The music began with strings. Playful violins that led into synthesizers that led into a drumbeat that led to a storm of deafening screams. The girl next to me was crying. A whole line of girls in front of us counted to three and yelled, “WE LOVE YOU LAWSON!” A few boos inserted themselves into to the mix. People who were clearly still upset with him. But even they couldn’t take their eyes off the stage. Because there he was, walking confidently, taking front-and-center in black jeans and a gray t-shirt, and carrying his signature white electric guitar.
The storm raged into a hurricane.
His fingers slid down the fret board and the band joined in on Insanity, one of the more upbeat songs he’d written only weeks ago.
I listened. Of course, I did. It was impossible not to. His talent shone like a flame, like sunlight pushing over mountaintops. But beyond that, I knew who he was. The small-town boy turned successful musician. The brilliant young man with a servant’s heart. The human being who had touched me in more ways than anyone ever had and, I feared, ever would.
He sang every note with clear perfection.
He engaged the crowd, urging them to clap to the beat.
He smiled the smile that had nearly every female in the crowd screaming like their hearts were exploding. The smile the world recognized. The smile I knew was more genuine than the most expensive diamond.
He’d told me there was nothing between him and Jenna. It didn’t matter. If he chose her, if he didn’t. If they reconnected, if that ship had sailed. I had no right to worry either way. Our handful of weeks together had yielded fires and floods. Passion and turmoil. Joy and inexplicable heartbreak.
Yes, I’d had the time of my life.
Yes, I’d accepted I’d never feel this way for another man ever again.
Yes, I was carrying his child. Our child. The child we’d made together, he and I.
Yes, I was still in love with him.
But one glance at him on stage, shining in his element, stoking a jam-packed crowd into a magnified roar, solidified my conviction that none of it mattered. Me, Jenna, our time together, the baby I’d meet in the spring.
Lawson belonged to the sky. A big, beautiful, unreachable sky scattered with stars and mysteries the rest of us couldn’t comprehend.
The war I’d conceded by letting him go was more necessity than mercy. The only casualty? The muscle stuttering beneath my ribcage.
Savana looped her arm around my waist, laid her head on my shoulder. She’d been such a good friend. Setting me up with Lawson or, as it were, setting him up with me in hope that I would somehow spark his dormant muse into action. She’d meant well. And her plan had worked. Sort of. What she probably didn’t bank on was what none of us had.
That the spark would blaze.
“This was a mistake.” I said it more to myself than to anyone who might be listening. Because it was. I shouldn’t have come. Should’ve trusted my instincts that I wasn’t ready. That I’d never be ready, not as long as there was breath in my lungs and he still walked the earth.
“What do you mean?” Savana semi-yelled above Lawson’s soaring vocals. “I thought you wanted to come!”
I had. I did. But seeing him was too much. Hearing him sing, speak, knowing I’d erected the wall between us, brick by brick, I couldn’t put myself through this. Not anymore.
“I have to go.”
I turned to leave, and Savana caught me by the elbow. “Wait!”
The crack in my heart had already begun to widen. The air capacity in my lungs had already begun to weaken. All around us, thousands of people danced, screamed and thrust their hands in the air. One would’ve thought we were at a rock concert—the energy was unbelievable.
And yet all mine had vanished.
I needed to go. Needed to let go. Move on. Start fresh. Was that even possible?
“Your plane doesn’t leave until tonight!” She searched my face, frantic. “You have time!”
“Look around you!” I gazed across the sea of heads to the stage. To him. My heart was slamming itself against my ribcage. “He deserves this, we both know it. To hold him back would be selfish. You’re one of his best friends—like a sister!”
I hated shouting, but Savana was leaning as close to me as she could in order to hear about the cacophony.
“This is what you wanted for him, remember?” I said. “And it’s okay to be happy to see him achieving his dreams. I mean that. But for now, our worlds are too far apart, Savana, I…” I shook my head, blinked back another onslaught of tears. “It can’t work between us. It just can’t.” My bottom lip trembled. “I have to go.”
