How did she go from this shell of a girl, this walking corpse, to the girl who is so vibrant and alive, whose passion and daring make my head spin? I am trying to wrap my head around something that makes no fucking sense.

I realize, with almost sickening quickness, that I loathe her family.

Seeing her past on paper, seeing the demons she fought and how much she hated who she was being molded into--I've never met them, and part of me hopes I never do. I don't know how to be in the same room as someone who had the chance to care for a girl like Peyton and who fucked it up so completely.

"I want to sing tonight," I say, staring blankly at the photo clipped to the inside of the journal.

Scott glances at me, at the picture, before he nods. "Do what you think is best, man."

I offer him a sick smile and shove to my feet.

"She trusted you," he says before I leave the room. "Are you going to return the favor?"

I look at him. I know what he's asking. "It's not only my story to share," I say carefully.

"Don't hide behind that," he says. "Do what you think needs to be done. I want you to be happy, Rike. Whatever that means. And this girl—she makes you happy. In a way I haven't seen since we were eight."

When we were eight we had been living in a group home, and he'd been the shit head who picked a fight. We beat each other senseless, but when it was time to take the fall, neither of us was willing to throw the other under the bus. It was the first time in my life someone had my back and I never forgot it.

We were separated a year later, tossed into separate foster homes that got progressively worse. But for that six months, we had each other. We weren't so fucking alone.

We were miserable little shits the world didn't want, but we were fucking happy.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding and nod at him. "Thanks, Scott."

***

The crowd is high on the music. Scott played through our first set, setting the tone and getting them riled up with anthem after anthem, an ode to the summer that is fading away. Lindsay is swaying in the corner booth, next to a pale Peyton in a tiny dress that's driving me to distraction. She's got a drink in front of her, but she hasn't touched it.

Scott flicks a look at me when the song ends and his eyebrow lifts in question. I nod, and hit the cymbals. The girls on the dance floor sway and scream, and he laughs, a low, husky noise that will have them squirming in their skirts.

Fucking player. If he's not careful, Lindsay will rip his balls off and feed them to him.

I laugh at that thought.

“We’ve got a treat for you tonight. My boy Rike has been working on a new song. Most of the time, he lets me do the singing, but I think it’s time to remind you all that the boy has mad skills that don’t involve the sticks. So. Give it up, ladies. Rike it’s all you, brother.”

I come out from behind the drum set and Scott wraps me in a quick, rough hug. “Kick ass, bro,” he mutters before dropping off the stage.

I let out a breath, and sink onto the stool. Adjust the mic. I can feel the entire room, all of them waiting for me to say something. Anything. But I can’t see past the glare of the house lights.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see to know where she is and that she’s watching me with big, sky blue eyes. I close my eyes, picturing her.

And I sing.

I’ve always been good at creating and shit at saying what I feel. Maybe because of how I was raised. But tonight, I’m trying my best to let go of that.

Perfect girl,

She sits and listens,

And I can’t help but see everything that she’s hiding.

She’s beautiful and broken,

Tears she tries to hide,

And I can’t help but wonder what’s on the inside

You’re broken and lovely,

Fire and ice,

And holding you is painful,

But the payoff is worth the price,

Because you’re everything to me,

Yes, you’re everything to me,

Perfect girl.

Everyone said she was wrong,

When she danced to a song only she heard,

And I just want to sing along to the music of her soul,

Because she’s beautiful and broken, with the tears she tries to hide.

You’re broken and lovely,

Fire and ice,

And holding you is painful,

But the payoff is worth the price,

Because you’re everything to me,

Yes, you’re everything to me,

Perfect girl.

And all of us are broken, all of us are flawed,

All of us have battles, and times when we fall.

And I will love you always, with scars and broken heart,

You’re beautiful and broken, my perfect girl.

You’re broken and lovely,

Fire and ice,

And holding you is painful,

But the payoff is worth the price,

Because you’re everything to me,

Yes, you’re everything to me,

Perfect girl.

I strum the final notes of the song and as the music dies, I’m aware, painfully aware, of the quiet that surrounds me, a heavy blanket over the bar. I blink, opening my eyes and staring out into the room, to where I know she is.

The room comes alive like a fucking wave, a roar of noise that crests over me and drowns out Scott as he bounds onto the stage and shoves my hand up, yelling my name for the half-drunk fans who already know it.

I give a mocking half-bow because it’s expected, and he shoves be back to my drum kit, his eyes alive with excitement. I sit, dizzy suddenly. Exhausted.

I poured fucking everything into that song.

When I glance at the booth, my heart drops, the high of the song, and the crowd, and even Scotty, fading away. It’s like a punch to the gut.

She’s not there.

Chapter 16 : After

It's long nights next to you

And hearing your sighs

The sweetest music,

My favorite song the sound of your

Name whispered from the darkness.

The taste of wine and you,

and quiet noise of my pleading.

It is wild and reckless and soft

And sweet and

Always,

You.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

The journals are a revelation. I spend the next several days poring over them, hiding in my hotel room. Trying to forget everything that happened in the loft. Rike gives me time and space, which I appreciate. Reading the journals is like getting to know myself.

I can watch myself falling in love, living through fights. Forming a bond with a girl I would never have chosen as my best friend.

And that’s the thing. Rike isn’t who I would have chosen. Neither is Lindsay. I don’t understand where Scott fits in our weird little world but I know that he is important to Rike and therefore to me.

I always thought that I would have a quiet, traditional life, one like my parents had, even if they were miserable. I expected that, maybe because it’s what was expected of me. But this—this isn’t quiet. This isn’t traditional.

I’m a fucking artist, a girl who spends her days painting and sculpting and taking photos. Writing. And maybe I didn’t need to because my boyfriend was doing such a good job of taking care of us, but I was good at it.

And I loved it. All of it.