Page 101 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I glance at him. “Why what?”

“Why are you fine with it? If you want to paint, just fucking do it. What’s stopping you?”

I almost laugh. “And what? Starve? Live on the street? Maybe I could live in a dumpster. Looks comfy.”

I don’t think he’s aware of how rare what happened to him is. He became a worldwide sensation overnight. One video is all it took for his wildest dreams to come true. Not everyone’s this lucky, and certainly not everyone’s as fearless as he is.

My cynical remark doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Play a game with me.”

His request catches me off guard. “What kind of game?”

He props his leg up on the piano bench, lacing his tattooed arm around his knee, the vicious smirk on his lips facing me with a challenge I’m too stubborn to turn down. “The Fuck-Being-An-Adult game.”

My lips curl into a grin.

I drop onto the stool next to my canvas. “What are the rules?”

He shrugs. “Easy. You pretend anything’s possible. Forget about bills and having to pay for shit. Forget about doing the grown-up thing. I want you to imagine you’re free to do whatever you want.”

“Okay. And what if I told you I’d be doing exactly the same thing as I am right now?”

I feel his smirk deep in my stomach. “Then I’d call you a fucking liar.”

He’d be right.

“Fine,” I cave, pondering my answer. “If I were free to do anything… I’d pack up my dorm.” I look at my canvas from the corner of my eye. “I’d get into my car, drive to a gorgeous cabin in the middle of nowhere, and paint until my hands fell off.”

A victorious smile flashes across his face. “That’s my girl.”

His girl?

Shut up, Hadley. You know that’s not what he meant.

“Oh, and I’d get a dog. And a horse named Jolene. Can I get a horse?”

He laughs, the deep, familiar sound comforting. “Fuck yeah. It’s your dream life. You can get anything you want.”

I join in, laughing at his ridiculous game. Our laughter fades out around the same time, and the silence that ensues gives way to a more serious atmosphere.

Reality comes trickling in, but I’m not ready to face it just yet. I’m about to ask him about his dream life when a low rasp cuts through the air. “Hey, um… I’m sorry about Gray. I never got to tell you in person.”

I want to scream, “Whose fault is that?” but I stop myself.

If he had really wanted to, he could’ve reached out. He also could’ve, I don’t know, not shown up to Gray’s funeral drunk off his face.

“It’s not your fault,” I say.

It’s no one’s fault, except for the masked scumbag who killed him.

“Although, the disappearing act before that? Kind of your fault.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh.

He looks dead inside, playing a melody I don’t recognize on the piano, and it feels like a rope is tied around my waist, jerking me closer with each note. I can’t fight it, cutting across the room until I’m standing next to him.

He doesn’t look up, his fingers roughly pressing the keys.

“Are you okay?” My mouth expresses concern my brain doesn’t approve of.

I shouldn’t give a flying shit if he’s okay.

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