Page 41 of Pretty When It Burns (When The Lights Go Down #1)

Chapter thirty-eight

"Let Me Be Sad" - I Prevail

Grayson

What the fuck have I just done?

The minute the wheels of the plane touch down on the tarmac at PWM, I feel the cold creeping in. The trees are still bare, which makes no sense having just come from blazing hot Miami. The gray, overcast sky makes everything feel heavier. It’s fitting, honestly.

We pick up the rental car and Johanna sits quietly in the passenger seat beside me. I don’t think either of us has said more than two words since we left the venue and the tour behind. There’s plenty to say, but neither of us has the energy to lie to each other about how okay we aren’t.

I pull onto the street I’d grown up on and curse myself for insisting on driving. I don’t want to see this house. I don’t want to see Mia’s house. I don’t want to be reminded of what started here. Of what ended here.

My hands are locked on the steering wheel of the car, my knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. I linger like this for a moment before releasing my grasp to put the car in park and cut the engine.

God, I hate this.

“You ready?” Johanna asks, the sound of her voice startling me.

“No,” I scoff. “But we’re going in anyway, I guess.”

The porchlight is on. If you didn’t know what had just happened here, it almost looks inviting from the street. My feet feel like bricks as I trudge up the walk and onto the porch, Johanna not far behind me. I unlock the front door and force myself to step inside.

The air smells like lavender and antiseptic. Very hospital-like. It’s a stark difference from the smell of home cooked meals and our wood burning fireplace that I loved when I was a kid.

The kitchen counter looks like an amateur flower shop, some of the vases looking like they’ve been sitting there awhile.

The hospice nurse had left us a note with instructions for what comes next—the lawyer’s contact information, how to reach the funeral home—but that’s the only thing indicating someone died here.

It’s amazing how quickly they got rid of the hospital equipment.

I wander into the living room and stand in front of the old piano.

I haven’t touched one in years. Mom had always wished Johanna or I would pick it up, but I wanted to play guitar like Dad and Johanna is the least musically inclined person I’ve ever met.

A smile tugs at my lips as I press a single key and allow the sound to fill the room.

We’d had a lot of good memories sitting here.

Before Dad died, when she still loved music just like he did.

When it filled our house all the time and I didn’t have to hide away to practice.

When Dad and I would have “concerts” in this very room while Johanna and Mom would cheer us on. When it felt like a home.

The room looks the same as it had the last time I’d been here. It looks more like a museum exhibit now than a living room, though. The Harris Family Time Capsule. It’s been a long time since I thought of us that way.

“She didn’t want it to feel like a hospital,” Johanna says from behind me, her arms crossed uncomfortably across her body. “The photos… she wanted us to remember her when she was healthy.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to remember her being sick, but the problem is… I haven’t been around to remember much else.

I turn away from the piano and my eyes—as I expected they would—drift across the street.

Mia’s childhood home stares me right in the face.

All at once, I see her—bare feet tucked under her, book in hand, pretending to read while I strum on the porch.

I can almost hear it: the quiet hum of my guitar, the creak of the swing, the wind rustling through the trees.

I should’ve brought her.

God, why didn’t I bring her?

I force myself to look away. My chest is already tight, like the grief and shame are trying to crawl up my throat at the same time. I clench my jaw and turn towards the staircase instead, pretending there’s something upstairs that needs my attention. There isn’t.

She would’ve come. That’s the worst part.

She had been preparing to pack, and she would’ve made all the arrangements.

This wouldn’t have been so damn hard if I hadn’t been so fucking stupid—if I’d just let her take care of me. But I told her not to. For some idiotic reason, I told her I need to do this alone, that I need space—whatever the hell that means.

I had made it seem like she’s the problem and that can’t be further from the truth.

I pace the upstairs hallway, the old floorboards creaking under my boots like they remember me. Every picture on the wall stares back at me like an accusation. A reminder of what I’ve blown up—and that it’s all my fault.

I can’t breathe.

There’s no one here to catch me now.

I pull out my phone more than once. Her name is right fucking there.

I hover my thumb over it.

Put the phone away.

Pull it out of my pocket again.

Just call her, fuckhead.

No. Not like this. I’m not going to do that to her. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she’s already realized me walking out is the best thing that could’ve happened to her?

I shove my phone in my pocket only to pull it out again and look at our text thread.

Mia Alexander

Food? I just finished editing the pics from Folly Beach.

Grayson Harris

Starving. For food and you.

Mia Alexander

Behave!!! Be back in a bit.

Grayson Harris

Kk – love you.

Mia Alexander

Love you more.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “What the fuck am I doing?”

Love you more.

Well, that’s fucking haunting.

I put the phone away again and brace both my hands against the hallway wall, head bowing between them.

Behind me, I hear the familiar click of Johanna’s heels—toned down these days, but still unmistakably her.

She leans against the railing of the stairs, studying me.

Maybe she’s waiting for me to admit what we both already know.

“You’re being a dumbass,” she says bluntly.

I don’t move. “Thanks, Joey. That really clears things up.”

She moves into the hallway and leans against the wall beside me. “You idiot, you shouldn’t have pushed her away. I know you think it was noble, or protective, or whatever bullshit story you told yourself, but it was stupid. You’re stupid.”

“She doesn’t need this,” I insist. “She doesn’t need to watch me fall apart. It’s not what she signed up for.”

“She already had—watched it and signed up for it. And she wants to pick up the pieces,” she reminds me. “Or, at least, she wanted to. What on earth were you thinking?”

I push myself off of the wall and run both hands down my face. The frustration is boiling underneath the surface again—at myself, at Lily for calling and making me blow up the one good thing in my life, at this house, at my parents for dying and leaving me to clean up the mess… all of it.

“I wasn’t thinking, Jo,” I admit. “I found out about Mom, then Lily called right after I got off stage and—”

“She what?”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “I guess the hospital called her when they couldn’t get a hold of us. It messed with my head in ways I can’t even begin to describe, and Mia got the worst of it. I didn’t know what I was saying, Joey. I just…”

“Like I said,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You’re a dumbass.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do now? Call her and say, ‘Hey, I was wrong, everything’s shit, come hold me together again’?”

“Yep. That about covers it.”

But I can’t do it.

It isn’t just about pride. It’s about fear.

Fear that I’ve already lost her. Fear that I’ve hurt her so badly, nothing I say will make her come back.

And all of it’s my own damn fault.