The dance room, the basement, the fucking street where I met Cole—it’s all too much, too many memories, too much pain. I lived through loss before, and I know this wretched feeling will never go away. I also know reminders make it worse.
Since Bree was with me the first time I grieved Cole, she understands my reasons. What she doesn’t know, however, is how Cole and Trace monitor, stalk, and invade my privacy. I’d be stupid to believe they let me walk away without keeping an eye on me. As long as I remain in St. Louis, they’ll be watching. To completely sever ties, I have to leave town.
“Where will you go?” she asks.
“I called Mom this afternoon.” I lift my heavy head and meet her eyes. “I’m moving to Florida. Going to live with them for a while. I’m starting over.”
Her chin trembles, and she wraps her arms around me. “Dammit, Danni, I don’t want you to go. But I get it. Whatever you need to do, I’m here for you.”
“Thank you.” I hug her back. “I’m going to miss you.”
I drive home the next morning. The motorcycle’s gone. The house is quiet. I force myself down the stairs and linger on the last step, unable to go farther.
Everything’s gone. The futon, weight equipment, punk rock posters… He even took the wedding gown. Why? It’s not like I’ll ever wear it. I would’ve sold it.
That’s why he took it.
My tears come back with a vengeance, shaking my shoulders and chopping my breaths. I turn back up the stairs and shut the door behind me, leaning against it to support the trembling weight of my stupid broken heart.
Do they feel like this? Like nothing exists but unbearable, inconsolable loss?
At least they still have each other. I hate them a little for that. I hate them for forcing me to do this alone. For making me find the strength to overcome this when all I want to do is lie down and be a doormat for their lies.
But I can’t do that. I won’t.
That afternoon, I purchase a new cell phone.
Then I call a real estate agent.
Five weeks later, I wander through my house, finishing up a final walk-through. My boots click along the wood floors, every step echoing with a hollow thud in the empty rooms.
I’m doing this. I’m moving on, and I fucking hate it.
I haven’t heard from Cole or Trace since that day in the penthouse. But several times a week, the rumble of a motorcycle passes down the street. Always early in the morning. Always the same slow speed.
The day after Cole moved out, I scoured every crack and cranny in my house, searching for cameras or something that doesn’t belong. I found nothing. If Trace is watching me, I don’t know how he’s doing it.
I think about them. With every breath. Every tear. Every miserable beat of my heart. I miss them so fucking much.
Christmas was the worst. I spent the holiday with Bree and felt utterly and completely alone.
Because I am alone. I tell myself I’m moving on, but I never will. Still, I have to try.
I walk into the dance studio, and a surge of misery fires behind my eyes. With my phone in hand, I pull up my song selection and play Moving On by Kodaline.
I’m going to Florida to start over.
It’s a new year. A new beginning. I can do this.
With a deep breath, I say goodbye to my house, my dance studio, the beautiful memories, the darkest hours. Then I whisper goodbye to Cole and Trace.
I open the back door, move forward, and pause mid-step on the threshold.
Sitting on the sidewalk just outside the door is a tall paper cup with a plastic lid. The logo on the side advertises my favorite coffee from the small coffee shop down the street.
I lift it, smell it, and confirm it’s my favorite blend. Peeking under the lid, I find it prepared exactly the way I like it. There’s no note. Nothing to indicate who it’s from. But I can narrow it down to two people.
My heart pounds as I scan the driveway, the street, searching for them, hoping, needing to see them with every aching breath.
The world around me is empty.
Silent.
I’m alone.
With a trembling hand, I bring the cup to my mouth and sip. Still warm.
My stomach sinks. I just missed him. Cole, Trace, whomever it was. I would give anything to see one of their faces again.
The song streams from my phone, reminding me what I’m supposed to be doing.
Move on, Danni. One foot in front of the other.
I slip the phone into my coat pocket and lock up. All my belongings are in storage. Once I find a place of my own, I’ll have my things shipped to Florida.
I still have the Midget, and as I lower behind the steering wheel, I’m glad it’s going with me. I love this car.
Except it won’t start.
I crank the engine over and over. It doesn’t make a sound. Fucking fuck fuck!
Why did I think this car would get me all the way to Florida? I can’t even get it out of my driveway.
Shivering in the cold January temperatures, I drink the coffee, savor the warm rich taste, and consider my options.
I need to go back inside and call a tow truck. I can stay with Bree until the car is fixed.
Opening the door, I climb back out, and the pall of vertigo hits me sideways. Jesus, I don’t feel good all of a sudden. I attempt another step and sway. What the hell?
A loud rushing sound roars in my ears. Dizziness grips me hard, spinning the ground and splotching my vision. I need to sit down. I need to…
My knees buckle, and the pavement rises up, slamming against my chest. The coffee tumbles from my grip, and darkness creeps in around me.
Unable to lift my cheek from the cold ground, I stare in a daze at the paper cup where it rolls on its side beside my limp arm. Rolling… Slowing… Stopping.
The last thing I see before the world goes black is three words written in unfamiliar handwriting on the bottom of the cup.
It’s not over.