I sneak back into the bedroom and look down at him lying there. He’s so beautiful. He’s everything I want and everything I could ever need. But I’m not sure what he needs. Yes, I am. He needs Matt. He needs for me to see that Matt gets everything he has to have to get better. To live. And I’m giving him this the only way I can.
His hair is tousled over his forehead. I remember looking at him as he slept that first night and wondering if his mother ever watched him like I do. She had to. He’s just so pretty. Both inside and out. He took care of me for so long. And I trust him so much. But I need to do this.
I brush the tears from my cheeks and steel my spine. I can do this. I have to do this. I pick up my guitar and my black canvas bag. There’s still not much in it. There’s not much of me that I won’t be leaving here, so I don’t guess it matters.
I look down at my guitar. I want to leave him a part of myself. Something that will let him know how very much I love him. I lean the guitar against the wall. He’ll take care of it for me. My father will never let me use it again anyway. There will be no Julliard for me. There will be a wedding. There will be me as arm-candy. There will be a future, but not the one I want.
I leave with nothing but my black canvas bag and a few articles of clothing. I don’t take anything else, except for his AC/DC t-shirt, the one I wore the first night I met him. I know it’s silly, but I want it. I call for a cab before I walk downstairs. In the city, you never can be too careful.
I bounce from foot to foot. I still don’t have a coat and it’s cold. It’s still dark out. There are no stars in the sky because of all the street lights. The cab slows to a stop in front of me and I walk out onto the sidewalk. I look up at his building, and I say a little prayer for Matt. Logan will be all right. He’ll survive this. I’m not sure I will, but Logan will have Matt and the rest of his brothers.
I take a deep breath and get in the cab. I tell the cabbie to take me to the airport, and I need to go through a private entrance. He looks at me closely in the mirror. Then he shrugs and takes me where I tell him. I bypass security inside the airport, but we still have to go through security checks. They call the plane, and the pilot assures the security guards that I will be traveling privately, and that they have my identification. I hadn’t even thought of that. But my father would have thought of everything.
My father’s own security guard is waiting at the bottom of the steps of the plane. “Miss Madison,” he says.
“’Sup, Watkins?” I ask flippantly.
He smiles. “I like the hair.”
“Look at it while you can, because Daddy will make me change it as soon as I get home.” I heave a sigh. I’m so tired. I buckle up, because it’s what I’m supposed to do until we take off and stabilize. The pilot comes to greet me. I know him, too, but can’t remember his name.
“Miss Madison,” he says with a nod. “I’m glad you’re flying with me today.”
“I’m not,” I mutter.
He doesn’t respond. He just goes and gets things started. It’s early and still dark, so I can’t even watch the city pass me by as we take off. I see the lights, but they’re not what the city is to me. This city is so much more.
After the pilot says it’s ok, I unbuckle and go lay down in the bedroom. “Can I get you anything, Emily?” Watkins asks. I bury my face in my pillow so he won’t see my tears. I shake my head. “Let me know if you need anything, Em,” he says softly. Then more firmly, “Anything.”
I nod, my face still buried in my pillow.
I sob until I am too exhausted to do more. Then I sleep the rest of the flight. They wake me up to buckle when it’s time to land. I go to the bathroom and wash my face, brushing my hair and cleaning up. My dad is going to have a shit fit no matter what. But I can at least look presentable.
The limo pulls up beside the plane just as soon as it lands. Watkins opens the door and I slide inside. But then I stop. My mother is inside. She’s perfectly put together, as always. Her brown eyes are not the ones I want to be looking into. I want Logan’s blue gaze. His are the eyes I want to see. She looks at me, and at Watkins, who closes the door behind me and goes to sit with the driver. He never does that. But my mother can accomplish just about anything with nothing more than a look. “Emily,” she says crisply.
“Mom,” I reply.
“You look like hell,” she says. And her face finally cracks into a smile.
“Where’s Dad?” I twirl a lock of my black hair around my finger.
“Your father is in the doghouse I’m afraid. He bungled this terribly. And so he’s no longer in charge of this little matter.”
My mother never does this. I didn’t think she had a spine at all. “What?”
“Your father is the reason why you ran away from home. Your father is the reason why you have been gone for more than six months. Your father and his conniving are the reason why I lost my daughter.” Her voice cracks on the last word. My mother never falls apart. Ever. But she does now. Tears roll down her cheeks and she reaches for me. I fall into her. My mother is offering me everything I need right now.
“I’m going to mess up your clothes,” I warn, sniffling.
“Mess me up. I don’t care.” She squeezes me to her. “Tell me everything.”
I sit back. “You don’t want to hear everything.”
She sighs. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Mom,” I complain.
“I’ll start it for you,” she says, smiling. She mocks my bored tone and says, “Well, there’s this boy…” She motions for me to finish.
I tell my mother the story about why I left, where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing.
At the end of my story, she says, “Your father still expects you to marry that boy.”
