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Sighing, I tell her, “Maybe I should have used my head instead of my heart.”
“What makes you say that?” she asks curiously.
“If I’d done what I was told—waited instead of reacting out of misplaced pride, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d still be with Fallon. Sure, I’d have been furious—initially—at the idea of her withholding this from me, but I’d like to think I would have discussed it with her instead of going off half-cocked.” A pregnant pause at the other end of the line tells me what my sister and niece think. I clear my throat. “Anyway. I have to go.”
After leaving Fallon’s mother’s house, I drive around until I reach the cemetery. This isn’t my first visit to speak with Helen, and I’m fairly certain it won’t be my last.
I pull up next to the barrel of flower holders and the worn table with a hole to collect flower clippings and a spigot attached to grey water. After getting the flowers arranged, I make my way over to her newly placed tombstone.
Helen Vale Brookes
Beloved Wife, Mother, Friend
I set the spiked vase into the ground before greeting her as if she were resting against the stone instead of lying beneath it. “Hey, Helen. I don’t know what to say.”
How about telling me how you didn’t keep your promise?
“I completely fucked up,” I admit aloud. A gust of wind bends the deciduous trees, the residual wind whipping my hair around my head. Crouching down, a hand on the top of the stone, I tell her everything—not leaving a detail out.
Not even when the wind turns into rain.
Or the rain turns into sheets of water.
I remain crouched down and confess how I pursued justice instead of love—and not even a justice I personally sought. Finally I conclude my torrent of words by standing, my fingers slipping away. “You can’t be more disappointed in me than I am with myself, Helen. Fallon’s been a part of my heart for years. And in a matter of minutes, I threw us away—who we were, who we were meant to be.” Swallowing hard, I accept the truth. “I just want her to be happy again. If that means letting her go, so be it.”
Leaning down, I press a kiss to the top of the wet stone. “My biggest regret is I wasn’t there for her when she needed me the most—when she lost you.”
Having said what I need to, I return to my full height and leave Helen to either dispense more of her wrath or to leave me alone. Maybe it’s not Helen who’s listening, but I manage to make it back to my rental unscathed. Driving through Seven Virtues, I get a feel for Fallon’s life here these past few years. I admire the beauty of the town, the spectacular views, the slice of heaven nestled into the Appalachian mountainside.
I wonder if where she plans on going next—if I could be happy there. Really it doesn’t matter. Because there’s no way I’ll be happy without my heart and I’m never leaving my heart behind while there’s still breath in my body.
Not ever again.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
DJ Kensington and her best friend, Fallon Brookes—who made national headlines when the two broke the internet at a small bar in Seven Virtues, North Carolina—were spotted strolling arm-in-arm down the streets of Manhattan today with a platoon of bodyguards.
For those thinking there might be a Manhattan repeat, we’re sorry to burst your bubble. Brookes is only in town for a quick visit.
—StellaNova
“If you’d have asked me ten years ago, never in my wildest fantasies could I ever have imagined I’d be in superstar Beckett Miller’s living room drinking wine,” I drawl. I also never imagined the particular cluster of women surrounding me dissecting the pros and cons of my relocating to New York as part of Austyn’s plan to revive me due to the aftereffects of my affair with Ethan.
Austyn rolls her eyes. “And you definitely crushed on my father.”
Recalling a time when I distracted her with a new magazine cover our senior year, I smirk. “Oh yeah.”
Paige just laughs at us before turning to the tiny dynamo at her side.
Taking a sip from my glass, I admire the strong women grouped in clusters around the large space. Excluding the fact it’s Beckett’s place, there’s serious power and wealth in this room. The kind you see on TMZ, ET, and StellaNova.
Speaking of StellaNova, I drawl to Ursula “Sula” Moore, wife of StellaNova’s owner. “Do we need to sign NDAs when we’re in your presence or something?”
This sets the remaining women in the room laughing. Sula, who hasn’t lost her faint British accent despite years of globetrotting as one of the world’s most renowned project managers for varying Fortune 500 companies, including the one her father used to operate, snickers. “No, Fallon. What happens during Girl’s Night Out…”
“Stays away from our husbands,” the rest of the women chant before breaking into laughter.