Chapter 12
Rayne
Wildflower Wildfire—Lana Del Rey
I didn’t know you could forget what hugs feel like. But after six months without a single one, it seems you can. Maybe this hug just feels so strange because it’s Easton who’s holding me. Easton, who asked me to stay and not to run away again, even though I’m a wreck. Irreparably broken.
I let myself fall against him. I can’t help it; my body goes totally soft in his arms. A desperate sound escapes from my lips.
I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to cry, to be out of control, unrestrained.
I’m falling into the abyss that I’ve been avoiding for so long.
The last few months, I’ve stood on the edge many times, looking down.
But I never fell. I never let out all the chaos and grief boiling inside of me.
I cried more times than I can count, but not like this.
Not in a way that makes breathing hurt. Not in a way that makes me break apart.
I sob again and again, and I can’t breathe.
My chest hurts and everything feels tight.
I’m tearing myself apart and I hate that Easton can see it.
At the same time, I feel a strange sense of relief.
Because now he really knows everything about me.
Especially the side of me that’s very sad.
The side that feels lost and doesn’t know where to go.
I lost my parents, my home, and myself. Easton sees that now, and he sees all that’s left of me.
But he doesn’t leave me alone or push me away.
He stays with me and holds me tight. He holds me while I cry hot tears into his soft hoodie until it’s completely soaked.
He holds me while I dig my fingernails into his arms so hard that it must hurt, but I don’t have enough control over myself or my body to stop it.
I don’t want to hurt him, but there’s only pain inside, and it has to come out because I can’t stand it anymore.
I can’t swallow the pain anymore. I can’t hide from him anymore like I’ve been doing for the last few months.
I can’t pretend I don’t exist anymore. I exist. I’m here.
I’m nothing but pain, but I’m here. And he’s here.
Easton. The only person in the world who still knows me, really knows me.
The only one who didn’t leave me alone during those months when I wanted to collapse into myself. I still want to.
Maybe he can sense that right now, because he pulls me closer to him.
So close that I can feel his heart beating under my cheek, fast and hard but steady.
His hands on my back are large and warm as he strokes my tense muscles in circular motions, and slowly, very slowly, I start breathing normally again.
At least normally enough that I don’t feel like I’m suffocating anymore.
He holds me tight and waits until I’ve cried myself out and gradually calmed down. I feel sick, and my forehead is throbbing painfully. Suddenly I’m tired, so infinitely tired.
Easton gently loosens his embrace, just enough so he can look down at me.
But he doesn’t let go, and I’m glad of it.
My legs feel awfully weak, and I’m not sure they would hold me up if he weren’t supporting me.
He puts one hand under my chin, lifts it up, and forces me to look up at him.
There’s sorrow in his eyes and a deep concern that makes me feel comforted inside.
Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone anymore.
He gently wipes the tears off my cheeks, and I try not to think about the fact that they’re not just tears, because my nose is running and so congested that I have to breathe through my mouth to get air. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, or at least he’s not letting it show if he does.
“What do you need?” he finally asks quietly. His voice is a whisper that sends a shiver up my spine.
“Tissues,” I manage to say.
The corners of his mouth twitch, and I almost laugh. I really do. This is totally crazy.
“I’ll get you some. Just a sec.” Now he lets go of me, and it’s also crazy how cold I feel without his hands on my back. I sway slightly without his support but manage to steady myself as he leaves the room. I can hear his footsteps on the stairs; he must not have any tissues up here.
Exhausted, I sit on his bed, even though I know I shouldn’t because it’s his damn bed and there are enough other places to sit down.
But I’m so exhausted I don’t care. I don’t care what I look like, and I don’t even care that I wasn’t alone when I broke down.
Any other day, at any other moment, I would have been ashamed that someone saw how weak I am.
How hurt. But today isn’t any other day, and Easton isn’t just anyone.
I fall onto my back; the mattress is soft.
I sniff, but it doesn’t help the congestion.
I still have to breathe through my mouth, and my head is pounding just as much as it was before.
My eyelids close, and my body feels very, very heavy.
My heartbeat slows a little, and then a little more, until it finally finds its normal rhythm again.
I start as I hear a soft squeak on the stairs, but it’s only Easton, returning to his room. In one hand he has a pack of tissues and in the other a tub of ice cream.
“I’ve heard it’s supposed to help,” he says, holding up the ice cream.
A desperate laugh escapes me. “Yes, I’ve heard that too.”
He hands me the tissues. I sit up and turn away to blow my nose.
Easton puts the ice cream down on his bed and goes over to another chest of drawers I didn’t notice before.
He turns on a Bluetooth speaker sitting atop it, and there’s a beep as it connects to his phone.
A few seconds later, Lana Del Rey’s melancholy voice floats through the room, and I think of the messages I wrote to Easton last year.
About how Taylor’s music can usually make everything feel better, but Lana is there for the days when everything is unbearable and nothing can make it feel better.
Today is one of those days, and he’s found the perfect soundtrack for it.
Then he comes back and joins me on the bed, and we lie back down at the same time with the ice cream between us. We stare at the ceiling in silence.
