashioned lanterns and trees that will start to bloom in a few months.
Boston is so different from Los Angeles. Less spread out, less free. The city feels more controlled, more orderly. Just like Grandma. She’s exactly like that, and it’s one of a thousand reasons I find it difficult to talk to her. Even though she’s all that’s left of my family.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. Drying my eyes, I straighten up and take my shoes and coat off, then pad up the stairs to my room in my socks. Carelessly, I toss my backpack on the floor next to my bed, even though I’m itching to get out my phone and check if Easton has texted me. I don’t need to look to know he hasn’t. He tried so hard for months, and I still ran away. No, if anyone should get in touch, it’s me.
I just don’t know what to say to him. Which part of the truth should I share? Or should I tell him all of it? Telling him everything would be only fair, but the whole truth hurts.
