heavy, as if I’m performing in water. My forehead’s damp from the lights.
Then partway through the first act, my gaze lands on a shape at the back of the seats, by the doorway.
Tyler.
Every part of me lifts, expands, and from that point forward, I love being on stage. I relish every second in the spotlight.
This is what I wanted, and though I sneak a look at my family once in a while, every line and song and scene makes me realize it’s not for them.
It’s for me.
I’m doing it for me, and I feel amazing.
The final curtain is accompanied by thunderous applause and hollering.
Everyone exchanges smiles—even Kellan pulled his shit together.
Carly tries to avoid my gaze but can’t, and I wink at her as we join hands to bow.
“I owe you a drink,” I murmur to her, “since I’m pretty sure your family’s entire liquor cabinet is inside my costume.”
“That was great, Annie,” Haley says when she and my dad come backstage after the show. Her eyes land on my costume and the trash bag on top of it. “Do I want to know what that’s about?”
“No. No, you don’t.” I smile, looking past her. “Where’s Tyler? I saw him come in. He was standing in the back.”
They exchange a look.
My dad lowers his voice. “Let’s go home.”
“I’m going with Pen.”
“Annie, please.”
“Okay,” I relent, waving to my friend with a promise to call her in the morning.
When we get home, my dad’s Bentley is already in the garage, but Tyler’s bike is gone.
How is he not back yet?
I run around the side of the house, nearly tripping on the roses in my hurry to get to the pool house.
The lights are on.
I burst in the door, breathless, a smile on my face as I prepare to giddily tell him every second, to demand his reaction. Hell, I’d even take notes as long as he put his hands on me while he gave them.
But the space is empty.
Something else is wrong, too.
It takes a second for me to put my finger on it.
No schoolbooks. Not tidy stacks of clothes.
No guitar.
My stomach plummets.
I feel a presence at my back and whirl on my dad. “Where is he?”
“Gone.”
Numbness takes hold of my gut, spreading to my limbs. “Where?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask? Whatever ‘I’m a musician, I’ll do what I want’ breakfast cereal you all eat isn’t charming. It isn’t normal.” The burning behind my eyes doesn’t turn to tears. It lingers like coals that refuse to cool.
I run across the pool deck and into the house. Haley calls out to me, but I pass her without a word and pull out my phone to check for missed calls or messages.
Nothing.
Three nights ago, he slept in my bed.
The next day, we flirted at the dinner table.
I fucking bought candles.
It’s not true.
It’s not.
It’s—
I stalk into my room and pull up at the sight of the object lying on my duvet.
The guitar I bought Tyler. Twenty-four frets, inlaid rosewood.
I stare at it numbly as if it’s going to speak, but maybe it already did.
“Annie...” Haley’s voice comes from the doorway.
I can barely make her out through my blurry vision.
“Go away.”
“We should—“
“Go. Away!”
I shut the door and grab the guitar, sliding my back down the side of the bed until my ass hits the floor.
I wrap a hand around the neck and squeeze. The strings bite into my skin.
“Forgive me.”
“Someday.”
“When?”
“When you never leave me.”
I shut my eyes so hard my teeth hurt.
After three years of ups and downs, of inside jokes and bitter standoffs and dreaming of things I never thought would happen, everything‘s starting falling into place. My life is making beautiful, twisted sense for the first time.
“I like you. A lot.”
“I like you a lot too, Six.”
The last few days with him scroll through my mind, a movie of promises and confessions and trust and openness. Of wanting and finally having.
After so long, I have him.
Tyler is coming back.
Tyler Adams is mine. My friend, my prince, my heart.
He has to come back.
I love him. I think he might love me too…
… He’s not coming back.
21
Eight months later
“Welcome to Vanier auditions. We’ll call you when we’re ready.” The man at the registration table gives me some paper to fill out. “Please confirm your name and contact information here.”
I fill out the paper and hand it back to him in exchange for a number.
I can’t help noticing all the people warming up. I’d expected talented musicians and vocalists, but this is next level.
There’s a corridor beyond where the auditions are being held and a sign saying “PLEASE STAY IN THIS AREA.” I ignore it.
My feet are soundless on the tile floor that looks like marble. The hallway is full of people my age of all shapes and colors and sizes. Some are with parents, some alone wearing headphones.
This building, between the Upper West Side and Harlem, is stone. Attached to the original four-story building are another six stories of glass. A spiral staircase goes up the middle as if it ascends all the way to heaven, though it can’t be more than four floors.
My phone jumps in my bag, and I answer it. “Pen?”
“Did you go yet?”
“They’re running behind. Where are you?”
“Still at Columbia,” she says. “It’s amazing, and I maintain you’re insane for not coming, not only because your dad will murder you when he finds out you lied to him. But you’ve got this. Any hotties you can grab for a quick pep-talk-slash-make-out?”
I glance around. There are lots of attractive people, but the only thing I feel are nerves. “I don’t think that’ll help.”
“Break a leg, girl. I’ll meet you for lunch.”
We hang up, and the reality starts to settle in.
This is it. My chance.
I’ve only put everything in me into this.
Every ounce of time and emotion and focus for the last year.
More than that.
I start down a hall lined with practice rooms. Between them are portraits of award-winning actors, dancers, musicians, conductors who graduated from Vanier. I know almost all of them, at least by name. They win Oscars, Grammys, Tonys.
I look in the first door interrupting the line of photographs. There’s a girl playing piano, lost in her music—which I can’t hear, thanks to soundproofing. I wish I could.
I continue to the next one, and there’s a boy rehearsing an acting piece.
The man from the desk comes up behind me, frowning. “Excuse me? You’re on deck. You should stay in the audition area.”
I nod. “I’m sorry. I just needed a moment. I’ll be right there.”
I can’t go back yet. The third door is open.
The sounds from that room invade my ears, vibrate through me, call to every part of me.
Including parts I thought were dead.
I peer around the doorframe, an inch at a time, holding my breath.
Inside, there’s a man sitting on a stool.
A man with dark hair falling across his forehead who plays guitar as though he was born to do it.
My heart stops, every bodily function except my eyes and ears shutting down.
For months after he walked out of my life, it was all I could do not to picture him, to think about where he was, with whom, doing what.
His hair is jet and styled, no trace of blue. His mouth is firmer, more sculpted. His black dress shirt is crisp. Lines of black snake out from under rolled sleeves, twining around muscled forearms like an embrace as he plays.
When Tyler left, it gutted me. I can’t think about the things I did in those weeks and months. The broken girl who cared too much, arguing with the universe, wanting Tyler, wanting us.
One dark, empty, soulless day, I decided it was time to mourn both. I moved forward because there’s nothing else to do, because you can keep living or stop.
But Tyler Adams is in New York. At the school that’s my dream.
The boy who broke my heart doesn’t look destroyed…
He looks whole.
Tyler sets down the guitar and looks up but not at me. A girl with dark, edgy hair, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, slides onto his lap. His hands—those beautiful hands I used to dream about—thread into her hair, and it’s as if they’re reaching into my belly, grabbing hold of my stomach, and cranking it. One vicious turn after another.
“Miss?”
I whirl as the administration guy appears near my elbow.
“They’re waiting for you.”
I nod tightly, but before I follow him down the hall, I look back toward the room.
Tyler’s attention isn’t on the girl in his lap. His gorgeous brown eyes are wide and locked with mine.
Because my twisted muse, my rebel prince, my ex-friend…
He sees me.
And he’s every bit as fucking floored as I am.