“I don’t know,” she replies, sounding lost.
“Believe in yourself. I do.”
She’s silent for a moment, and so am I, but somehow the silence feels like something more. Like words that need to be said, words that neither of us has enough courage to say.
“Do you know, when you hugged me the other day... that was the first time anyone hugged me since the funeral,” Rayne says, breaking the silence.
I freeze. I don’t know what I expected her to say next, but it wasn’t that.
“The first?” I ask. I can’t keep the sound of shock out of my voice.
“Sad, huh?”
“What about your grandmother?”
“She’s not the hugging kind.” A desperate laugh escapes from her. “God, now I’m crying again. I’m sorry, I don’t want to cry all the time, it’s just—”
“Stop apologizing. You don’t need to. Especially not for crying.”
“Yes, I do. Otherwise at some point you’ll get sick of my whining.”
Her words cut me to the heart. “Never,” I promise, and I hope she believes me.
Chapter 16
Rayne
Shapeshifting—Taylor Acorn
I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling. It’s still too early to go to sleep, but I’m exhausted. Easton hung up twenty minutes ago, and since then my room has been completely silent. Too silent. I can hear my own thoughts.
Why can’t you believe in yourself, Birdy?
Yeah, why can’t I? It should be a lot easier to believe in yourself than in someone else. After all, no one knows you better than you know yourself.
But I think that’s the whole problem. When you know yourself too well, you just set your standards even higher. You want to be perfect and always do your best, but sometimes your best just isn’t good enough. I’m decent enough at all kinds of things, but I’m not exceptionally good at any of them. That’s why I have so much trouble believing in myself.
I’ll never be able to dance as perfectly as Mom. My voice will never be as good as Dad’s, or so unique that everyone recognizesit instantly. I can’t write songs like he could. I could scribble lyrics all over my walls, but as soon as I sit down in front of a notebook and try to cobble a few lines into a song, something blocks me. I’ve tried, of course. But every time, my mind goes blank. Nothing. Not a word. I have nothing to say, even though I actually have a lot to say.
It used to be different. I can still remember sitting with Dad in his studio, watching him write songs and then trying to create something of my own. Back then, the stakes were lower. I was a kid, and I just wrote whatever came into my head. It didn’t matter if it sounded good or had potential. They were just ideas, but I want that lightheartedness back. Why did it suddenly disappear?
Probably because I grew up. Tears are overflowing from my eyes, not unexpectedly. I cry too much, but I really don’t want to anymore. I’m tired of it, but I can’t do anything to change it. All at once I hear Dad’s voice. He’s singing my song, and though I’ve been resisting it for the past few months, I can’t resist it now. I haven’t listened to “Mockingbird”... since that day. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear it. But his voice and words are still in my head.
You were always chasing heights
Beautiful and brave
Dancing fearlessly through the nights
Knowing you were safe
Maybe that’s the crux of the problem. I don’t feel safe anymore. I’m not brave. I’m scared, and I’m so damn alone that everything hurts.
I’m shaken out of my thoughts when there’s a knock at my door. Zoe or Mae, I’m pretty sure. They’re out in the hall and want toconvince me to come to the common room. Someone got a screen for a movie night, and I should really join in. I need a distraction and to spend time with my new friends. I need to do things teenagers do.
Sighing, I crawl out of bed. Distraction might not be the worst idea. But when I open the door, it’s not my friends standing there but Easton. All at once I’m self-conscious in my old sweatpants and school hoodie, my hair tied up in a messy bun. Not to mention the fact that I probably look like I’ve been crying.
“Hey, Birdy,” he says. His voice is so gentle that I almost instantly feel better.
