Second to None, page 20
“That’s true,” I conceded even if I wasn’t convinced Emily truly grasped it either. Better that way, maybe.
“But, so.” She narrowed her eyes. “If people I love are the same as always—why does it matter what others do? I don’t care!”
“Because…” I didn’t know how to finish. Because I promised Jess I’d take care of you, always. Because you’re my little girl, and I’m gonna want to protect you from the world. Because I don’t want you to pay for who I am. Nothing felt like quite the right response.
Before I could settle on anything, the doorbell chimed—a crisp note shattering the morning quiet. Fuck, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Had they found us already?
“Stay here,” I told Emily, and something in my tone made her nod quickly, eyes wide.
In the hall, I hit the intercom screen. My pulse dropped, like a reverse rush of blood to the head. Frank—thank God.
Probably here to pick up Cass’s stuff.
The idea tugged something loose in my gut, left me strangely empty and disoriented. Just hadn’t had breakfast yet, no appetite. Hardly surprising.
I buzzed the car in, a second one following just behind—black, tinted windows in the back. More bodyguards? It wasn’t… No. Cass wouldn’t just… I’d told him to fuck off, and so he had.
He wasn’t coming back.
Frank got out of the first car, two men exiting from the second. Private security, all right—it was in the clothes, the posture. After years of being herded places, I’d learned how to spot a professional. I walked out to greet Frank first, hands in my pocket, face carefully neutral.
Turned out the two other guys were here for Emily and me. “Cass insisted,” Frank said. “They’ll stay with you today and tomorrow, until your departure. You’ll go through the VIP terminal. No crowds, no cameras. And I’m coordinating with a security firm in Manchester, make sure you’ll be taken care of there as well.”
Guilt. Just Cass tying up loose ends, trying to mop up his mess. I felt my jaw tighten. “Thanks, but I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” Frank lowered his voice. “But this way, you won’t be left scrambling to arrange something.”
He wasn’t wrong. I glanced at the two guards, part of me still stubbornly tempted to reject this olive branch. It didn’t fix a thing. I didn’t need Cass’s charity, didn’t want it.
“Please?” Frank said gently, as if this actually mattered to him.
I exhaled. “Yeah, all right.”
Cass’s guitar was still in the living room.
I noticed it when I came back inside from the pool, splashing about with Emily because I’d cancelled the horse-riding excursion we’d originally planned. Accidentally left behind, perhaps? Maybe Frank had only been tasked with the suitcases and forgotten to sweep the place for scattered remnants of Cass’s presence. Either way, the guitar was leaning against the sofa—so fucking normal, as if Cass had just stepped out to fetch a glass of water when he must be on his way home by now. Back to LA, where he belonged and I no longer did.
I picked it up, careful, as though it might disintegrate in my fingers. It looked no different from when we’d tinkered with that warm, hopeful melody in the garden, but now I noticed the worn edges and slight scuff marks on the headstock. I turned it over—a faded sticker, half-peeled away, its residue clinging to the underside. That guitar.
Sydney, some fancy hotel room with plush carpets and white orchids, the window cracked open to let in warm air and the rise and fall of fans chanting outside the building. I’d walked in after a shower, rubbing a towel over my damp hair, and found Cass sitting on the bed. There was nothing special about it, nothing special about what he was doing—not even playing, just lost in thought, his face soft and unguarded. But I’d stopped on the threshold and said, “I love you, you know?”
He’d snapped back to reality, staring at me for a wide-eyed moment before he sent me the most beautiful smile—not the megawatt one that was all for the cameras, his trademark, but something quiet and real that sat mostly around the eyes. Happy.
‘Cass said he got really scared last time, but now he’s brave.’
I shook away the echo of Emily’s words and sat down, pulling the guitar into my lap. The strings felt alive when I pressed down on them, letting my fingers catch on gentle notes.
Eight years. Eight years, and he still travelled with this guitar instead of getting some extravagant rockstar model custom-made for him. I inhaled, exhaled, and told myself it didn’t mean anything.
