Chapter 2
Rayne
A few minutes ago
Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
What the hell am I doing here?
This is a very, very bad idea.
I turn around and walk back the way I came. The Uber dropped me off two blocks away after I convinced myself that I came to the West End for that thrift shop, not for Repeat Records.
It’s raining. It’s been raining all day.
Not heavily; more like those fine raindrops that sting your skin like needles and soak you through if you stay outside too long.
My face is cold, and I’m glad I didn’t wear makeup, otherwise my mascara would be a mess by now.
But despite the rain, and even though the drops feel like ice on my skin, I’m not cold.
I’m warm. It’s the excitement, the adrenaline.
My heart is beating much too fast. It’s pounding against the bony cage of my ribs, so hard it feels like it could escape if it tried hard enough.
What are you afraid of, Mockingbird?
Dad’s voice in my ear, asking me that question over and over again because he wanted to know why I didn’t want to go to the meetings with Easton and the others.
You should be there. After all, you found them. Why don’t you want to come?
I didn’t have an answer for him. Not one that made sense, at least. Maybe I didn’t even understand it myself. Because I wanted to meet Easton the whole time.
But after we started writing, it wasn’t just a few short messages. It wasn’t just small talk that meant nothing, things you write and forget a few days later. It was more, from the very beginning. That’s why I couldn’t go with Dad. I just couldn’t.
Dad was right. I was afraid. I’m still afraid.
Last year, I was afraid it wouldn’t work in real life. I was afraid that we could be friends online but wouldn’t be able to talk the same way in the real world. Things like that happen. You can get along fine when you think you know each other but actually don’t, not completely.
If I’d met Easton and the band, I would have had to tell him the truth.
I would have had to tell him that the girl he’s writing to is Liam Bellamy’s daughter.
It would have been impossible for me to lie to him.
But I was afraid to tell him who I am. Afraid that he would treat me differently if he knew.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Besides, I wasn’t ready for it. Maybe I’m still not ready.
Now I’m scared that he’ll hate me because I disappeared for the last six months and didn’t answer his texts.
He doesn’t hate you. If he did, he’d have stopped writing to you a long time ago. He’s your friend. Have some faith.
That’s what Mom would have said if she were still alive. A dull pain spreads through my chest, a black hole that threatens to swallow me. It’s already swallowed me repeatedly these last few months.
My throat tightens, tears threaten to overflow, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I don’t care that the people behind me have to step aside, and they give me dirty looks as they rush past.
Breathe, Rayne, breathe.
But I can’t. It’s like there are shards of glass in my lungs, tearing me apart. Not for the first time, not for the last. Over and over again.
Breathe, just breathe.
In.
And out.
I gasp for air, and somehow I manage. It’s unfair that it still hurts this much even after six months.
Whoever said that time heals all wounds was lying.
It doesn’t. It still hurts just as much, and it hasn’t gotten any better.
If anything, it’s gotten worse, because now the shock has worn off.
Now all that’s left is the pain, a stab inside of me that takes my breath away.
“You’re in the way,” a cold voice behind me says, and I flinch. I stumble a couple of steps to the side and freeze in place. I have no idea what to do.
Go to him. He doesn’t hate you.
That’s Mom’s voice again, warm and gentle. I want to cry because I’m not even sure anymore if that’s really how she sounded. Was her voice the same as the one I hear now, or have I already started to forget her?
Don’t think about it. Just don’t. You won’t forget her, you can’t.
But I can. It’s different than it is with Dad. His voice will always be there. As long as I have his records, as long as there are streaming services and the internet, his voice will be there. Mom’s won’t.
Of course there are videos of Mom and Dad, and of Mom and me. Voice messages. But that’s different. I don’t know why, but it’s different from Dad’s songs. They’re there, full of his emotions, and that’s why a part of him will always be with me.
I can’t hold on to Mom like that. She only exists on my phone, only for me. At some point the whole world will forget what she sounded like when she laughed, how bright and soft her voice was when she used to read to me when I was little.
I stop thinking, turn around, and then start walking again. I can’t be scared anymore, I need Easton. I need more than just his messages; I need him in the real world. He’s my best friend.
Out of breath, I stop in front of Repeat Records.
The shop is bigger than I expected it to be.
Easton sent me a few photos last year, but it always looked smaller.
I see now it actually has two floors, with instruments displayed in the upstairs windows.
I remember Easton telling me that he started to work here because he couldn’t afford a new guitar.
He worked hard for months to save up for one.
