Chapter 16
Lucky
It’s been three days since Banks stalked off my porch with that wounded, furious silence of his, and somehow my chest still hasn’t unclenched.
Three full days of replaying every word we threw at each other, every look that cut deeper than either of us meant, every small hurt I pretended didn’t land even though it did.
Three days of wanting to call him—wanting to hear his voice steadying me again—and being too stubborn, too ashamed, too wrapped up in my own pride to actually do it.
And the worst part?
I miss him with the strange, persistent ache of a phantom limb, like something that should still be attached but isn’t, something my body keeps reaching for even though it’s gone.
So now I’m pacing the length of the living room, wearing a path into the rug, chewing the inside of my cheek until it stings, glaring at my phone as if it owes me rent, emotional reparations, or at least an answer.
“Just check,” I mutter to myself, because talking to inanimate objects is apparently where I am in life. “There’s no harm in checking.”
I grab the phone. My thumb hovers, trembles a little, then finally commits and taps the app. Banks’s profile opens. My breath catches against my will.
No new posts.
No stories.
Nothing.
Because he is probably giving me space the way I demanded. Because he is the kind of annoyingly decent person who listens when someone tells him to back off, even if it hurts. Because he is a better, steadier, cleaner-hearted human being than I deserve right now.
I huff out a breath, irritated with myself for even caring, and flip back to my own feed—a terrible idea, a reckless emotional impulse, but I do it anyway.
And instantly regret it.
A headline is sitting at the top of the explore page like a neon sign screaming directly into my face:
WHERE DID LUCKY PINK DISAPPEAR TO?
#FindLuckyPink
Rumors she’s in rehab??
Did her label drop her?
Jett Langford spotted in LA with Rebel June — without Lucky Pink. Did they fire her?
My stomach drops so hard and fast, it feels like a stone falling through water.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, scrolling. “Already? It’s been weeks, not years.”
The comments are worse.
She’s unstable.
She can’t handle fame.
Probably hiding after another meltdown.
Her management is covering something up.
Poor girl is spiraling again.
I heard she attacked someone backstage.
Does she ever stay sober?
My throat tightens, the dryness scraping sharp and raw as if someone has dragged sandpaper down the inside of it. My vision flickers at the edges, going slightly off-kilter, like someone is shaking the frame of the world.
Because, of course, this is the narrative they always reach for. The same tired headline.
Lucky Pink = disaster waiting to happen.
They don’t know a single real thing about my life, my mind, my fears. They just fill in the blanks with whatever sounds messy and clickable enough to keep the machine turning.
Something inside me buckles—quietly, but with the weight of something long overdue.
I slam the phone face-down on the couch, harder than necessary, hard enough that it bounces and lands crooked on the cushion.
The notifications keep buzzing anyway, relentless and sharp, as if they’re trying to claw their way back into my head.
I snatch the phone again with shaking fingers and shut everything off—alerts, banners, sound, all of it—until the screen goes dark and the world falls abruptly, unnervingly still.
Silence drops over the room like a heavy blanket.
And the moment it settles, my lungs forget how to work.
Silence is the worst.
It presses in from all sides, thick and invasive.
It crawls into the corners of my mind.
It remembers things I don’t want to remember—things I’ve spent months burying under noise, motion, anything but this.
I wrap my arms around myself and stand in the middle of the room, trying to breathe through the static in my head.
That’s when I hear footsteps on the deck.
“Lucky?” Lily slides the door open just enough to peek in. She’s holding two mugs of hot chocolate like offerings. “You okay? You look like you’re about to murder your phone.”
I snort despite myself. “It started it.”
She steps inside, eyebrows raised in that twelve-year-old way that somehow manages to be both judgmental and gentle. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Want me to pretend you didn’t slam your phone like it owed you money?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Cool.” She hands me a mug and plops onto the chair across from me, legs crossed, hair still damp from the lake. “So… we’re doing the silent, brooding aunt-niece vibe today. I can work with that.”
I choke on a laugh. “Who said I’m the aunt?”
She shrugs. “You act like one.”
I stare at her. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“No. My Aunt Charlotte is my favorite person. She pretends she’s ‘emotionally unavailable,’ but she also brings me snacks when I’ve had a crap day and doesn’t make me explain anything. You’re… kinda like that.”