Just a guitar.
I kept busy throughout the day—dealt with some emails, started packing for tomorrow’s departure, had a call with Cosma to discuss the recording schedule of her debut album, and worked out for a bit. But now, with a couple of hours left until dinner, my parents gone for a last swim in the sea, and Emily bundled up with a movie I’d seen a dozen times too many, I was alone with my thoughts.
Like wondering why Cass had chosen to run with a public statement that undid all the groundwork we’d tried to lay: some rubbish about how it was just friends catching up, nothing to see here, please move along. Second thoughts after all? He’d seemed so sure about wanting to come out.
‘But now he’s brave.’
In spite of the movie’s excited chatter, the house felt too quiet. Each moment stretched thin, tension itching under my skin as though my body still expected Cass to walk back in and smile, eyes like candles. ‘Told you, didn’t I? Told you I’m still in love with you. Even if you sent me away.’
Not gonna happen.
I set about making tomato sauce from scratch, the smell of sizzling garlic and onions thick in the kitchen. I usually loved it; now it turned my stomach. When Mason called, I wedged the phone between my cheek and shoulder so I could keep dicing tomatoes—Princess Emily was particular about bigger pieces of tomato skin in her sauce.
“Hey, mate,” I said.
“Shit, man.” His voice sounded a tad scratchy with sleep, and I had no idea what time zone he was in. I remembered when that had been our normal—waking up in hotel rooms or a bunk bed on the bus, unsure whether we were in Denmark, Canada, or Japan. “Just saw. How ya holding up?”
“I’m…” I’m fine. The lie wouldn’t quite form. “I’m handling it.”
Mason puffed out a sigh. “That’s real shit, some asshole selling footage with a kid in it. It’s one thing if it’s us, you know, but Emily? Fuck. I take it Cass set his lawyers on it?”
“Probably.” I focused on what my hands were doing, the movement of the knife. Steady. “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Mason’s confusion came through clear as day.
“He isn’t here.”
“He’s not with you?” Mason paused. “Did the story hit when he was on his way back already? Whatever he’s got lined up, I’m sure he’ll cancel—”
“I told him to get the fuck out,” I interrupted, chest tight with something dark and sick. Christ, I loved Mason, but I needed this conversation to be over.
“You what?” He sounded incredulous. “Levi—”
“He made a fucking promise, Mason. He broke it.”
“Okay, look, I know this sucks. I get it.” His voice dropped. “But this was beyond his control, wasn’t it?”
“He should have seen the fucking camera.”
“You didn’t see it either.” Mason’s tone was gentle and careful, and yet the words sent something white-hot up my spine, raw and bitter. I wedged the phone tighter against my cheek, knife stilling in my hand.
“Fuck you.”
“Lee, I just think—” He broke off and tried again, quiet now. “I get that you’re scared. I get that the first time really blew, and trust is earned, not given.”
“I’m not scared,” I snapped.
His voice remained gentle. “Aren’t you?”
“Look, I get it. Everyone loves Cass.” My bones felt as brittle as old glass, onions and garlic clogging my senses. I turned off the stove. “Can do no wrong, can he?”
Mason made a small, exasperated sound. “He’s only human. So yeah, he does fuck up. Just like we all do. But it sounds like in this particular case, he didn’t actually do anything wrong.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“He broke his promise,” I repeated, each word lined with meaning.
“It was an impossible promise, and you know it.” Mason’s tone was reasonable in a way that prickled all along my spine. “The moment you two became something again—he’s Cassian Monroe, Lee. You can’t be with him unless you’re willing to be caught in his spotlight at least a little bit.”
“I know he’s Cassian fucking Monroe, thanks.” My words trembled around the edges. I dropped the knife and placed both hands flat on the worktop, just… breathing. Breathing.
Silence.
Then Mason spoke again, all soft and understanding. “And because he’s Cassian fucking Monroe, you still don’t think he’s gonna stay. Meanwhile, he believes he deserves to be yelled at, and that he’s not allowed to fight for a second chance with you.”
