I live in an almost constant state of fear, hiding money all over the place just in case something happens because I’m so fucking paranoid I don’t even trust banks. I don’t use a credit or debit card anymore. I pay for everything in cash and try like hell to avoid leaving a paper trail.
I have full-blown panic attacks almost daily, and black out more often than anyone should. Not to mention the crippling nightmares, night terrors, and insomnia that could break records.
Hell, Iknowthat bastard is dead and gone, but I still carry around a bag—complete with a fucking gun—in case I do need to bolt.
Damaged goods, that’s what I am, and this perfect soul in my lap deserves something a thousand times better than what I have to offer.
Which is absolutely nothing but a life of misery.
The idea of being in love just turned ugly really quick.
9
LEONOR
Slowly sliding out from under Lucky, I brush his hair out of his eyes before I get out of bed. I stand there for a few minutes, just looking at him, loving him still, and longing for things to be different.
But they never will be.
I shake my head and wish away the tears that begin to form then wipe my eyes hard with the heels of my hands.
As much as I want him—the four of them—in my life, it may not be an option. I’d rather give him a chance to find his happiness, find love and all the things I’ll never be able to give him, which means I’ll have to let him go.
I’ll have to let them all go.
With a deep breath, I quietly duck into the bathroom, take a couple pills from the bottle in the cabinet then walk down the spiral staircase. I find myself heading toward the brick wall on the far side of my living room without even thinking. There are still so many ghosts here, white death shrouds covering them, hiding their secrets.
For some reason I’m drawn to the largest one in the middle, compelled to remove the cloth and jar it free from this fucked-up, morbid game of Tetris.
I pull it out far enough so it doesn’t touch another piece of furniture or disturb another sleeping ghost, and with a shaking hand I slowly pull at the sheet. I expose the rich mahogany underneath as well as the raw wound I’ve been living with, the thing festering under the surface for years.
Running my fingers over the smooth finish of the wood lid, I gently lift it up and onto the stand. I grab the bench from in front of the window and sit, centering myself the best I can before I cautiously expose the well-loved keys. Barely touching them, I notice how hard my hands are shaking, but I don’t stop.
I start to play regardless of the fear trying to tell me not to, and before I know it, I’m singing. I can’t stop now if I wanted to, it just comes pouring out in a more therapeutic way than the hundreds of therapy sessions tried to provide.
Twenty One Pilots’Addict with a Pen.
They aren’t my words, but it doesn’t matter because the dam has burst and any words swimming in my head are pouring out of me. I close my eyes and just let it flow, and once the song finishes, I roll right into the next.
I play everything and anything that comes through my fingers—our songs, lyrics and notes we wrote—every single emotion that’s been trapped inside exploding through my voice, banging out their melody on the ivory, booming into the wide-open space around me.
When I finally look up after who knows how long, I see stormy gray eyes fixated on me as they well with tears, and it makes me smile.
Sliding over, I stop playing and pat the bench next to me, welcoming him over for what could easily be the last time. Lucky’s eyes widen, and he hesitates but eventually comes overand sits beside me. I watch his long fingers stroke the keys, his big hands light as air as they dance up and down the keyboard before I join in and play alongside him the same way we used to.
The same way we weremeant to.
God, this is good.
This is right.
This is balm on my fucking destroyed soul, and I don’t know why I ever walked away from it.
Because I had to.
I shake the voice from my head just as the levity of the situation hits, and I jerk my hands off the keys abruptly, making Lucky jump and fumble the notes before putting his hands in his lap.
I look up at him but he doesn’t turn to meet my eyes, sitting there like a statue, a piece of art in his own right.
