“London? What are you doing home? Oh God. What happened?” Harley’s hand touches the top of my head, and then she’s on the floor with me, wrapping me up in her arms.

  I sob even harder, falling apart, feeling the weight of this pain like knife wounds to my heart. “He lied.” I manage to get those two words out, but everything else is swallowed up by the pain.

  And so I cry.

  And cry.

  And cry until every part of my body hurts right along with my heart. Until every breath is a gasp. Until there are no tears left to shed. Until I feel empty.

  Eventually, I’m too dehydrated to cry anymore. The last time I shed this many tears was the day we lost our parents. I never thought my heart could ever hurt as much as it did then, but I feel this agony like grief. A loss like no other, because Jackson still lives and breathes, but he’s not who I thought he was. He had so many opportunities to be honest with me, but he wasn’t.

  “I’m so sorry.” Harley sets a coffee mug in front of me.

  “I was falling in love with him.” I shake my head. “I fell in love with him, and now I don’t even know if his heart already belongs to someone else.”

  I explain what happened between hiccups. What I overheard in the bathroom, and then the conversation between Jackson and Selene on the balcony when they didn’t know I was there. How I knew he’d proposed in the past to someone, but that he’d left out the very important detail that he’d been sleeping with that very same woman on and off for years. They might not have given it a label, but it didn’t make it any less of a relationship. “Maybe it wasn’t serious, but maybe it was.” I pick up a strip of paper and can’t find it in me to start making a star, because now I associate those with Jackson too. “And now I’m the other woman and driving a wedge between two people with a history I can’t compete with. And frankly don’t want to.”

  My phone buzzes on the counter. I turned it back on when I arrived home. The messages have been relentless. There are several voicemails from Jackson and plenty of missed messages, but there are also a ridiculous number of email alerts and social media comments. I’m terrified to look, in case it’s another round of death threats and hate messages from Selene’s fans.

  “Do you want me to deal with this?” Harley asks.

  “Please. I can’t right now.” I push my phone toward her, and she keys in the passcode. She and Avery have always had access to my phone, just like I have access to theirs. Although I don’t think I’d ever want to read the content of Avery and Declan’s messages.

  “Do you want me to respond to Jackson? There are a lot of messages, and he’s expressed that he’s worried. I can tell him it’s me and that you’re home safe and would prefer that he doesn’t contact you right now?” Harley offers with sad eyes.

  I nod once and feel myself crumpling, tears I didn’t think myself capable of shedding streaming down my face and landing on the countertop.

  As soon as she sends the text, my phone rings and Harley sighs. “She doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

  I try to breathe, to shut off the thoughts and feelings, but they crash over me in waves, pulling me under, dragging me down with the undertow. I feel like I’m struggling for air, every inhale a gasp and a sob.

  “Do you hear that? This is your fault. You did this, you heartless sonofabitch. Leave her the hell alone.” My phone clatters to the floor.

  And then I’m wrapped in a set of arms that aren’t the ones I want. “It’ll be okay. I’m so sorry, London. I’m here. I’m sorry.”

  “I never want to fall in love again. It hurts too much.” I wonder if my heart is too broken to fix anyway.

  * * *

  The hate mail and messages I expect don’t ever come. But in the days that follow me walking out on that charity event, life changes yet stays the same. Selene posts about the auction and my piece is featured prominently. I find out it went for over twenty-five thousand dollars, and the event raised over two million dollars.

  It’s bittersweet considering the way my life feels like it’s fallen apart, and I’m standing in the rubble, trying to hold myself together while everyone else moves forward.

  In the wake of the event, my Etsy shop orders have more than tripled, and my social media following has skyrocketed. It’s amazing and overwhelming, and a much-needed distraction from the constant ache in my chest.

  Like a true masochist, every morning when I open my laptop, I go to the Google Doc I share with Jackson. Trent took over for a while, but I notice he’s been removed and now it’s just shared with Jackson again.

  The icon in the top right corner shows me that he’s in the doc. The chat bubble pops up and a message appears.

  Every star you see in the night sky is bigger and brighter than the sun.

  I don’t respond, but the next morning I check again.

  The universe is not made of atoms. It’s made of tiny stories.

  Every day there’s a new message. And every day I read it and shut the document before I’m tempted to respond.

  In the week that follows the event, the things I left at Jackson’s New York penthouse are delivered to Spark House. And not by a mail carrier. It’s Mitchell who brings them, and Harley and Avery who collect them for me. I send out the dress in return, and despite Mitchell’s insistence that it’s meant to be kept, he gives in and takes the dress, probably because Harley told him it would meet a terrible end if it stayed here, and I didn’t need any additional reasons to cry. My sisters have also intercepted every single email, message, and phone call from Jackson and Holt Media, taking it over entirely for me so I don’t have to deal with anything related to him. I know it can’t go on like this forever, but it will until I can think about him without crying. This is the way it’s going to have to be.

  Harley brings my suitcase into the office, her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Thank you for handling that for me.” I can barely get the words out without choking up.