And, so, I did.
I left without another word. Without looking back.
With his voice in my ears.
In my head.
In my heart.
chapter thirty
three weeks later…
Finding balance. That seemed to be my MO. Scratch that, my only MO since I arrived in England. Classes were fine. Hectic but surreal, I still couldn’t believe I’d gotten in to one of the most prestigious schools in the world. People were nice, despite the stereotypes. Despite that I was an American and, therefore, given leeway to screw up local customs and British slang, the latter of which I still couldn’t grasp.
Apparently, in the UK, fanny wasn’t a cute reference to one’s backside.
The university campus was a dream. Like a medieval castle sprung to life inside and out with upgraded technology throughout. Portraits of famous alumni dotted the walls. Sir Isaac Newton, Lord Rayleigh and James Clerk Maxwell, to name a few. The canteen where I took most of my meals had WiFi and a wider selection of food than most cafes in the States. Housing was quaint but nice, my room small but accommodating. I’d hung out a few times with some of the first years who lived on the same floor. Four of us shared a kitchen down the hall, though Lara, the self-labeled farmgirl from Norfolk, was the only one who ever cooked.
I’d yet to find a job, although I’d put in applications almost everywhere within walking distance: a coffee shop, two cafes and a secondhand bookstore. I was really hopeful about the last. I needed a happy distraction. What better than to surround oneself with the scent of pages and binding, shelves packed with books from floor to ceiling, and to get paid for it?
In the space between waiting for a call from the bookshop owner, partially ignoring Lawson’s texts—I made myself answer only baby-related questions—the last of which cryptically read, remember, you forced me to do this, and trekking Great Court to and from classes, I spent most of my time in my room. Studying, doing homework, sleeping, and, of course, wondering how in the hell I was going to erase the last few months from my memory.
I wanted to forget. I didn’t want to forget. There was no rhyme to my weird, messed up reasoning.
I’d garnered a few second glances. Whether because I wasn’t completely bad-looking or because I was so obviously not British, was anyone’s guess. Being an American wasn’t exactly high on the exotic scale. Nonetheless, I’d been asked out a couple of times. Handsome guys, well-dressed and -groomed, with pretty smiles. British, obviously, which wasn’t a bad thing. Their accents sounded musical, educated and gorgeous. Like Harry Styles without the drama.
I’d declined.
Life needed to go on. The past belonged in the past. I needed to move forward—only forward, never backward.
But my heart was still tender.
And I was still pregnant.
I wouldn’t’ve felt right going out with a boy, even if it was just an innocent cup of coffee, without telling him the truth. It would’ve been a lot to take for anyone. Lara was the only soul on campus who knew, besides the guidance counselor and accommodations. I couldn’t live in a single room dormitory with an infant. Luckily, the university had off-campus flats for students with significant others or, in my case, a child. There was a waiting list, of course, but maybe if the stars could align for the bookstore gig, they’d align for this, too.
A light knoc
k came to my door as I was sitting on the bed doing homework. It was a Saturday, raining cats and dogs, and most everyone had gone to the common room for games and television. Except me, of course. Per usual, I was content to bury myself in work.
“Come in,” I said without looking up.
“Ugh, why am I not surprised?”
“Hi, Lara.” I kept writing my discussion notes on Wuthering Heights. “Yes, I’m studying.” She loved to give me crap about choosing to do homework while other people actually had fun. You know. Like normal college kids.
“I made you a snack.” She lifted a covered plate. “Banoffee pie.”
“Nice. Thanks.” I gestured to my desk. “There is fine. What are you up to?”
Shrugging, she sat on the edge of the bed. “Oh, you know. Baking, played a round of cards with Jim.” Jim was her boyfriend, a third-year astrology major who gushed about stars and planets the way most boys talked about sports. “Mainly wondering why my new American friend insists upon being antisocial.”