I push open the door and hear a soft jingle as I enter, my eyes glued to the ground. I can’t bring myself to look around for him, and I don’t understand why. Maybe I’m afraid he isn’t here. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make myself come back if I’ve made the effort for nothing today.
But then I hear the familiar strains of “My Heart Is Lost” by blackbear, and I know immediately that he’s here. He sent me the song three days after we started texting.
Nervously, I wander between the bins full of records, my gaze lingering on a few album covers: ABBA, Queen, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey.
Now I want to look around after all, to make sure Easton is there.
But something is still stopping me. It doesn’t make any sense.
But if I look at him and he looks at me at the same time, then .
. . I don’t know what will happen. I might go crazy.
Calm down, for heaven’s sake.
That’s not as easy as it sounds, not with the cramping in my stomach and the racing pulse I can feel in every part of my body.
My palms are sweating. What if he hates me?
Should I introduce myself? Will he recognize me?
But no, how could he? I’ve never posted photos of my whole face.
He has no idea who I am, and I have no clue what I should say to him.
Hi, I know I’ve ignored you for the last six months, but now I’m here. It would be nice if we could be friends again because I don’t know anyone else in this damn city and I feel so lost.
No, probably not.
I had a plan before I came here. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to him, and I had my words all picked out. But now, my mind is completely blank. Especially here in my new home that doesn’t feel like a home, where I live in a new room that feels strange and wrong.
I had a plan, but now my mind is completely blank. I stop in front of the bin with Dad’s records, as if on autopilot. As if my body knows exactly how to find him anytime, anywhere.
The record at the front of the bin is a single, not an album. “Mockingbird.” Of course. Coincidence? Maybe. I take a shaky breath as I touch the cover. It’s so familiar that I can see it with my eyes closed. After all, it was hanging in my room for years.
There it is again, that stab in my chest. I can’t deal with this, not right now.
I turn away quickly and then it just happens: I look.
The guy standing behind the counter is Easton, there’s no doubt about it.
I know his face by heart. The dark hair that’s a little too long on top is falling over his forehead.
I know his tall frame, his broad shoulders.
I know his hands. I’ve probably spent a little too much time watching the band’s YouTube videos.
Go on, now, be brave. You’re both here in the same room. Go. Talk to him. That’s what you’ve always wanted to do.
Yes, I did. More than anything. I just couldn’t, and I’m not sure if I can now. But I don’t want to leave, either. I want to hear his voice. Live. Not from speakers, not from my headphones. I want to hear him talk to me.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a few steps away from the counter. Breathless. Unsure. Hopeful.
He looks up. I never realized his eyes were so blue.
“Did you find something?” he asks, his voice friendly and warm. A little distant. He doesn’t recognize me. Of course not, how could he?
But then his gaze meets mine and his eyes widen, then blink. Now he seems to recognize me, as his expression flicks between confused, incredulous, and hopeful. My heart skips a beat or two.
“Birdy?” That’s the name he gave me because I never told him my own. A tingling sensation runs down my spine, and I feel warm. Much too warm.
“Rayne,” I say without explanation. Suddenly I want him to know my name. My real name. I want to hear him say it.
“You’re here,” he says instead.
“I live here now.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, and I have no idea why that’s the first thing that pops out. Why can’t I apologize for ghosting him? Explain what happened. Tell him why I couldn’t talk to him. Why can’t I do that?
His eyebrows go up, and there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Here, in Boston?”
I nod. “Yes.”
God, I’m not capable of saying anything meaningful anymore, but all at once everything is uncomfortable and embarrassing.
Exactly as it shouldn’t be. This is what I was afraid of, that it would be awkward and strange.
But that’s not really surprising, is it?
It’s my own fault. I should have written to let him know I was here instead of just showing up like this. What was I thinking?
Apparently not much.
“Why?” He sounds as overwhelmed as I feel.
The question is justified, and the answer is actually quite simple: because I’m studying dance. Ballet. Exactly what I didn’t want to do. I wrote to him about it back then, when it was still just an audition, when everything was still fine and I had all the possibilities in the world for my future.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get them out. As simple as the answer may seem, it’s not that simple. Not at all.
We stare at each other. Why is everything so complicated and difficult?
There’s a rushing sound in my ears. This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. Not like this, not without telling him first. Now I’ve ruined everything, and he won’t write to me anymore. Now he probably hates me.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here,” I choke out, backing away. I have to leave. Right now.
“No, Rayne, I—” he breaks off. He said my name, and it sounds different than I imagined. I turn and run, and he calls after me. Part of me wants to stay, hoping that somehow, miraculously, everything will be okay. Another part wishes I had never come.