I nod. “I know.”
“But that will never, ever happen.”
My gaze shoots to her.
“We’re going to the salon. And then we’re going to take care of this.”
“Mom,” I breathe. “I promised Dad.”
She pats my hand. “You’ll see. Trust me.” And for some reason, I do.
For the next four hours, we change my hair color back to its natural shade, paint my nails a glossy pink instead of black, “because we don’t want to buck the system but just so much,” and she sends someone to get me a new outfit. She has a flock of people doing her bidding.
When we’re done, I feel like my old self. But I’m not. I never will be.
We pull up to our home and the gates are open. I’m so confused. There are news vans everywhere. “What’s this, Mom?” I ask.
“This is me handling this situation for you.” She absently runs a hand down the length of my hair. “You’re a smart girl, Emily. You can make your own choices.”
Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids. I’m a smart girl. Someone other than Logan said it.
Logan
I’m terrified. Emily is gone, but her guitar is still here. She was gone before I got up this morning. Her black bag is gone. And all of her belongings, except her guitar. She wouldn’t have left, would she? Not for good. Paul sits beside me on the couch and he knocks my hand from my mouth when I chew my fingernails. “She’ll be back,” he says. “Stop worrying.”
She won’t be back. I’m sure of it. I realized that by telling me her name last night and letting me inside her, she wasn’t telling me she loves me. She was telling me goodbye. It hurts like nothing ever has when I realize that, but it’s true. I’m sure of it.
The phone rings. I jump when the lights flash, signaling the ringer. Paul runs to answer it. “Matt says to turn the news on,” Paul says, as he turns the TV on and flips the channels.
The new anchor starts to talk. I read the captions as they play across the bottom of the screen.
IN CELEBRITY NEWS TODAY, THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER OF ONE OF THE UNITED STATES’ MOST INFLUENTIAL BUSINESSMEN HAS BEEN FOUND ALIVE TODAY.
“What does this have to do with us?” I ask Paul.
YOU MAY REMEMBER THE MEDIA CIRCUS MORE THAN SIX MONTHS AGO WHEN EMILY MADISON DISAPPEARED.
The TV switches to a picture of a blonde.
Paul slaps my chest hard to get my attention. It hurts like a mother f**ker but my gaze is stuck on the TV.
EMILY MADISON DISAPPEARED MORE THAN SIX MONTHS AGO, BUT SHE RETURNED HOME TODAY.
“That’s my Emily,” I breathe. Her hair is blond. And she has on a million dollar smile, along with some million dollar earrings.
Paul smacks me harder so I have to look at him. “That’s Kit?” he asks.
I wave at him to shut him up. He turns the TV up. I watch the words at the bottom of the screen. I scoot forward so my ass is balanced on the edge of the couch.
EMILY HAS AGREED TO ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS, the captions say.
I watch as the woman I love steps up to the podium. She blinks and holds her hand up to block the sun. I can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, and my heart lurches. She’s in California. “Good afternoon,” she says.
The crowd starts firing off questions. They only print the ones in the captions that get to her. “Where have I been?” she repeats. “I have been in New York for six months. There’s a bit of a story to go with that, but I won’t bore you with it. Sometimes a girl just needs a break.” The captions indicate that she’s laughing. But there’s no laughter in her eyes.
ARE YOU WELL, EMILY? someone asks.
“I’m perfectly well,” she says, smiling. “Never been better.”
ARE YOU MENTALLY ILL, EMILY? DID YOU HAVE A BREAKDOWN? HAVE YOU BEEN IN REHAB?
She looks at the person with surprise. “The last time I checked, I wasn’t.” She looks down at her body and pats her h*ps and stomach. “I think I’m quite well.”
WAS THERE FOUL PLAY, EMILY?
She shakes her head. “No. No foul play. I was perfectly safe the whole time.”
Someone steps up to the podium to pull Emily away, and I ache as I watch her take a step back. One more question scrolls across the screen.
WHAT ARE YOUR PLANS FOR THE FUTURE, EMILY?
She smiles. Then she looks directly into the camera. Directly at me. She might as well have kicked me in the gut. “In the spring, I’m going to Julliard to study music.”
My stomach drops down toward my toes.
WHY NEW YORK, EMILY? Someone asks before she can walk away.
She tilts her head to the side and looks right at me. She raises her hand into the sign for I love you and I see the tattoo that takes up her forearm. It’s a key, and written down the center of the key shaft are the letters of my name. I look at Paul. “Did you do that?”
He grins and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
It’s everything. It’s every f**king thing.
The reporter repeats the question.
WHY NEW YORK EMILY?
“That’s simple,” she says. “It’s because I love New York. I love New York with all my heart and I can’t wait to get back to it. I needed to come see my Dad so he could take care of something for me. But I’m going back to New York.” She leans close to the microphone. “I love you New York. Never doubt it. I’ll see you soon.”