  She nods sadly and continues to chew on her bottom lip. “He’s in the car. He wants to know if you’d be willing to speak with him. I said you wouldn’t be, but he wanted me to ask and make sure before he leaves.”

  I hold onto the edge of the desk, willing my body to stay where it is and not go running into the mouth of the lion. I breathe through the pain, wondering how long it takes a broken heart to mend itself. Hoping that this horrible ache will eventually subside. I remind myself that I’ve suffered greater losses and survived them. But this feels different. The pain isn’t the same.

  “I can’t,” I croak.

  “I’ll tell him.” She turns and walks down the hall.

  I breathe and count to sixty, no longer fighting the fresh tears of hopelessness. And I try so hard to stay where I am, but my stupid, broken, and masochistic heart wins the fight. I push away from my desk and move on unsteady legs to the window that looks out on the front drive.

  I stand behind the curtain and peek through the narrow gap. There’s a black SUV in the driveway. And standing beside it is Jackson. He looks every bit as gorgeous as he did the last time I saw him, but as I drink him in like the idiot I am, I notice the dark circles under his eyes, how it looks as though it’s been a few days since he last shaved. He’s wearing a worn long-sleeve shirt and a pair of tattered jeans with holes in them. Not the purposeful kind either.

  He runs a hand through his hair, sending it into further disarray and bows his head, his back expanding and contracting on what looks like a sigh.

  Harley stands there, hands on her hips, head tipped back, and chin jutting out.

  His lips form the word please and she shakes her head.

  I feel a sob bubbling up, one I’m powerless to keep inside.

  “London?” Avery’s soft, worried voice comes from behind me. She laces her fingers with mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. I know it’s hard. We’re here for you.” She steps in closer, her chest against my back, her chin resting on my shoulder.

  “I didn’t realize it could hurt like this. I don’t know how you managed to go on every day when you and Declan broke up. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there enough for you.”

  She wraps her arms around me. “You were there, and you were everything I needed you to be, and Harley and I are going to be everything you need, as much as we can.”

  Harley turns and walks away, and Jackson stands there in the driveway, his face a mask of agony that matches mine. He rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and Mitchell gets out of the SUV. He puts a hand on Jackson’s shoulder and says something to which Jackson finally nods. He rounds the hood of the SUV, but as he opens the door he looks up, and his gaze moves across the outside of Spark House, stopping at the window I’m hiding behind.

  His eyes are full of the same pain that makes my heart squeeze.

  I step back and let the curtain fall into place.

  “Why does it hurt so much when I know walking away is the right thing to do?”

  “The heart is stupid. It doesn’t like logic. It gravitates to the things that make it feel intensely, even if those things will eventually cause it pain.”

  Harley appears a few seconds later, and I’m engulfed in a hug from both sides.

  And again, I fall apart.

  * * *

  When I get home, I do something stupid. I take my suitcase to my bedroom and lock the door. I feel beyond pathetic as I set it on top of my comforter and lay my forehead on the hard plastic while I wrap my arms around it.

  I have never felt this level of hurt over the loss of a relationship. It makes me question how closed off I’ve been up until now. I try to convince myself to get Harley and make her look through the suitcase before I do, in case Jackson has left a note in here. I’m even more terrified that he hasn’t. I close my eyes and there he is, standing in the driveway looking as broken as I feel.

  Is he going back to Selene?

  Did he realize I was a mistake?

  Does he want me still? Do I want to be wanted? Why can’t I just let go?

  I didn’t ask Harley about the conversation outside of Spark House with Jackson, and she didn’t offer any information. I have no idea what he wanted to say, or why he was there in the first place.

  I unzip the case and brace myself as I open it. Everything is folded neatly, mostly the way I left it in New York, but with the few things I’d taken out sitting on the top. One of those small jam jars they give you at restaurants sits between my brush and my makeup bag. It’s not filled with jam, though. It’s a small collection of paper stars. I recognize the paper as mine. With a hand that trembles, I lift it from the case and shake the stars around. A makeshift snow globe without a scene or snow.

  I set it on my nightstand and run my hands over the folded clothes. And then I lift the shirt I’d been wearing last week when I arrived at his place and bring it to my nose. As I hoped, it carries the faint scent of his place, and even more faintly, a hint of his cologne, telling me that it was he who packed up my bag and he who put the stars in the jar.

  Under the shirt is an envelope with my name on it.

  I don’t know how long I stare at it, all the while breathing in his scent on my shirt. But eventually I set the shirt down and pick up the envelope. I run my fingers over my name, written in Jackson’s pretty cursive. I don’t have the restraint necessary not to open it.

  It isn’t sealed, so I flip it open and withdraw the single sheet of paper.

  London,

  I don’t have words to express how much our time together has meant to me. If or when you’re ready, I’m here to talk.

  Yours,

  Jackson

  I want to be able to read between the lines to know what talking looks like, but I can’t. So I tuck the note and the jar of stars in my nightstand drawer. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to talk, if ever, in the wake of what feels like such a massive betrayal.

