Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“You helped her cover it up. Even though you knew, deep down, that she was lying,” I finished for him, my eyes hard on his face. “That’s what you’re telling me.”
He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I was drunk. It wasn’t the only thing that didn’t make sense. So many things looked wonky. It was just another thing on that list. But I’m going to make sure she turns herself in, Indie. If she won’t, you bet your arse I will.”
“Spare me the excuses.”
“I said I’m going to make it right.”
“You’re also a self-proclaimed liar,” I felt my lower lip trembling like a leaf.
“I’m not lying to you now. I promise.”
“You let her get away with murder.” My voice pitched high, too high, and I became dizzy again. He scooted toward me, and I slapped his hand away when he tried to take mine. “No.”
“I would’ve never let her get away with it had I really known. I didn’t know. I just suspected, but half the fucking time I was seeing and feeling things that weren’t there. I was paranoid. And shit-faced. No matter how bad it looked, I chose to overlook it and buy what she was telling me.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to take the next breath. I missed Mom. I missed Dad. I missed normalcy, and Saturday dinners, and Christmases, and even the dreaded Sunday mass. I missed the opportunity and promise of being normal, whole; I missed my big brother and how he took care of me. I even missed the great father Craig could have been to Ziggy, had Alex picked up the phone and called 911 when Fallon came home that night.
Then, maybe, my mother would have survived.
Then, maybe, I wouldn’t be on this tour, my heart shattering into a million pieces as I tried to hold it together, feeling like my pain was bursting at the seams, my whole existence gathered together with pins and needles stapled by my old sewing machine.
“Consider this my official resignation,” I said, eyes still closed.
“No,” he said. “No, no, no, no, no.”
“I wouldn’t push me, Alex. You’ve done enough. Respect my wishes and let me go.” I opened my eyes now, staring at him, at everything that he was. A traitor I’d opened the door to and willingly let into my life. It had taken him mere weeks to slip from the hallway and into my domain. He’d conquered every single inch of me and used it against me, unbeknownst to him. I didn’t see his beauty, his sex appeal, or his dazzling bone structure. I didn’t see the funny, complex, tortured guy I wanted so badly to fix. All I saw was a broken prince with pleading eyes who was on the verge of tears. Man tears. Not angry or exasperated or annoyed. But real and sad and deep.
All broken princes die. Hadn’t he said that? Maybe he was right. The scariest part was that, at that moment, I wanted him to be right.
I smiled, surprising myself. I didn’t know I had a mean streak, but I guess Alex had dug it out from deep within me and dumped it onto the morgue table along with my heart. I knew that once he’d find my poem—the one I’d written after our night in his childhood bedroom—he’d see why this was over. Why we could never be together.
“If you leave me,” he said, “you take my soul with you.”
“It’s always been my soul,” I said, my tone quiet and defiant. “You don’t have a soul. Not for a very long time. You proved it by turning a blind eye all those years ago when you could have saved my mom. You don’t need me. You need you. Time for you to pack a bag and travel the different planets. Find your soul, Alex. You’ll never truly be happy without it.”
She left me a note.
On a sheet of paper.
From a notepad.
My notepad.
The notepad I’d used to write songs. Songs she’d inspired. Songs that were meant for her, and maybe even to her, and held her legacy, each word pregnant with so much more than its meaning. It was a cross between a poem and a letter. About us. About me. About the fucked-up thing that we were. Then, underneath it, underlined and in red, something else. More recent. The ink pressed so hard against the paper, it had torn around the letters.
You’re beautiful, Alex, but you’re empty. No one could die for you. And no one should have died because of you. –Indie
She’d quoted The Little Prince, and somehow, that hurt even more. The Little Prince was ours. I’d written her a song about him—and she’d twisted it against me. It dawned on me, in a Parisian hotel that looked exactly like all the rest, but also very different, that I’d finally found her. The girl who was worth all these songs I’d written. Then I’d lost her. The girl whose life I’d helped ruin.