I blink. “There are stars,” I say suddenly, stretching an arm toward the sloping ceiling. It’s true, his ceiling is dotted with little stars that glow at night when they’ve gotten enough light during the day. I used to have some like that.
“I like stars,” he replies, even though I already know that. There’s a reason I wear a bracelet with a star on it.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the stars, unable to look at him.
He turns to face me; I can hear the sheets beneath him rustling softly. “What for?”
“For asking me not to run away. And for holding me.”
“Anytime.”
“And for not making it too weird to be lying here, even though this is the first time we’ve really talked.”
“We were talking for three months. Texting counts.”
Now I can’t resist; I have to look at him. He returns my gaze unflinchingly, a faint smile playing around his lips. Strands of dark hair fall onto his forehead, and I want to touch them and brush them back, just like he wiped my tears away.
“It really does, doesn’t it?” I say.
His fingers brush against mine, a barely perceptible touch, but it sends a warm tingling through my whole body. “Of course.”
Our hands are so close together that it would only take a tiny motion for them to intertwine.
But neither of us moves. I look up at the ceiling again and count the stars above me.
There are twenty-nine of them. The ice cream is melting, but I don’t feel like eating anything right now, and Easton isn’t making any effort to reach for the spoons lying between us on the bed, either.
Lana is still singing and filling the silence between us, a silence that feels strangely light and uncomplicated.
“I was living with my grandmother for the last six months,” I say finally.
I don’t know why I’m breaking the silence.
After being quiet for so long, I feel the urge to talk.
“I couldn’t stay at my house. Every day the paparazzi were at the door, and everything felt wrong.
Mom and Dad . . .” I struggle to get the words past the lump in my throat, and now Easton holds my hand.
Our fingers intertwine as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, as though we’ve done it a thousand times.
“Without them, it wasn’t a home anymore. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods, and I believe him. He really understands. When he looks at me, there’s something in his eyes that makes me want to keep talking and let it all out.
“I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have anyone left.”
“What about Hailey?” he asks, and I grimace as I remember my best friend.
“Her life went on, and she didn’t wait for me,” I explain briefly. “I can’t blame her. It was her last summer before college.”
“What does that mean?” He sounds a little angry, which makes me feel better because even though I don’t want to admit it, I do resent Hailey for the way she acted.
“She wanted to enjoy it, and I . . . wasn’t the best company.”
“That’s cruel.”
“She just couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t deal with me.
I can understand that.” I can’t, actually.
But if I start to think too hard about how my best friend was acting like nothing had happened only two weeks after the accident, I’ll probably go crazy.
Hailey had slept over almost every weekend and spent movie nights with me until we were fourteen, but that didn’t seem to matter to her once I really needed her.
I thought I was over it by now, but apparently I was wrong.
I should have known better. After all, I haven’t dealt with any of it yet: not Hailey’s withdrawal or her silence, not the accident or anything that came after it.
“Did she try, at least?” he asks, and it takes me a few seconds to remember what the last thing I said was.
“No,” I admit reluctantly.
Easton nods with his lips pressed together. I can see he’s struggling to keep from speaking his mind.
“Go ahead,” I encourage him.
“Hailey’s kind of a selfish bitch.”
A hoarse laugh escapes me, but yes, unfortunately he’s got it pretty much right.
“So you moved in with your grandmother?” Easton asks.
I nod. “Yes. Looking back, it was probably a stupid idea. But I didn’t want to be alone, and she’s all that’s left of my family.” My eyes fill with tears again, and I blink frantically to hold them back, to no avail.
“Why was it stupid?”
“Because I might as well have lived alone and it wouldn’t have made any difference. She was never there, and I stayed in my room all day.”
“All the time?”
I shrug. “There was no reason to go out.” I looked for one, but in the end none of them were good enough to motivate me to leave. Not even the knowledge that Easton was living and working just a few minutes’ drive away.
“What was your grandmother doing all that time?”
“No clue,” I say with a sigh. “She was out. She stayed with me for three weeks in LA before I came here with her, and she seemed to have missed being here a lot. Or maybe not. I really don’t know. She travels a lot, organizes charity events and stuff. She’s also on the board of the ballet school.”
“Is that why you’re there now?”
“No,” I say, my voice softer now. “Grandma helped me get in, but that’s not the reason I decided to go.”
“Because of your mom?” He squeezes my hand, and that warm gesture makes me want to tell him the truth.
“Yes.” Now my voice is a barely audible whisper. “I was having a bad day and watched a video of her. One from a long time ago, before she met Dad. When she was still at ballet school. And somehow—” I break off, forcing myself to take a deep breath because my chest is tight again.
“You miss her. That’s why you’re there.”
“Yes.” My breath escapes in a sigh. I miss Mom. I miss Dad. I miss home. I miss my old life. I miss the old me. “It feels like I’ve lost myself, and I don’t know how to find myself again,” I whisper.
“That’s okay. You’ll find yourself again. And I’ll be with you, okay?” Easton squeezes my hand, and all at once my chest feels a little less tight and my heart hurts a little less, because he’s here and I’m not alone anymore.
“You’re a good friend, you know that?”
I hear the smile in his voice as he replies. He’s definitely thinking the same thing that I am. “I do my best.”