Chapter 22 #2
I smile despite myself. That must be his girlfriend.
“You settled in okay?” she asks, softer now.
I nod. “Yeah. This place is beautiful.”
Rafe ends his call and joins us, slipping the phone into his pocket. “I bought it because of the river,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s peaceful out on the back porch. You can hear yourself think.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the water again. “Which, for me, is important.”
“Yeah, hearing the screams of all the bastards you’ve killed,” Kieran says flatly, looking confused at the wires in his hands. Nico slaps him away, frustrated.
I tense slightly, remembering how easily Rafe killed that man. Like he was nothing. No one.
He slides a hand to Adela’s lower back. “Did I hear Nico bitching about us, mon amour?” he asks, kissing her cheek.
She giggles. “He’s always bitching.”
“Hey!” Nico protests. “Fuck you guys.”
The tension bleeds out of me slowly, like my body finally understands we’re allowed to breathe here and that I’m safe.
Adela taps the menu again. “Pick what you want. We’ll relax and get some rest tonight.” Her eyes sharpen just a little. “Tomorrow, we work.”
After dinner, everyone is pretty keen on disappearing into their bedrooms, and honestly, I can’t say I mind.
I’m lying in bed, staring at the full moon hanging over the treeline outside my window.
Its pale light spills across the floor. I grab my phone from the nightstand and unlock it, opening Instagram under my secret account.
My thumb hovers for half a second before tapping Adriana’s profile.
Jude never posts anymore, really. But Adriana practically lives on social media.
Daily stories. Behind-the-scenes clips. Stupid candid shots of rehearsals or dinners or whatever party she’s attending that night.
Every time she shares a snap of her watching a movie, my stomach twists because I know Jude is probably with her. She documents everything.
Except…
My brows knit together as her profile loads. Her last story bubble is gone. I blink, refreshing the page once. Twice.
Nothing.
I scroll through her feed slowly, my stomach tightening when I see the date of her last post. Several days ago.
“Huh…” I murmur to the empty room. That’s weird.
Adriana is chronically online. The woman posts as if her life depends on it.
A slow wave of nausea curls through my stomach.
I hate her. But I know her patterns. And this…
this isn’t normal. My fingers tremble slightly as I tap her most recent post.
It’s a photo from a party somewhere. There’s dim lighting, a stone staircase in the background, and a red rug on a marble floor.
It looks extravagant. She’s mid-laugh, head tilted back dramatically, champagne glass raised.
The caption is something flippant and glamorous, filled with emojis and tagged brands including Gucci.
And behind her, slightly out of focus, stands Jude.
I bite my lip and stare at my screen.
He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth, and staring off to the side, like he’s lost in thought. He looks thinner than I remember. Sharper around the cheekbones. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead.
I pinch the screen to zoom in, and my heart stutters.
The corner of his lip is split. It’s barely noticeable, just a thin line that’s half hidden by shadow.
Anyone else would likely scroll right past it.
But I see it. My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on a staircase.
I scroll into the comments, dread pooling heavier with every swipe.
He looks so sick lately.
Is he using again??
He broke up the band to do drugs and party with his girlfriend.
Someone check on him before we lose him for real.
Another beautiful man destroyed by fame.
I swallow hard, my throat tight and dry as if I’ve swallowed sand. I back out of the comments before I can spiral any further and tap over to Jude’s profile. His page loads slowly, just to torture me. No new posts. Of course not.
I scroll anyway. My thumb moving automatically, muscle memory guiding me through photos I’ve seen so many times that I could probably redraw them from memory.
Concert shots. Black-and-white studio candids.
Grainy tour bus selfies with Micah from a lifetime ago.
Photos fans tag him in that he never acknowledges.
Then my scrolling stops. My heart aches as I stare at the very first picture he ever posted.
Eight years ago.
I remember helping him upload it because he didn’t know how Instagram worked yet and kept complaining that it was stupid and invasive and “for people who care too much about showing off their lives.”
A deep sigh escapes me as I tap it open.
He’s standing at Ecola Point, turned halfway toward the ocean, halfway back toward me.
The wind is tugging through his hair, shoving dark strands across his eyes.
He’s wearing that oversized gray Redwoods National Park hoodie he practically lived in back then, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands shoved into the front pocket.
