Page 46 of The Song We Lost

A knock comes.

I don’t answer at first because my voice is an unreliable thing right now. But she knows me. She waits, and then she speaks through the door.

“Bailey. It’s me.”

I open it, and Rachel takes one look at my face and steps inside without asking. There’s a gentleness to her movements that makes it worse. Like she’s approaching a fracture line. Hereyes drop to my hand, to what I am clutching in my palm... the ring.

I swallow hard and hold it out to her. She takes it, closing her fingers around it like it’s important, like it’s heavy. Like she's taking part of the weight for me.

“Have them leave it,” I say, voice rough. “In the house. Once they take the things on my list. Have them leave it on the dresser, with Luke’s things.”

Rachel’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the question in it anyway. "You are sure you don't want to keep it, Bailey?"

I can't answer, so I just shake my head.

“Do you want to leave a note?” she asks.

I let out a breath that sounds like it might be a laugh if my life weren’t on fire.

“No.”

Rachel nods once, like that’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Okay,” she says. “No note.”

My throat tightens. I turn away, walking toward the window because I can’t stand being seen too clearly right now.

“Did he call?” I hate that I ask. I hate that a part of me still hopes for something from him even now. Rachel doesn’t answer immediately, which is its own answer.

“No,” she says softly.

My stomach twists. I stare at the city lights and feel something cold settle behind my ribs. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.

How did we get here? I thought I was going to spend forever with him. How...

Rachel’s phone buzzes once in her hand. She glances down, and something crosses her eyes.

“What?” I ask.

She hesitates like she wants to protect me from information, and then remembers that protection isn’t possible anymore.

“The packing team is confirmed,” she says. "They will be headed over early tomorrow. Luke isn't there."

It should feel like closure. It doesn’t. It feels like I’m removing a piece of my soul.

Rachel pockets her phone and looks at me.

“You have ten minutes,” she says, gentle but firm. “Then we need to go downstairs. Jackson’s team wants to walk through the final details. No pressure. But we need to show.”

Right... the show must go one...

I nod again because nodding takes less energy than speaking.

Rachel turns toward the door, then pauses. “Bailey.”

I look at her.

“You don’t have to do the party after,” she says. “You can do the onstage moment, and then we can get you back here.”