“That’s bollocks.”
“Is it?” Still so fucking soft, like Mason knew me better than I did. “Maybe you should ask yourself if there’s anything he could do that would convince you he’s for real. If you ever even gave him a chance.”
Bile rose sharp in my throat. “Fuck off, Mason,” I said, voice shaking. I ended the call with a jab of my finger and sent the phone skittering across the worktop, turned away, my hands gripping the windowsill. The glass was cool against my forehead, fever still crawling under my skin.
Mason was wrong. So really, just… fuck him.
For most of my time with Neon Circuit, sleep had been a beautiful luxury I’d learned to grab with both hands—in twenty-minute increments, if necessary. Then Cass and I had gone to shit, and insomnia joined the list of all things wrong with me. Therapy had taught me to accept that lying awake wasn’t the end of the world, that I’d rest when I could, that my body would catch up.
I was here, and I was sober. My heart was still beating.
I did much better these days, but trying to fall asleep in a bed that Cass and I had shared just a night ago? Fuck. Shadows crowded the space in my mind, his low, hurt voice asking me whether I really thought that fame and the adoration of strangers was all he wanted.
‘Give me a reason, Cass. Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t.’
‘I’m still in love with you. That’s my reason.‘
Rubbish. He’d just… He’d just said that to feel better about this absolute shitshow. It wasn’t true. Even if he believed it—well, hey. Five years without contact painted a pretty clear picture. And sure, that went both ways, but he was the one who’d walked away.
Slow breaths, deep and steady.
Porto Cervo, Sunday, August 31st
I must have drifted off at some point because I woke up to the blaring of my phone alarm, eyes gritty with sleep, sunlight slicing straight through to the back of my brain. Right, then. Travel day, which doubled as last-day-before-school day. Up and at ‘em, or whatever.
My parents were already fluttering around the house, bags ready by the door, while the two security guys were sipping coffee in the kitchen. I nodded at them, in no shape for small talk, and went to pour my own.
“All quiet?” I asked eventually, when my will to live had been kicked out of its coma by a double serving of my usual caffeine dose, along with a spoonful of sugar I only added in desperate times.
“Yes.” The leader of the two—Paolo—nodded. “Mr Monroe was spotted arriving in Los Angeles, so we think that will reduce attention here.”
Spotted? It meant that Cass had wanted to be seen, because he’d long since mastered the art of incognito travel. I didn’t try to read into his motivations, just grunted some form of assent and tried to get a handle on my plan for the morning, tiredness blurring the edges of my thoughts. To-do list: start packing, wake Emily, get breakfast ready, wake Emily again, finish packing, and then help her with her bag. Shoes on at half past nine, and not a minute later.
Okay.
By some minor miracle—and my dad pushing everyone along—we did actually finish loading our rental car at a quarter to ten. When I did a final check of the house, Cass’s guitar sat alone in the living room, half-caught by a beam of sunlight. I could just leave it. Maybe I should.
I took it with me into the backseat of the van driven by the security guys, Emily a quiet, grumpy bundle next to me. Yeah, well, me too. Shame I was an adult.
I closed my eyes for the drive, Sardinia’s roads winding through my head, a faint sense of queasiness heavy in my bones. The body of Cass’s guitar pressed against my leg, but I made no attempt to shift it.
Olbia Airport. The VIP terminal was swanky, same as always with these things, a private concierge greeting us to handle our check-in and all travel formalities while we waited in a luxury lounge. Over the years, my ability to be wowed by this kind of stuff had evaporated into thin air—I remembered sleeping on the floor in places like this, curled around some throw pillow I’d grabbed off an armchair, remembered someone shaking me awake and I had no clue where I was, or what the hell I was doing this for.
My parents were rather more impressed. While my mum took Emily to inspect a range of smoothie options, my dad was drooling over a wide selection of newspapers and magazines, returning with a stack that should last him until, oh, approximately next year. “Quite something, isn’t it?” he said.
