Page 149 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Okay, cool.” I lift my head to give him a smile. It’s so fucking fake through the painful stretch of my dry skin, and Ben sees right through it. With one last flicker of his eyes, he lifts his phone up and pushes up from the couch.
“Guess I’ll go give Helena and Jack a call. Might have to go to the studio to help organize all the final shit. Anyone wanna come with?”
“I’ll go.” Dexter jumps up too, and I watch his messy bun flop to the side, tendrils pulled out and hanging down his neck and in front of his face. He blows them back as he rounds the corner to the hall before catching the wall and lurching back. “I’ll talk to ya later, B. Get some rest. You look like you’re about to pass out.” He disappears down the hall that echoes his shout. “And eat something!”
My lips quirk of their own volition as I stare at the space he vacated. “Do what he said,” Benji says, also watching the space Dexter left. “We all care about you.”
“Yep,” Cobain says as he drags me against him by my shoulder.
“I know. Thank you.” It’s trivial and insufficient, but it’s all I have. Ben nods with a small smile, then presses his phone to his ear as he disappears as well, leaving me alone with Cobain.
“Well,” he drawls, “looks like it’s just us for a while.”
“Yay me,” I deadpan, making him cackle.
He tugs me closer. “I missed you, dude.”
I exhale and let my eyes fall closed, even though every time I do, I see Tobias wrapped in a crystalline illusion. “I missed you, too.”Just not as much as I should have.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
TOBIAS
He is even morebeautiful through a computer screen than the depths of my consciousness could ever conjure.
Memories alone do him no justice. They can’t quite capture the right hue of his golden hair, reflecting red in the sun’s rays. The broad, slight downward slope to his shoulders. The length of his throat.
The alluring sadness in his eyes.
It all stares back at me through the screen, stealing my breath, leaving me ever-empty. I trace the lines on my tingling palm, needing it to be his. To feel him and be in him.
But I have left myself with memories—and those will have to suffice through this life and into the next.
I cross my leg over my knee, jostling the computer on my lap. It balances precariously as I reach for my wine glass. A deep crimson glows as I bring it to my lips, tasting Earth and spice as the flavors dance across my tongue.
Another thing that reminds me of my beloved.
I take a generous sip, eyes never straying from the expanded screen. There’s a constant hum of chatter with the occasional squawk of electrical feedback. Brooklyn’s off to the side of the stage, barely in view of the camera. Fans cheer out when he dips into their line of sight—and once they see him, their excitement never ebbs for a moment.
His shoulders draw closer together before he’s gone an instant later—but that only makes the crowd louder. They chant and scream his name, and it grows so loud, so piercing, my right eye twitches.
I have waited with bated breath all day for this. After giving in to my feigned whims, I watched his press conference, and since that moment he grabbed the key around his neck, I have not been able to resist the news coverage on him—and the information on today’s event was abundant. A charity event organized by The Disorients and Shattered Lines—the band Brooklyn spoke of.
My blood sings with the prospect of finally hearing my darlingcorvussing his lovely words. Not through an old video and not his half-hearted mumble of “Free Bird,” but with him truly in his element. In the moment.
The one version of him I never got to see.
My fingers tap against the crystal, eliciting a softplinkto permeate the stale air surrounding me. The cabin is vacant and cold and no longer feels like my sanctuary. Like home.
No, that lies within Brooklyn. And he’s gone, with his family, as he should be.
How it was always meant to end.
Breathing through this incessant migraine, I drag his blankets closer, giving in to the staggering desire to turn my head to the side and breath in the echoes of him. Sweat, sex, and cinnamon burn through my nostrils as I inhale as deeply as I can. I hold it. Through the pressure, the ache and burn. Through the waves swimming across my vision.
And then, my body reacts to the stimuli—a purely physiological response. My mouth opens, lungs expanding. Oxygen soars inside, and I slump over, into his blankets, blinking through the inevitable tears. Through the guilt that laces through me with every continuous beat of my heart.
The blaring ring coming from my computer causes me to start. Wine sloshes over the rim of my glass and onto the arm of the sofa. I watch as the red seeps into the gray, staining and bleeding. How apt.
