Page 58 of Pretty When It Burns (When The Lights Go Down #1)

"Ghost of Us" - Midnight til Morning

Johanna

The new house is disgustingly perfect.

Grayson and Mia moved into their brand-new place with white walls, tons of natural light, and a kitchen that would’ve made my mother cry tears of joy if she could’ve been here to see it.

Mia has put candles with her signature scent in every room—something soft and warm, like vanilla and leather—and photos she’s taken line the mantle and the walls in simple black frames like some curated gallery of their life.

Soft blankets drape over the loveseat and couch in the living room.

It would’ve been a dream if it didn’t make me feel so damn lonely.

They’d moved out of the band house a few weeks ago, like I’d known they would.

I’m happy for them—truly. Happy they’ve found their way back to each other.

Thrilled they bought this place so they could have sex here and not on every surface of the house we all share.

I think everyone is relieved about that.

But I would’ve been lying if I said I’d been prepared for how it feels now that they’ve left. For the emptiness they’ve left behind.

I’ve never done well being alone. Even in a room full of people, I still feel like the only one there. Now that the band isn’t actively touring, the house is quieter than ever. Too quiet.

The thing is—I don’t want to let anyone in.

Not after everything with my mom. Not after I’ve spent years building up walls and dressing them like boundaries. Not after him.

I’ve perfected the ice queen image. Red carpets. Runways. Designer campaigns. The signature Johanna Harris pose: statuesque, emotionless, untouchable. There’s no room in my world for messy—not when I’ve worked so hard to look polished.

Now the whole gang is gathered at Mia and Grayson’s for what Mia has described as a casual wedding planning hang.

We’re just a few weeks away from the big event, and there’s absolutely nothing about this night that’s casual.

The seating chart alone is the size of a twin bed, and there are color-coded spreadsheets on the fridge.

If they ask me to decorate one more mason jar centerpiece, I’m going to drown myself in Mia’s fancy farm sink.

I should be in Paris. Or Milan. Or even New York.

I have no business calling myself a model anymore—not when I haven’t booked a shoot since Mom got sick, and she’s been gone nearly six months now.

My agent keeps calling. I keep ignoring her.

I can’t figure out if I’m waiting for permission to start my life again or for everything to just fall apart.

So instead, I’m perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island in four-inch heels and an overpriced top, nursing a glass of champagne I can’t really taste.

Not that I’m bitter.

But there’s a part of me—dark and selfish and sharp—that can’t stop thinking: when is it my turn?

The rest of the crew is outside, drinking and snacking and psyching themselves up for another round of table arrangement warfare. I think I’m alone until a voice cuts through my self-pity spiral.

“Hey.”

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I’ve had his voice memorized since the first night I heard it.

I keep my eyes on my champagne flute, not wanting to meet his gaze.

“I don’t want another bacon-wrapped date,” I tell him. “I really hate them.”

He laughs.

I love that sound.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I wasn’t offering,” Brandon says. “But noted. No red wine tonight?”

“This night wasn’t worth opening a decent bottle of red for,” I shrug.

He steps up beside me now, brushing softly against my shoulder. It feels like a memory. Or maybe a dare.

It can’t have been a memory. I’ve ruined that. Ruined him. Hurt him worse than I’ve hurt anyone ever before. Because of that, I know better. He’ll never come close to me in a real way ever again.

But God, he even smells the same. Cedar, amber, and a little bit of sin. Even time can’t dull that.

“I thought you were working on the new rhythm track at the studio,” I say, finally allowing myself to make eye contact with him.

“Finished it,” he replies, popping open a beer. “It slaps. When I was heading home, Gray texted and said tonight was a seating chart bloodbath. Figured I’d stop by and witness Jake’s forehead vein explode.”

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

Fucking feelings.

Through the kitchen window, I watch Grayson throw his head back in laughter at something Tony said while Mia whispers something in his ear. Their fingers are still tangled together like they don’t know how to exist apart.

It’s stupid. And annoying. And nauseating.

And beautiful.

“She really did save him,” Brandon says softly from behind me, following my gaze.

“He’s damn lucky,” I murmur in agreement. “I love her for it.”

I turn my attention back to him to find him studying me.

“Who’s gonna save you, Jo?”

The question feels like a punch, and it causes all the air to leave my lungs.

I don’t answer. I don’t have one.

Where the hell did that come from?

And somehow, he knows. He doesn’t push. He just bumps my shoulder with his again—gentle, steady—and says, “I hear there’s brownies outside. I’ll be there, if you want to join me.”

I nod, dumbfounded, and watch him join our friends. As if he hadn’t just ripped something open between us.

I look once again at the champagne glass in my hand. At the flawless kitchen in the big house that at one time would’ve been everything I’d ever dreamed of.

And for the first time in a long time, I find myself wondering…

What if Grayson isn’t the only Harris who can find their happy ending?

Maybe… just maybe… there’s still a story left for me.