“I’m not antisocial.”
She tilted her head. Lara was gorgeous. Tall and thin with long braids, deep brown eyes and cinnamon skin, she looked like a movie star. When I first met her, I would’ve never guessed she’d grown up on a sheep farm with, as she put it, mad sheering and milking skills.
“Fine,” she said. “Uncultured.”
I slapped my pen to the notebook page that was almost full. “I’ll have you know I’m plenty cultured!”
She rolled her eyes. “Great. Let’s hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“All the ways you’re cultured.”
I blinked rapidly, thinking. “I…like football?”
“American football.”
“And baseball.” This was so ridiculous.
“Again. American.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “So, cultured only counts when it’s British culture?”
“Well, to be fair, you are in Britain.” Her mouth screwed up to one side. “But you never get out.”
“It’s cold all the time.” I rubbed my arms. “I’m cold all the time.”
“Wear a bloody sweater.” She shoved my leg and I laughed. “Come out with us. You don’t have to drink. We’ll tell everybody it’s against your religion or something.”
I shook my head, laughing. She’d kept my secret well. Heck, if it weren’t for Lara, I wouldn’t have eaten half the healthy stuff I did. Gotta keep that wee lil’ bairn happy, she’d say in her wonky version of a Scottish accent and hand me a kale-blueberry-acai shake. Drink up.
“Seriously, you can’t just stay in here forever, pining over him.”
Blood rushed up my cheeks, and I ducked my head, brow pulling. It hurt. He hurt. The memory of him, of us, of all we’d meant to each other. “Pining over who?”
“The boy who clearly broke your heart—good Lord, woman, do you think I’m that dense?”
“I don’t think you’re dense.” I just didn’t think I’d been that obvious. Was I?
I’d tried to hide it. Keep myself occupied. The prison in Ohio had arranged weekly visits between me and Dad via Zoom. He never had much to say about himself, but he asked plenty about me. How school was going (great), what I thought of my professors (amazing), whether I was eating good (yes, thanks to Lara). I still hadn’t told him about the baby. Couldn’t for worrying how he’d react, whether he’d withdraw again, go back to not talking to me.
He was the only family I had. I couldn’t lose him.
My phone dinged with a text. Savana. I smiled. She’d kept in touch without fail, sending me funny memes and photos of her and Chris. She left Lawson out of our conversations. I was grateful. Especially since I knew she didn’t like the way I ended things. She was my friend, yes, but she’d been Lawson’s friend first. Loyalty like that, I couldn’t compete with.
What’s up, ladybug? She inserted a ladybug emoji. How’s Saturday morning in England?
I texted back: Great, except it’s 4 in the afternoon.
Time difference. My bad.
It’s okay.
You chillin’?
Sort of. Lara’s hanging out with me.
Lara! I like Lara. Tell her I said HIIIII! She sent a selfie of herself blowing a kiss.
I showed Lara, and she laughed. “I have got to meet this girl. She seems fun. A lot more fun than you,” she teased.
“She is.” A twinge of homesickness tugged at me. Ridiculous, since Nashville was never really home. But there it was. Digging deep. Reaching into my heart.
I pushed the feeling aside. Strength was vital. I knew that. Had convinced myself that the moment I invited in the past, even the good parts, I might as well knock down a wall and wave in a universe of highs and lows and super-lows. The kind that left me watching sap movies and crying into a pint of rocky road.
“She introduced me to…” Come on, Evans. You can do this. “To him. To the father.”
I cringed a little at the sound of my own words. Could I have been any more impersonal? Then again, impersonal was the only trait I’d adopted that kept me going. Sure, it meant I was more robotic than human—just last week, Lara suggested I needed to change my batteries—but who needed fun and spontaneity?
Lara pushed her hands into her lap. “You were all in the same group of friends?”
“Sort of. Savana and I worked together at the community college library.” I swallowed against the sudden acceleration of my heart. “And one night she invited me to go to a jam session.”
