Page 124 of Before You Fell

You can be a wound and still feel like home.

I hate it but for some reason I can’t seem to cross it out.

“Phoenix is hard not to write about,” I say.

Goldie’s mouth curves. “Famous men usually are. Their egos take up all the available seating.”

“Famous men get away with a lot,” I say.

Goldie lets out a laugh. “Famous men are worshipped for the same behavior that would have the rest of us labeled unstable.”

“That feels accurate.” I chuckle, before averting my gaze.

“You know, before the fame, he was just Phoenix to me. Annoying. Too cocky for someone with no actual evidence yet. He used to come over to my house and eat everything Mom put in front of him.” My chest pulls around the memory. “We wrote songs under a tree when we were kids.”

“Do you still love him?” she asks.

I stare across the courtyard at the lavender swaying in the breeze. “Yes. I think I always will.”

The truth comes out too quietly for the damage it has done. When I turn back, Goldie is staring across the courtyard as well, her face unreadable behind her sunglasses.

“Phoenix once told me I was the talented one,” I say. “Told me he would be shit without me.”

“And then he became the kind of man the world screams for.”

“Yeah.”

Goldie’s mouth curves. “I know the feeling. Loving a famous man is a special kind of stupidity. You give them the softest parts of you, then watch strangers scream for the version that would not exist without your fingerprints all over it.”

The silence between us settles comfortably for a moment.

Then she says, “Adrian left a song behind.”

I glance at her.

Her fingers have found the gold pendant at her throat, her thumb rubbing over the tiny A as if grief has a pulse and she knows exactly where to press.

“Nobody’s heard it,” she says. “Not even the vultures who still pretend they loved him more than I did.”

I close the notebook. “Why not?”

“Because it’s mine.” Her answer is instant. “Because it was his.” She swallows. “And because the second the world gets its hands on a song, it stops belonging to the person who bled for it. They stream it, quote it, tattoo it, cry to it, fuck to it, and somehow decide that means they know what it cost.”

The words slide beneath my ribs and stay there. I know precisely what that is like.

“That makes sense,” I say quietly.

Goldie’s laugh is bitter. “According to the label, it makes me difficult.”

She looks at me. “Adrian would’ve wanted it heard. I know that. He loved being adored. Christ, he pretended he hated the attention, but he would’ve fucked applause if it had a hole.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

“He was a nightmare,” she says, shaking her head. “Brilliant, but a nightmare. People always do this when someone dies. They rewrite them. Suddenly, the selfish bits disappear, the ugly bits get edited out, and every asshole becomes a tragic fucking poet.”

I don’t say anything.

“They turned him into the perfect husband,” she says, still rubbing the pendant. “Tortured genius. Tragic angel. Soulmate. All that sentimental bullshit people throw around because grief looks better in photos when it’s pretty.” Her lips purse together for a moment. “Adrian was selfish. He was impossible. He’d pick a fight just to have something to write about, then charm his way out of it with that stupid fucking smile.” A sad laugh escapes her. “And I’d usually let him.”