  I don’t know who I feel worse for right now. Myself or Selene. I suppose if this makes him realize she means more to him than he led me to believe, then I have my answer.

  An hour later I leave my room and decide it’s time to move forward. I can’t wallow in misery like this. First of all, I don’t have time. And second, I’m so miserable, I don’t even want to be around myself.

  I throw myself into my Etsy orders—lord knows I have enough of them to tackle—and when I’m not at work planning events, I’m at home, putting together orders and doing everything I can to avoid thinking about Jackson and the letter still sitting in my nightstand.

  It’s two weeks post-breakup, and every morning when my alarm goes off, I open the Google Doc, and check for Jackson’s message. Once I’ve read it, I drag my depressed butt out of bed. I force myself to shower, to put on makeup, to put effort into getting dressed. I choke down breakfast that tastes like sawdust.

  I feign cheerfulness when I take phone calls and force a smile when I meet new clients, but every day feels like an uphill climb through emotional sludge, and no matter what I do, I can’t make my heart forget to love him. I don’t understand how I can feel this strongly about someone after only a handful of months. It doesn’t seem logical or reasonable for my heart to ache this way or feel this hollow.

  It’s a Monday, and I’m sitting at my desk reading emails when Harley clears her throat.

  I glance up and she holds out a tissue.

  “What’s that for? Did something happen?” My stomach twists at the thought that something happened to Avery. Again. Or Grandma Spark. She’s been enjoying Europe and her new boyfriend, and I can’t see her coming home until we’re close to the wedding.

  “Nothing happened.” She gives me a sad smile. “But you’re crying.”

  I touch my cheek and my fingertips come away wet. I don’t know what it says that I didn’t even realize it was happening, or that I’ve been staring at the same email for probably twenty minutes, processing nothing.

  Harley takes a seat in the chair across from mine. “Maybe you need to just hear him out, at least get some closure so you can move on, if that’s what you want to do.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t.” I can’t handle seeing him. I can’t deal with him in three dimensions. I can’t let him see how much this has affected me.

  Harley sighs and passes me another tissue before she covers my hand with hers and squeezes. “I know this is hard for you and that you feel very betrayed, but there are two sides to every story. Don’t you want answers?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t want to love him, but I do. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say no to him if he wants me back, or if I can deal with the other side of the coin. I feel like I need to apologize to every single guy I’ve ever dated and broken it off with. I feel like I’ve been purposely choosing the wrong guys so I couldn’t get hurt, and now I feel like I finally met the right guy, but he hasn’t been transparent about his past, and I don’t know if I can trust him to be honest with me.” I dab at the corners of my eyes, trying to get a handle on my emotions, but it’s pointless. Once the tears start, I can’t stop them from coming. “I had no idea it could hurt this much to lose someone you love. The only comparison I have is when our parents died. And somehow, even though Jackson is still very much alive, it almost hurts worse, if that makes any sense.”

  Her smile is sad and knowing. “It does. Because he’s still out there and you’re still here, and those feelings haven’t gone away.”

  “When does it get better?”

  “I don’t know. But avoiding the pain isn’t going to help make it go away. If nothing else, talk to him so you can start to mend your heart. You have to tend to the wound so you can heal.”

  25

  WOMAN TO WOMAN

  LONDON

  Gifts start to show up a little more than two weeks after I left New York. First, it’s little things—a package of new star strips in designs that are impossible not to fall in love with, treats from the bakery we stopped at before the estate sale. Then a framed photo of me and my sisters at the Spark House event that was clearly inspired by my Etsy store. After that, a pair of earrings made from my puffy stars arrives. It would be so much easier if they were gifts I could send back, but they’re thoughtful and they’re wearing me down.

  That scares me because I’m afraid to open my heart back up just to have it slashed to ribbons again. And maybe that’s the real issue. That I’m avoiding a conversation with Jackson because either way, whether or not we’re done for good, he has the ability to cause me a great deal of pain. Which is something I’ve spent my adult life shying away from.

  It’s a Tuesday and it’s started like every other day: me waking up, checking the Google Doc. Except today there was no message from Jackson. I’ve had to fight with myself not to check again. Needless to say, it hasn’t been a great morning. Has he given up on me? Did I make him wait too long?

  Avery comes rushing into the office, clearly flustered. “Hey! I’m so glad you’re here, I need a favor.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “I have a meeting with the Williamsons at noon, but there’s a problem with the alterations on my dress and I need to go to the boutique so they can do whatever they need to do to make sure it fits. She was mostly speaking in dress lingo, and she seemed kind of panicked and insistent that I needed to come right away. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency. Please, London? I’ll love you forever.”

  I honestly don’t have the energy to get mad at her, or tell her again that we need to hire someone else to help us out. I’ve started to put together a list, so I have ammunition for the discussion that definitely has to happen, sooner rather than later. I haven’t been in a place emotionally to stand up to Avery after everything with Jackson. It’s a problem. One I need to deal with. But not right now. “Am I just going over the event details at this point? Can you send me your notes so I can read them over first?”