Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I have no breaths. My head is spinning too much to think about breathing. What’s going on?
June swallows hard and glances at me for less than a second, barely lifting her gaze enough to make actual eye contact. “That’s very kind of you to say, Liza. Your performance was so moving.”
“Thank you.” Liza presses her hand over her chest like she might faint from June’s words.
Seriously. What the fuck is going on?
“Well”—Liza shoots me a quick smile before offering her hand to June—“I won’t keep you. But it’s been a huge pleasure meeting you in person.”
June shakes her hand and gives her a wavering smile.
Liza walks away, then stops and points to a picture, glancing back at June. “It must feel surreal having your picture on the wall. I bet they’d love for you to sign it.”
When she continues toward the stairs, I follow her footsteps to the picture.
“Flynn.” June grabs my wrist, but I pull away.
We passed this picture five minutes earlier, and she didn’t even pause at it. That’s her—the young woman on the stage, front and center, sitting in a chair with a cello between her legs, one hand on the neck, her other hand holding the bow above her head like she’s just finished a dramatic performance. But her long hair is partially covering her face, eyes closed. I don’t know if I would have ever recognized her in this photo. But now that I really focus, it’s undeniable.
The gold plaque on the frame says, “A World Away.”
“What am I looking at here, June?” I ask, my jaw working back and forth. “Or … Zoya? Is that your name?” I turn my head just enough to squint at her.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about after the concert.” Her face wrinkles as she wrings her hands together. “I played the cello professionally.”
“No shit.”
She frowns at my sarcasm. “I had a band called A World Away. It was an extraordinary life—a privileged life.”
I look away. She will not make me feel guilty for the things I’ve said about people who live a privileged life.
“My parents adopted me from an orphanage in India when I was three. Much like Rupert Rawlings, my father married into a wealthy family. My mother’s stepfather owned ZIP Tunes, one of the most successful record labels in the world, which my parents run now. My grandmother, Juniper Carlisle, was an international supermodel who had her own cable fashion DIY show. She went by ‘Juni,’ so I go by June instead of Zoya because too many people know Zoya Malone. And I gave up that life when I came here.”
Rubbing my temples, I shake my head. “Why?”
“The reason I was taken on my twenty-first birthday was because of my family, which made me worth a sizable ransom in the kidnapper’s eyes. And despite round-the-clock security and countless hours of therapy, I couldn’t relax. Walking through a crowd of people screaming my name, holding out their hands for an autograph or just to touch me felt like nothing more than people wanting to take me. I couldn’t hold my cello or bow without shaking. I rushed through concerts just so I could get home and hide in bed under the covers. The one thing that brought me joy became the thing that paralyzed me with fear. I just … fell out of love.” She quickly wipes the corners of her eyes and sniffs.
Security? Crowds of screaming people? My head won’t stop spinning. This was my night to tell her about my past, not her night to tell me … this. Whatever this is.
All I know is I never wanted this; I just wanted her.
Everyone around us heads back into the auditorium.
“It’s starting,” I murmur, but I can’t look at her anymore. “Let’s go.”
“Flynn …” She grabs my hand, interlacing our fingers, as I head toward the auditorium, but I don’t move a muscle. No curling my fingers. She’s holding on, but I’m letting go.
For the second half of the show, she wipes tears from her cheeks with her gaze on the stage. After the last performance, we worm our way through the crowd. As much as I need space, I wait for her, making sure she’s in front of me as a crowd of people flows through the skyway toward the parking ramp.
She turns toward me before I can open the car door for her. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t lie to you. This is who I am, a girl who enjoys taking people on bike tours. I like my roommate and my two-bedroom apartment and taking naps.” She points toward the skyway. “That’s not my life any longer, even if someone recognizes me. It doesn’t define me any more than the balance in my bank account. So you can’t punish me for being scared to tell you. And you can’t punish me for the people who adopted me.”