Page 2 of For Puck's Sake

“Things . . . Everything will be better, Luna. I need my moon in the sky, singing me to sleep at night. I miss your voice, Angel,” he says as he begins to hiccup through his ongoing sobs. With each confession part of the armor I built so carefully around myself these past two years begins to break and shatter to the ground. I try to find my anger, my reason for leaving, and only find myself at fault. Yes, we both made mistakes . . . but ultimately, I did walk away. Anger, Brea, find it. Find it and hang up.I wonder then what caused this impromptu drunken phone call. Are his nightly puck bunny exploits not enough to keep his mind off me? He’s obviously moved on, right?

“Ridley, I can’t do this,” I finally say, my own voice breaking with the sound of his anguished cries. “Shhh,” I try to soothe him. “You’re drunk. You need to get home and sleep it off. Okay?”

“It’s not your fault, Angel,” he says.

I know what he’s about to say before he says it. Tears spring to my eyes, spilling over, flooding my face. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably. There’s no warning when it comes to PTSD, it just sneaks up on you, like a serpent lying in wait, and strikes. It doesn’t take much to take me back to the moment our lives changed. No . . . no . . . don’t, Ridley . . . please . . . I want to say so badly, but the words don’t come.

I’m frozen in place.

I can’t breathe.

I swing Bessie around to my front, clutching the guitar for comfort.

“I love you, Angel,” he says through a waterlogged whisper. “I love you and our ba?—”

I hang up, cutting the call and the word off before the final blow lands. I’m fragile, my shards of glass are barely hanging on to each other as I try to hold my soul together. The phone rings again, but I don’t answer it. The conversation plays on repeat, sending me sliding down the wall and into a puddle of my own tears.

ONE

BREA

The lights dim as I settle onto the stool in the small corner of Lia’s front parlor. This massive Queen Anne Victorian home befits her huge personality. With its vibrant interior and vintage furniture, she has truly made this place hers. Lia, the now well-known dressmaker and designer, is making a name for herself all over Seattle and the west coast. I’m so proud of her. When I last saw her, she was still fighting her way through design school. I shake my head imperceptibly as I continue to take the place in. It’s just like Ridley to make sure his baby sister has nothing but the best. Still protecting her even when she no longer needs it, because that’s who he is. She is his world, all he has left.

Nope, not tonight, Brea, don’t go there.

I look around the room, all the familiar faces smiling back at me. Faces I’ve missed these past two years, faces I’ve tried to forget because it hurt too much to think about all the things I lost when I walked away from him. For two years I’ve stayed away and kept my distance, keeping my goals and aspirations firmly in front of me. My past and the people I left behind are just that,my past. At least that’s what I tell myself to keep my head above water, to keep going. Untilthatphone call . . . his cries . . . the pleading . . . the hurt in his voice.

Sitting my guitar in my lap, I lean into the mic and adjust the height. I smile, catching eager eyes waiting patiently for me to begin. No matter how many times I do this, no matter how big or small the crowd, it still feels surreal to be performing, to sing and play. My dreams are no longer dreams but my reality. To think they were almost snuffed out by doubts and insecurities. I almost gave them up to be what? A sad, lonely, hockey wife. Nothing against hockey wives but I want more, need more for myself.

Clearing my throat, I refuse to continue my train of thought, and focus on the here and now. It doesn’t matter anyway, no need for me to drum up memories I’ve buried down deep. I am here for a reason, and it’s not to rekindle old flames or relive my mistakes.

“There are a lot of you I already know in this room.” I look over at Tor and the beautiful woman he has wrapped in his arms, then a few others. Devan whoops and cheers in excitement as I wink knowingly at him. “For those of you who are new to me, I’m Brea Brookes,” I say, tilting my head in greeting as the claps and cheers rise once more. Nope, it will never get old. “I’m here for the birthday girl.”

I raise my hand to shield my eyes against the blue light shining in my direction to get a better look at the woman who is still like a sister to me. Devan has her pulled into his chest protectively, making me quirk a brow slightly at how comfortable she appears in his embrace. It makes me wonder if Rid— Nope, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, if she’s happy, then I’m happy for her.

I point to Lia. “There she is. Lia, I wouldn’t miss your twenty-fifth birthday for all the world. Tonight is your night. This song is for you.”

I let my hand fall from the mic, pull Bessie closer and pluck the first chords. Someone hoots loudly in recognition as I let my fingers play the familiar tune. I repeat the opening once more, hesitant, almost changing the chords at the last minute to move into another favorite with practiced ease, but I continue.

An awareness comes over me, a familiar one. I don’t need to look up to confirm it’s his eyes on me. There’s part of me, a deep-rooted part of me, that will always seek him out and acknowledge his presence. I let my gaze drift up and find bright cerulean blues staring back at me, full of so much pain and regret, my fingers falter for a brief second before I have to look away. I shouldn’t have come but Lia reached out to me after all this time. Regardless of how things ended with the man leaning against the door frame at the back of the room, I could never say no to his sister. She is the one person I love enough to put me in the same room as Ridley Masters once again. I won’t let whatever he is going through pollute my headspace. The pain in his voice, the pleas.“I love you, Angel.”

The strings of my guitar press gently against the pad of my fingertips, almost nudging me, reminding me of why I am here, clearing my thoughts. The song begins, a dance so habitual, I close my eyes and open my mouth as the first verse falls from my lips.

In the silence of the night,

Memories flooding back to life.

Every word left unsaid,

Every tear that we’ve shed.

Can we turn back the hand of time?

To when your hand was in mine.

Someone begins to belt out the chorus, making my smile widen despite the emotional lyrics. These words, written months ago as I tried to come to terms with my decision to put myself first. I turned my feelings, my what-ifs, into one of my most popular songs. Hearing it sung back to me—or with me—well, hell yeah, it’s still a surreal experience.

Give into me, one more try,

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