Page 178 of The Song We Lost

Luke disappearing too makes this whole thing feel darker than people realize.

@reply

Whatever happened between them… they both look broken lately.

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chapter 46

luke

. . .

Iknew the second Bailey answered the phone that whatever was about to happen was bad.

She had been sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace in Cole’s house, Iris asleep against her chest while she half stared at the flames and half scribbled in the notebook balanced on her knee. It had become her routine lately. To hold Iris close while she wrote constantly in her journal. I wasn’t sure if she was using it to process her grief or if they was writing songs again.

When her phone rang she almost ignored it, then she saw the screen and carefully shifted Iris into the bassinet beside the couch before answering.

“Hey.”

I watched her face slowly harden, and the tension in her body grow until she was almost vibrating.

“No.”

Another pause.

“No, Rachel. I said no.”

I set my guitar down quietly and stood from the kitchen table. I had been keeping myself close, while also trying to give Bailey space and we had been falling into some semblance of a routine. I had spoken with my therapist about the best way to approach the discussion about us, about the divorce and I was hoping to have the conversation with her that evening.

Bailey started pacing in front of the windows. “I don’t care what they promised advertisers.”

She listened again before laughing once, sharp and disbelieving. “You cannot seriously be saying this to me right now.”

Every muscle in my body tightened. The last two weeks had hollowed her out. Grief moved through her strangely. Some days she barely spoke at all, disappearing into silence while she held Iris for hours. Other days it was like she was vibrating beneath her skin, angry at everything and nothing all at once. This was one of those days.

“I don’t give a fuck about the opening slot,” Bailey snapped. “My sister just died.”

The room went silent except for Iris cooing softly in her sleep. Bailey pressed her hand to her forehead like she was trying to physically hold herself together. Then quieter, more wounded than angry, she whispered, “How are they all this cruel?”

Something inside my chest twisted violently. I crossed the room slowly, close enough if she needed me, but not touching her. Bailey listened another few seconds before finally shoving the phone toward me with shaking hands.

“I can’t,” she whispered.