He’s looking over his shoulder directly at me. At the camera.
That smile…
It’s wide and boyish and a little crooked, like he’s laughing at something I just said. The sunset behind him paints the entire sky molten gold, with his hazel eyes shining almost amber. The caption is painfully simple.
Graves and Easton, est. 2018.
My vision blurs slightly as I trace the edge of the screen with my thumb, memorizing the lines of his face. I haven’t seen him smile like that in so long. I remember that day…
~ A memory ~
My heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. It’s Friday night, which means it’s our night.
Jude's Nissan Xterra smells like salt air, fast food, and the faint trace of his cologne that’s permanently soaked into the seats.
The windows are rolled all the way down, warm summer wind whipping through the cabin and tangling my hair across my lips.
The radio hums beneath Jude’s voice as he sings along, drumming one hand against the steering wheel.
“Wow,” I say dryly, unwrapping my sub. “How can you sing everything so well? Any genre. I swear, you’re incredible.”
He grins. “I don’t know, Em. Ask whatever creator created me. I’m sure they poured a little too much excellence into my bowl.”
I snort. “That was awfully narcissistic.”
“Not narcissistic if it’s the truth, baby.”
My jaw drops with a giggle. “Jeeze.”
“Jeeze,” he teases back. He flashes me that crooked grin, eyes flicking from the road to me. “You love it.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling too hard to deny it.
The familiar turnoff to Ecola Point appears ahead, and my chest warms. It’s become our ritual over the last year.
Friday nights, takeout, and sunset. Just us and the ocean.
Tonight it’s my favorite deli. The greasy paper bag sits between us, fries already half demolished because Jude has zero self-control.
I glare at him.
“They were getting cold,” he defends around a mouthful.
“You started eating them before we even left the parking lot.”
“Oh, come on, they’re never good cold. You know that. Plus, I can’t stand you microwaving fries later. Blegh. Every sane person knows you reheat them in the oven.”
I laugh, shaking my head as he pulls into the gravel lot. The sky stretches endlessly in front of us, streaked with molten gold and soft pinks melting into deepening blue. Far out over the ocean, thunderheads are building—massive charcoal clouds rolling slowly toward shore.
“They said there’s supposed to be a huge storm tonight,” I say, stepping out of the car and letting the wind hit my face.
Jude grabs the speaker and the food, slamming the door with his hip. “Well, it looks good right now.”
“Hopefully, it doesn’t start until after the sun sets. But you know how Oregon is.”
We settle beside each other at our usual picnic table overlooking the cliffs.
The ocean crashes below, waves foaming white against jagged rocks.
The air smells salty and tinged with rain that hasn’t arrived yet.
We eat, stealing fries off each other’s napkins, giggling and arguing over which concert we’re going to next weekend with Heather.
Jude talks with his hands when he gets passionate, launching a ketchup packet into the abyss at one point.
“Jude!”
“Oh, relax. It was a sacrifice to the ocean gods.”
“You are not sacrificing my condiments.”
“They demand Heinz specifically.”
“You’re insufferable.”
He leans in, kissing me with a smile.
I scrunch my nose up at him. “If you do it again, I'll sacrifice you to the ocean gods.”
He smirks, but his fingers slip into mine between us, squeezing gently.
The sun sinks lower, turning the water into shimmering fire.
The temperature dips as the storm creeps closer, wind picking up enough to rustle the tall grass around us.
Jude sets the speaker on the table, scrolling through his phone.
The first few guitar notes of “Cigarette Daydreams” by Cage The Elephant float into the air.
My lips part in a quiet laugh. “You are so predictable.”
“Oh, stop,” he winks, standing and holding out his hand. “Dance with me, Em.”
“There are people here,” I whisper, glancing around at scattered couples and tourists lining the cliffside.
“All the more reason to give them a show, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely not.”
He wiggles his fingers. “Come on. Live a little.”
I sigh like I’m deeply inconvenienced, but I take his hand anyway.
He yanks me toward him, spinning me clumsily as the first drop of the song swells.
I stumble into him, laughing, grabbing his shoulders to steady myself.
The wind whips around us, carrying the music out toward the ocean.
A few nearby strangers grin, one couple even swaying together a few yards away.