My eyeballs feel like they were dunked in lemon juice, and my throat is dryer than a desert after a heat wave, head pounding, heart rolling over broken glass. But the whiskey hangover is nothing compared to the sharp pang of emptiness hollowing out my chest, like a melon baller spooled in barbed wire, scraping me raw from the inside.
My head tips up, and I glance out the window at the silver sky.
A memory washes over me. It was one of our final days filmingCome What May, and I’d felt the same hollow ache while everyone around me cheered and cried. I stared zoned out at the gray horizon, the same color it is now, questioning everything.
What was the point? I’d just created something special, something that could touch people—make them hurt and laugh and bleed and love.
But I was empty.
The applause, the tears, the congratulations—all of it felt distant, like it washappening in another room while I stood alone, watching from behind a pane of foggy glass. Everyone else had found meaning in it, a sense of accomplishment, but I couldn’t shake the numbness. I had poured myself into something that was supposed to matter, supposed to fill the void.
Instead, it felt like I’d left pieces of myself on the set, scattered across scenes, and when it was over, there was nothing to hold on to.
A soft rustling sound drags me out of the memory, pulling my attention in the other direction. Stevie stands at the edge of the piano room. Her hand is curled around the frame of the archway, as if she needs the support to keep her on her feet.
Her skin is ashen, eyes faded and weary. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How are you feeling?”
My hands itch to reach for my phone and spill my true thoughts out through letters and words. I don’t know how to tell her how I’m feeling, how to school my voice into meaning.
Pulling myself off the bench, I scrub both hands through my hair and let my arms drop at my sides. Defeat rips through me. “I feel like shit,” I admit, staring at her bruised and battered face.
There’s a bandage secured to her chin, the swelling evident. Both hands are shredded, red and wounded. And I know her heart hasn’t made it out unscathed.
Stevie’s fingers tighten around the edge of the doorway. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” I shake my head a fraction. “Sorry I was a mess last night. Thanks for being here.”
I don’t remember much after downing half a bottle of champagne during the limo ride over to some pretentious club, then promptly inhaling three shots of whiskey upon arrival, just to drown my self-imposed misery.
But the memory of her kiss, hot and sweet, while she whimpered into my mouth…
That stands out.
Then I passed out and woke up to an empty room.
“Of course,” she says softly, wringing her hands together. “I was thinking we could—”
Her phone starts ringing.
She startles, looking around like the sound is coming from some far-off place. Then she blinks, shoving a hand into the waistband of her sweatpants. She glances at the screen with a sigh. “Sorry…it’s my mom.”
I lean back against the piano, trying not to envision the last time I was sprawled across the instrument.
She takes the call. “Hey, Mom. How are you—” A long pause. Her eyes bug out, flicking to me for a beat before she whips around and faces the other way. “What? How did they—” Stevie goes quiet again, then croaks out a noise that sends a shiver down my back. “Oh my God.”
Frowning, I push up from the piano and stride over to her. I can’t make out what her mother is saying, but the voice on the line sounds frantic, distraught.
When Stevie turns toward me, tears coat her eyes. My frown deepens as I wait for details. Worst-case scenarios dance across my mind: a car wreck, a heart attack, a freak accident.
“I’m so sorry,” Stevie whispers into the speaker, shaking her head, dragging a hand through her hair. “I know. Yes. No, don’t worry.” She swallows. “Yes. I love you too. Bye.”
The moment she clicks off the call, I take her by the shoulder, swinging her toward me. “What happened?”
Her cheeks are pink, her gaze wild. “My mom…she said my old address got leaked to the public. The farmhouse…”
