Page 93 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

My best friend has been cagey about it.

If I wasn’t so focused on missing Eli, wondering what he’s doing or going through, I might be pressed to dig deeper and force Jorge to tell me. But it’s honestly not that important. People like the song, the riffs are crunchy and genty. It’s good. We haven’t had too much time to sight-see while we’ve been bouncing from place to place, but for the breaks we do get, I just hole up in whatever hotel or hostel we’re staying at.

It’s just too hard.

Especially now that we’re in Italy. Fuck. The gay community is booming out here, and it takes everything in me not to break down whenever I see a couple holding hands or taking in the gorgeous scenery. He should be withme. There’s some resentment I keep struggling to fight back because I didn’t want to come. I love playing drums and making music, but I love Eli more. I could’ve had Dark Wing’s drummer, River, fill in for me. The guy is a machine and would have had no issue learning our songs fast.

Did Eli even go to rehab? I text himdaily, but I haven’t heard anything. Not a peep. I’ve even begged Nyx to see if he’s there. Just ask the receptionist or whatever, but she won’t do it. Being so desperate to know what’s happening has resulted in me texting Oli. He reads every single text but just won’t fucking write back. I’ve even called him a few times, forgetting the time difference, so I leave voicemails too.

I still don’t know what my baby brother wants from me or what I need to say to get him back into my life. I miss him constantly. And this guilt I carry with me over abandoning him doesn’t go away. It’s getting easier—lighter, even since I’ve grown to accept Eli. Fighting for him gives me the courage to fight for my brother. And damn it, I’m fucking fighting.

Hey, sweetheart. We’re in Milan right now. The show went well. Jorge’s song is really taking off. Our manager says that our album sales are growing too. Yay. Money.

I want to come home. Just want to come home to you. God, I hope they’re being good to you in there. I hope you’re not scared.

I miss you.

I love you.

Two more months…

“Whatcha doing,” Jorge singsongs, plopping down next to me on his stomach, propping his chin on his hands.

I’m lounging in the bed, moping. That’s what. “Nothing.”

He peeks at my phone. “Ah, the daily texts. Still nothing?” he asks. Shaking my head, I sigh and set down my phone. I scrub at my face while he wiggles closer so our bodies touch. “What about Oliver?”

“Same shit. Radio silence. He reads my texts, though, which is more than Eli's. I just want to know if he’s okay. The rehab place won’t tell me shit.”

“You call too much,” he teases. “I’m sure Eli is fine.”

I glance at him. “What if he isn’t? What if he never even went, and he’s dead somewhere.” Fuck, that makes me want to projectile vomit.

“Calm down,” he assures me, rolling onto his side so he can spoon me. “I’ve got a good feeling. You know how my feels are. Accurate asfuck.”

He grins, and I let a small smile slip free. Jorge is pretty intuitive about a lot of things. “True,” I admit.

“See? Told you. All is good. Promise.”

Huffing under my breath, I lay there with him for a few minutes, thinking. Worrying. And then my phone buzzes. We both gasp, which…why the fuck is he gasping? I grab it quickly, unlock it, and pull down the notification.

“Just Veronica in the group chat,” I mutter but check the texts anyway. God, Delilah is so fucking cute. She’s a chubby little thing. The picture shows her sitting on her dad’s lap, gnawing on a baby toy.

“Awh,” Jorge coos. “I need to get back over there and meet her.”

“You do. Nyx asks about you.”

“Not Damien?” He waggles his eyebrows, and I snort.

“Think he’s over you.”

Scoffing, Jorge scoochescloser.He’s practically on top of me. “He loves me. Not my fault he had a fancy motorcycle that I couldn’t keep my hands off of.”

I smile, remembering high school. We were fourteen or fifteen, and Damien got his first bike. Somehow, he’d gotten this badass Harley Davidson for super cheap, and Jorge tried to sit on it. The whole bike, along with Jorge, fell over and scraped the fuck out of the paint. Damien hasn’t been a fan of him since. Oliver thought it was hilarious, but he was like eleven or some shit.

“Good times,” Jorge says wistfully.

I quickly write back to my sister and switch to Oliver’s thread. I don’t know why I keep checking. He doesn’t and won’t respond. “Fuck I miss him,” I rasp.

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