I nodded, glancing at what he’d fanned out on the sofa table before us. The local paper led with a picture of Cass and me on the cover—taken at the restaurant, the focus on him. ‘Fuga romantica in Sardegna?’ it asked. My gut cramped, and I looked away.
“You don’t even speak Italian,” I told my dad.
He swayed his head. “Eh, I’ll get the gist of it. There are apps to translate these things, you know?”
Why do you care? I didn’t ask, just shrugged and pulled out my phone.
“Listen, son,” Dad said after a brief stretch of silence. Restrained lounge music wove around us, no other travellers nearby. “About Cass.”
I looked up, wary. My dad wasn’t the type to offer frequent life advice or emotional counselling, and whatever this was, I’d had enough input to last me for a good long while. “Dad—”
“Have you listened to his second and third albums?” he asked before I could stop him. “Because I have. And maybe you should too before you make up your mind.”
“What difference does it make?” It came out rather too harshly, but my dad didn’t seem to take offense.
“Maybe none at all,” he said, voice a little gruff. “Or maybe it does. I’d like to think we raised you to be curious and open-minded, to gather all the information before you jump to conclusions.”
Oh, hell. Lay on the parental persuasion, huh? I’d read all about motivational prompting when I’d mainlined parenting books some two years ago, responsibility weighing heavy on me.
And somehow, it still fucking worked.
“I’ll listen to them,” I told my dad, sharp to signal the end of this conversation.
He patted my shoulder in that way he had, a little awkward yet heartfelt. “Good. That’s very good, son.”
I inhaled and ducked my head, exhaustion casting a charcoal blanket over my thoughts.
Between Sardinia and England, Sunday, August 31st
Blue sky and cotton-wool clouds. Emily was curled against my side with her headphones on, watching some cartoon, while my parents sat a row ahead, murmuring in voices that didn’t make it over the white-noise hum of the engines.
I unlocked my phone for the third time. The cover of Cass’s second album, downloaded at the airport along with his third, stared back at me—or rather Cass did, an intense black-and-white shot from the chest up, bare shoulders catching gentle light, eyes a dark grey. Inexplicable fear left a sour taste in my mouth.
No one forced me to listen. Maybe it was safer if I stayed away, stopped poking at old wounds.
I put in my earbuds and hit play.
The first track I already knew, a groovy summer tune that had played in every damn pub and supermarket some two years ago, right around the time Jessica’s diagnosis had ripped our world apart. I skipped it, heart lodged somewhere behind my collarbones.
The second track was different: lush instrumentation, warm guitar, Cass’s slightly rough voice sliding between notes like he’d always done. There was a depth the first song had lacked—subtle lyrics tucked between layers of melody. A ghostly shadow on my empty walls. Your lonely key left in the kitchen, a house but not a home.
I hit pause once the track faded, breath shallow. Recycled air refused to truly fill my lungs, too much fucking space behind my closed eyelids. It took no effort to remember the gate remote I’d dropped on the kitchen island, just before I’d walked out of our house one final time, my things already gone.
Maybe I’d heard enough. I knew Cass regretted our end; he’d apologised plenty. This wasn’t new.
It felt new.
I pressed play again.
Some songs flowed by without leaving much of a trace. Others, though? Others hooked lyrics like tiny claws into me, pinprick points of pain while Emily shifted against me, giggling now and then at her cartoon. Normal. It was only my world that had tilted a little on its side.
The ground felt too steady where I stood. My guitar tuned to the absence of your voice. A backstage hallway curved like a secret. I drew a map of all the places we won’t go.
He’d been reaching out all along—I just hadn’t been listening.
A constellation where your hands no longer bruise. The pattern inked into his hip, how he’d told me it wasn’t closure but a reminder.
‘I’m still in love with you.’
Delayed impact, like a slow-motion train crash. I pressed a hand against my stomach and curled it into a fist, knuckles digging in. Not even sure why—just needed something solid, something to ground me when it felt like I was spiralling. Not like the first time, no tar-black pit of despair, seeking bitter oblivion, but just as vast, blinding disorientation pulling me in all directions.