“Jam session.”
“You know, where musicians get together to play and sing?”
Chuckling, Lara said, “I know what a jam session is. I’m just trying to place you sitting around with a bunch of musicians. In Nashville, Tennessee, of all places.”
“You’ve heard of Nashville, huh?”
“Hey, I may be a sheep farmer, but I wasn’t born in a cave. So, your bloke, he’s a musician?”
“He’s not mine.” Why was I so defensive? For a moment, Lawson was mine. And I was his, and we were supposed to work out, even though a relationship was proving more and more impossible by the day. It was like attempting to climb a mountain. One where he was already at the top, and I had no way to reach him. No footing, no rope to grab, nada.
“Right. But you shagged him.” Lara’s brows inched toward her hairline. “Apparently more than once, since you got pregnant. Or was it a one-time deal?”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“Trust me, Harper, I’m not judging. Normal relationships are hard enough. Jim and I, we’ve been together for almost a year, shagged on the first date and the second and the third. Broke up, because I told him I didn’t want to base a relationship on sex. He said I was crazy. I told him he could bloody well sod off. But then we got back together, and here we are. Dealing with each other’s own special flavor of crazy.”
I tried and failed to hide my amusement.
“And that’s normal!” She laughed. “But dating a bloke with a high profile? That can’t be easy. I mean, sure, do I sometimes dream of getting eat out by Regé-Jean Page or discovering firsthand if all the rumors about Tom Hiddleston’s cock are true? Who doesn’t?”
I laughed so hard I doubled over, my eyes watering.
“Who.” She poked my knee. “Freaking.” Another punctuated poke. “Doesn’t?”
As our combined laughter faded, my thoughts dialed back a frame.
“Wait…” My mouth opened and closed. Words scrambled, attempted to form sentences. “I didn’t tell you he was high profile.” Blink, blink. “In fact, we’ve never talked about him until now. I haven’t,” I said slowly, “talked about him.” With anyone. Except, of course, for myself. And only in my head. And only in moments of weakness. Of which there were unfortunately many.
Lara was staring at me in such a way, the hairs on my arms stood on end. “Yeah.” She drew out the word. “That’s true.”
Before I could respond, a shriek echoed in the hall, followed by a
nother and another.
I jerked reactively. Pushed my notebook off my lap. Wuthering Heights fell to the floor.
Voices. More high-pitched squeals. What the heck was going on? Was there a fire? Had someone broken in? We all had key cards and were given strict instructions to neither lose nor lend them to anyone, not even friends and family.
Heart pounding, my feet hit the floor and I looked around for a bat, a paperweight, textbook, anything I could use to hit someone over the head, if I had to. Nothing. All my schoolbooks were digital. The two large landscape paintings issued by the school were bolted to the wall. And the baseball bat I’d had since third grade was in storage, along with the other contents of my entire life.
“Harper,” said Lara, “there’s something you need to—”
The knock at the door cut her off.
I grabbed the back of my desk chair, ready to throw it at an intruder.
“Harper?”
The fight drained out of me, instantaneous. Replaced by an overwhelming plethora of questions, none of which made one iota of sense.
“Harper Evans.” His voice. Smooth, southern. Speaking my name. “Open the door.”
I looked to Lara, who shrugged as if to say what can you do? “You didn’t have to tell me,” she said. “It was pretty obvious from the second he stepped out of his car and…how did someone put it?” She tapped a finger to her chin. “Stormed across Great Court like Bieber running from a groupie? You really should’ve told me you were dating a hot country star. We could’ve had a whole lot more to talk about.”
“We’re not—”
“Don’t make me break this door down, Harper. I’m serious. It looks like somethin’ close to mahogany or ancient oak or some kind of realistic prop from Game of Thrones, and I’m pretty sure I’d injure a fist or a foot, so why don’t you just save me a whole lotta pain and open—”
Jump Then Fall Page 30