I can’t bear to leave any more pieces of my heart behind, so I dart from the sidewalk and plow through the doors, winding through the complex until I’m back inside the unit.
When I enter Lex’s bedroom, it looks exactly how I left it. Rumpled bedcovers and muted light seeping in through the large window. My locket still rests on his nightstand in a delicate pile, the gold heart glimmering back at me.
Wetting my lips, I pad across the floor and scoop up the chain. I take a moment to flick open the scuffed heart, my gaze sweeping over the tiny photograph inside: Mom and Dad on their wedding day, grinning ear to ear, their dreams on the cusp of a new beginning.
I slip the piece of jewelry into my front pocket, then glance down before turning away.
His nightstand drawer is cracked open.
I squint, peering into the drawer as an old, familiar trinket catches my attention. It takes a moment for realization to settle in.
And when it does, I gasp.
It’s the star pendant I gave to him on opening night.
My heart spasms as I stare at it glowing in every color of the ocean. Lowering to my knees, I open the drawer all the way, reaching inside and pulling out the long-lost treasure.
God…I’d almost forgotten about it.
Once upon a time, it was my good-luck charm. My sister gave it to me on my twelfth birthday—a memento to keep our baby brother close. Joplin knew the sea-green face was my favorite color, and the star shape reminded me of Morrison.
My Morrison star.
It was attached to a necklace at one point but kept slipping loose, so I removed it from the silver chain and kept it in my own bedside drawer, often bringing it with me to important outings and events. It always gave me what I needed in the moment: courage, peace, good fortune.
And then I gave it to Lex.
No part of me ever imagined him still hanging on to it for all these years. I figured it had been tossed in the trash or donated.
Tears coat my eyes as I finger the pendant and tuck it inside my palm. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I take another look inside the drawer. Lex probably doesn’t have much in the way of personal items, given the sterile state of his room.
But something does catch my eye.
There’s a stack of white papers lined with typography and a few handwritten notes.
My breath catches when I read over the title font.
Come What May
It’s his manuscript.
I’ve seen the finished project—along with the rest of the world—but my eyes itch to read through the pages, to find the words he was never able to say out loud. The ones he buried between the lines, hidden in dialogue and description.
My fingers hover above the title page, tracing the faded ink.
I hesitate for a moment, then turn over each page, skimming through the screenplay. That’s how I spend the next half hour. Reading his innermost thoughts and feelings, seeing them in a whole new light. His pain, his guilt, his insecurities, his self-hatred.
The bitterness I felt when I first watched the series fades. Snuffs out like a firefly at dawn. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I swipe them away before they spill over and warp the ink.
And then, when I flip through the last few pages—reaching the heart-stopping ending that shook the nation—my own heart nearly flatlines.
I hold my breath.
My eyes fly back and forth.
Reading.
Rereading.
