After
It's long nights next to you
And hearing your sighs
The sweetest music,
My favorite song the sound of your
Name whispered from the darkness.
The taste of wine and you,
and quiet noise of my pleading.
It is wild and reckless and soft
And sweet and
Always,
You.
(Rike’s poems to Peyton)
The journals are a revelation. I spend the next several days poring over them, hiding in my hotel room. Trying to forget everything that happened in the loft. Rike gives me time and space, which I appreciate. Reading the journals is like getting to know myself.
I can watch myself falling in love, living through fights. Forming a bond with a girl I would never have chosen as my best friend.
And that’s the thing. Rike isn’t who I would have chosen. Neither is Lindsay. I don’t understand where Scott fits in our weird little world but I know that he is important to Rike and therefore to me.
I always thought that I would have a quiet, traditional life, one like my parents had, even if they were miserable. I expected that, maybe because it’s what was expected of me. But this—this isn’t quiet. This isn’t traditional.
I’m a fucking artist, a girl who spends her days painting and sculpting and taking photos. Writing. And maybe I didn’t need to because my boyfriend was doing such a good job of taking care of us, but I was good at it.
And I loved it. All of it.
If there’s anything I learn from the journals, it’s that I loved the weird little life we built.
The phone next to me buzzes to life, Rike’s face brightening the screen. I stare at it for a minute, contemplating answering, before it goes silent and takes the option away. I can’t think of him without remembering everything he made me feel. The way his hands played across my body, pulling pleasure from it so fucking effortlessly.
The problem isn’t that I don’t want Rike, and everything that comes with him. Wild, beautiful chaos.
The problem is it’s all I want. I lie awake at night, crying because I know that we were happy. And I can’t remember it. I feel like I’ve been robbed, and like every moment I spend in that life is a lie—me pretending something that I want but don’t feel. Not really.
He would probably tell me I’m thinking too hard. To let go of my worry and just live. But I don’t know how. And it’s terrifying.
The phone rings again, and I frown. The number isn’t one I know.
“Hello?”
“Holy shit, I finally found you. Jesus, baby girl, you shouldn’t make it so fucking hard to get a hold of you. Where are you?”
I blink once. Twice. Finally, “Um. Who is this?”
There’s a loud laugh and then, “Oh shit. That’s right. Ok. It’s Brody, Peyton. I’m in town. Where are you?”
Chapter 17: Before
It takes a long time for us to break away—longer than normal. Everyone is high on the fucking song.
Scott doesn’t say anything about it until we’re finally free. His gaze rakes over me. “You surprised me back there, RIke.”
“You’ve heard me work,” I say, and he laughs.
“Not on that. That was shit you haven’t bothered to share with me.”
I shrug. “It came to me this morning.”
“They loved it.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it? The girl it’s for didn’t even hear it.”
He eyes me briefly and then shakes his head. Falls to silence as we walk through the dark streets back to the apartment. Something is going on with him, but I don’t know what and I’m too fucking tired to puzzle it out.
I poured my soul into that song. And to realize she wasn’t even there to hear it…I lash out suddenly, hurling the glass beer bottle I’m holding. It swings in a shining arc before it shatters against the side of a barber shop, glass and beer spraying out. Scott side-eyes me but doesn’t comment, and with the explosion of glass, some of my temper settles.
“Come on, dude,” he says, pulling me along.
“Why didn’t she listen?” I ask, and it occurs to me that I’m too drunk for maudlin shit. Or maybe that’s why I’m descending into maudlin shit. Either way. It’s a bad recipe give the way the night is shaking out.
“I dunno, man. But don’t jump to shitty conclusions. You both keep doing that and you’re going to fall apart because of them. Talk to her tomorrow. Find out why.”
“You’re such a fucking girl,” I laugh and he shrugs. Accepting it.
We’re emotionally stunted shits, but Scott isn’t stupid. He’s been through the court-ordered psych