Page 12 of The Sound of Forever
“Get a grip,” I mutter, the words useless even as they leave my mouth.
I take a breath, do all those exercises to calm the fuck down. Nothing is helping. My eyes drift to the phone on the counter. The screen lights up, the nameRowanglaring at me.
I don’t answer. Let him leave another voicemail I won’t listen to until I can get a grip. Rowan wouldn’t understand. How could he? He just tells me to move forward, to try my best.
It’s all about my fucking best. But I’m at my worst, so how can I do it?
Then there’re the nightmares. The headlights swallowed the road, when the car spins out, when her voice breaks in the middle of begging me to save her . . . save our baby. Why am I having those nightmares? Why is that happening now?
I shove both hands into my pockets, pacing back to the couch. The open guitar case catches my eye again, and something inside me twists. I sink onto the floor, my back against the couch. The chill from the hardwood seeps into my skin, but I don’t move. My chest feels like it’s been ripped open and left raw.
The phone buzzes again. Another call. Another message. I don’t have the strength to look. Rowan can’t fix this. No one can. I curl my hands into fists, pressing them against my thighs, and let the quiet consume me again.
I stay there, unmoving, as the sky fades from gray to black. The shadows deepen, swallowing the room, and I let them. Tonight, the dark feels more honest than the light ever has.
ChapterTwenty
Julianna
It’s been almosttwo months, and I’m drowning.
The apartment is a mess—toys scattered across the living room, a half-eaten sandwich left on the coffee table, a pile of unfolded laundry mocking me from the corner. The mess in my apartment mirrors the storm in my head. Would it kill her to pick up after herself?
I’ve tried everything—reward charts, routines, heartfelt talks that end up sounding more like desperate pleas—but nothing gets through to Rayne. She barely looks at me, let alone talks. Her silence cuts deeper than any tantrum could. At least with tantrums, there’s a fight. There’s something to respond to. But this? This is a void, and I don’t know how to fill it.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the list I’ve scribbled in my planner. Get groceries. Schedule a parent-teacher conference. Call the pediatrician. Near the bottom, written in all caps, underlined, and circled three times: FIND HELP.
The words blur as I glance at Rayne’s backpack near the door. Its contents spilt onto the floor—a tangle of crayons, wrinkled worksheets, and a math test with a glaring red “F” at the top. My stomach knots, shame mingling with guilt. Another failure. Another reminder that I’m not enough—not for her, not for this.
“Rayne?” My voice wavers as I call out. She’s in her room, the door half-closed like always. I wait for a response I know won’t come. The chair scrapes against the floor as I stand, but I stop myself halfway to her door. Pushing won’t help. It hasn’t so far.
I return to the table, pick up my phone, and scroll through my contacts until I land on Oscar’s name. My thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating. We’ve spoken three times since Elena died. Each time, his response has been the same: “I don’t have time for this, Jules. Sorry you have to deal with it. There are always options, you know.”
But really, I’m out of options.
When the case workers visit, the apartment looks just clean enough for them to believe I’m doing great. They trust me with Rayne, and I’ve been trusting their trust, clinging to it like a raft. I could call them, tell them I can’t do it anymore. Let someone else—someone better—take her. Someone who knows what they’re doing. Because me? I’m just winging it, and the cracks are showing.
The phone rings twice before he answers. “Hey, Jules.” His voice is warm but distracted, like he’s already thinking about the next thing on his to-do list.
“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile into my tone. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
I glance at the pile of laundry, at Rayne’s abandoned backpack, at the planner with its endless, unanswered demands. The words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “I don’t think I can do this, Oscar.”
There’s a pause, long enough for me to regret calling. Then he sighs. “Jules, what’s going on?”
“Rayne,” I say, the word rushing out like a dam breaking. “She’s not … she’s not okay. She barely talks to me. She’s struggling in school. And I …” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. “I don’t know how to help her. I’ve tried everything. I think she needs . . .”
The sentence hangs in the air, unfinished.
“You think she needs what?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer. How can I admit I’m considering giving up on her?
“Jules,” he says, his tone gentle now, “you’ve been through a lot. Both of you have. It’s going to take time.”
“She doesn’t have time,” I snap, the words sharp and unfiltered. I wince at my own tone. “Sorry. I just . . . I feel like I’m failing her. And Elena. I don’t know what else to do.”