Something in my chest shifts — just slightly — like a bruise pressed by accident.
She kicks the leg of my chair lightly. “Seriously, though. You’ve been weird all week.”
“Define weird.”
“Weirder than usual.”
I groan. “Lily.”
“What?” she says, grinning, before her face softens. “I just… want to know if you’re okay.”
And it hits me harder than I expect.
This kid — this brilliant, blunt, too-grown twelve-year-old — has been watching me unravel and trying to stitch around the edges without calling it out.
I look at her, at the mug between my palms, at the lake reflecting the afternoon sun, and something inside me cracks a little.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Lil.”
“I’m not,” she says immediately. “I just… like being here. With you.”
The words land softer than she probably means them to, and something tightens low in my throat.
Because it isn’t just concern, and it isn’t pity dressed up as sisterly affection.
It’s connection. Real, uncomplicated, steady connection—something I haven’t felt in years.
Maybe ever, if I’m being painfully honest.
I lean back in my chair, letting out a long, slow breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Yeah. I like having you around too.”
Her smile blooms small but bright, like she’s been waiting for permission to feel close to me. And for the first time in days, the knot in my chest eases—not enough to disappear, but enough to breathe a little deeper.
Eventually, Lily wanders back outside, announcing she’s going to “sun-dry like a lizard,” which is her way of saying she needs fresh air and space but doesn’t want me to think she’s leaving me alone. The door clicks behind her, and the quiet in the house expands all at once.
For a few minutes, I think I can handle it. I sit with the stillness, telling myself it’s fine, that I’m fine. But silence has a way of reshaping itself, shifting into something darker, and soon my thoughts begin rearranging like puzzle pieces snapping into the worst possible pattern.
Banks looked wrecked when he left.
You told him he’s just an employee.
You meant it in the moment.
You didn’t mean it at all.
You broke his heart anyway.
The guilt settles slowly, a thick, unwelcome weight on my chest, making each breath feel like an effort.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for my phone again. I don’t want to; I know it’s a terrible idea. But addiction doesn’t announce itself politely—it just slips into your fingers and taps the screen for you.
His profile loads instantly, like my phone has been waiting for me to cave.
Still no post.
Still nothing.
And somehow, the absence says more than anything he could have written.
But one of the rumor accounts has uploaded something new.
Lucky Pink spotted in Michigan? Fans say she’s been hiding after a meltdown with her band. Sources claim Jett Langford cut ties.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my vision flickers at the edges.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Not true. Not true. They don’t know anything. They don’t know you.
Except… they do, don’t they? Or they think they do. And thinking is enough to destroy everything.
The flash of memory hits hard: reporters outside the studio, cameras shoved in my face, people yelling like feeding birds.
Lucky, look here—!
Lucky! Rehab rumors—!
Did Jett Langford fire you—!?
My chest tightens.
My hands shake.
The mug on the table rattles.
Before I can fall any deeper, the screen buzzes in my hand.
A notification.
Not a rumor account.
Banks posted a story.
My heart jumps, and I instinctively tap it.
It’s a short video — a gas station parking lot, blurry sky, the edge of his lacrosse stick sticking out of his convertible. Over it, he’s written:
“Moving forward.”
That’s it.
No mention of me.
No anger.
No apology.
Just… forward.
It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
More than I want to admit.
The screen blurs. I blink quickly and shove the phone facedown again.
From the corner of my eye, I see movement — Lily, standing in the doorway, not coming in but watching me carefully.
“You’re crying,” she says quietly.
“No, I’m not.” My voice cracks on the last word. Traitor.
She doesn’t push. She doesn’t rush in and hug me like a little kid might. She just nods and walks over, sitting down on the opposite chair again — close, but not smothering. “Okay. But if you need someone to sit here with you, I can do that.”
My throat works. “I know.”
She leans back, pulling her knees up to her chest. “People online are stupid. You don’t have to read that stuff. They’re wrong, anyway.”
It’s such a simple, earnest thing to say — the kind of thing only a twelve-year-old can say without irony or agenda — and it lands right in the hollow part of me.
I swallow. “Thanks, Lil.”
She nods again, almost shyly, and fiddles with her hair tie.
We sit like that for a while — me trying to breathe normally, her pretending not to watch me do it.
The crunch of tires on gravel makes both of us look toward the driveway.
Ethan’s truck pulls in.