“Hawthornes aren’t supposed to break.” His chest rises and falls.
“Especially me.”
I stand and make my way to his side of the table without ever letting go of his hands. “You’re not broken.”
“I am.” The words are swift and brutal. “I always will be.”
“Look at me,” I say, but he won’t. I bend down toward him. “Look at me, Grayson. You are not broken.”
His eyes catch on mine. Our chests rise and fall in unison now.
“Emily was in my head.” There’s something hushed and barely restrained in his voice. “I heard her after the bomb went off, like she was right there. Like she was real.”
This is a confession. I’m standing, and he’s sitting, back straight, head bowed.
“For weeks, I hallucinated her voice. For weeks, she whispered to me.”
Grayson looks up at me. “Tell me again that I’m not broken.”
I don’t think. I just take his head in my hands. “You loved her, and you lost her,” I start to say.
“I failed her, and she will haunt me until the day I die.” Grayson’s eyes close. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I wanted to be stronger than this. For you.”
Those last two words nearly undo me. “You don’t have to be anything for me, Grayson.” I wait until he opens his eyes, until he’s looking at me.
“This,” I say. “You. It’s enough.”
He drops from the chair to his knees, his eyes closing again, the enormity of this moment all around us. I kneel, wrap my arms around him.
“You’re enough,” I say again.
“It will never be enough.”
The memory was everywhere. I could feel Grayson curling in on himself, into me. I could feel his shudder. And then he’d told me to go, and I’d fled because deep down, I knew what he meant when he said that it would never be enough. He meant us. What we were—and what we weren’t. What had shattered in those weeks when Emily had been whispering in his ear.
What might have been.
What could have been.
What couldn’t be, now.
The next day, Grayson had left for Harvard without even saying good-
bye. And now he was back, right there behind me, and we were doing this.
Grayson, Jameson, and me.
“This way.” Grayson nodded to a clear glass door to our right. When he opened it, a burst of cold air hit my face. Stepping through the doorway, I let out a long, slow breath, half expecting to see it, wispy and white in the chilly air.
“This place is enormous.” I stayed in the present through sheer force of will. No more flashbacks. No more what-ifs. I focused on the game. That was what was needed. What I needed and what both of them needed from me.
“There are technically five cellars, all interconnected,” Jameson narrated. “This one’s for white wine. Through there is red. If you keep wrapping around, you’ll hit scotch, bourbon, and whiskey.”
There had to be a fortune down here in alcohol alone. Think about that.
Nothing but that.
“We’re looking for a red wine.” Grayson’s voice cut into my thoughts.
“A Bordeaux.”
Jameson reached for my hand. I took it, and he stepped away, allowing his fingers to trail down mine—an invitation to follow as he wound into the next room. I did.