Page 101 of Aria

The following week had flown by—a whirlwind of reporters, lawyers, detectives, photographers, media, and security. I had become an instant celebrity; a victim to some, a role model to others, and a liability to the higher-ups in the industry. I hadn’t left the condo without sunglasses and oversized sweaters for as much anonymity as possible. It was exhausting.

Devon and I had fallen into a new routine. Things were different between us now. There were no late nights on the couch with popcorn and Netflix binges. There hadn’t been any stolen glances, or romantic gestures, or passionate lovemaking.

We weren’t quarreling, either. No arguing or heated words. Our arrangement was… stale. Boring. Exactlythat—an arrangement. I hadn’t seen Devon much that week due to his band schedule, having had two shows and three separate practices to prepare for the Grammy’s.

To say I’d been on edge was an understatement.

Ian was still out there unaccounted for, so I kept my phone attached to me at all times just in case I received that call… the call that assured me Ian was off the streets and could no longer hurt me.

Devon had installed a high-tech security system and added more locks and deadbolts to the door. A security guard was on site of the complex 24/7, and it was a relief to have the added protection. Yet, nothing seemed to erase the constant paranoia. To me, Ian was always there, peeking in my windows and whispering in my ear. He lived in the tiny hairs on my arms that stood to attention when I heard an unfamiliar sound, or saw a strange shadow dance across my wall.

Perhaps he’d always live there.

As for Noah, things hadn’t been the same between us since that night.

How could they?

I’d only seen him once that week, at one of the shows they had played in New Jersey. The whole band seemed disjointed and distant from one another. Devon had barely spoken, which set the tone for the rest of the members. Their performance had been muddy and amateur with little communication.

I’d fidgeted restlessly backstage with Lisa, unable to dismiss the overwhelming feeling that it was all my fault.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself, Chelsie,” Lisa had told me, linking her fingers in with mine and giving my hand a tender squeeze. “You’re not responsible for having a psycho ex. You didn’t make Devon do drugs. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I just can’t shake this feeling that if I wasn’t in the picture, everything would be okay.”

Lisa had shaken her head, her red curls bouncing with earnestness. “Nothing would be okay because that’s life. Nothing is ever ‘okay.’ There’s always some kind of battle.”

I had tried to take Lisa’s words to heart, but they didn’t quite resonate.

“Chelsie…” Lisa had said later that night. “Why are you still with Devon?”

The question had thrown me.

My mind had fumbled for an answer, and the fact that I had to search for one made me question my decision to stay with him in the first place.

“Because I have to keep hoping things will get better,” I’d eventually replied. “I need to believe the Devon Sawyer I met at The Pit Stop is still in there somewhere.”

Lisa had sighed in a way that had made my skin bristle. “Chels… hope and denial are two different beasts. Devon isn’t the same guy he was when you started dating. You’re reverting into old patterns. You couldn’t fix Ian, and you can’t fix Devon.”

“Devon isn’t Ian. He’s just not.”

“Not every toxic situation is the same—doesn’t mean it isn’t toxic.”

I had stiffened against the wall, my eyes inspecting the tips of my fingernails. Lisa had rubbed my back, as if to offer a silent apology for her truth. I supposed I hadn’t thought about it in that way before. I was a nurturer; a hopeful optimist. A lifelonghelper. I’d always chosen to see the good in people and felt determined to fix their fractured bits whenever they fell apart.

Ian had been a lost cause, but there was still hope for Devon.

Noah had exited the stage after the show, his features etched with disappointment.

“You did good out there,” I had told him, forcing a small smile.

It had been the first contact between us since I’d left his house that fateful morning. There had been no texting, no phone calls, and no offers to babysit Sam.

Nothing.

Still, I had wanted him to know that hehaddone good out there. He always did. It never mattered what demons he was grappling with, or what the band was or wasn’t doing—Noah was steadfast in his craft. He plucked away at his guitar strings with accomplished finesse. He rarely faltered, but even when he did, his mistakes still felt like art. And that night, while the men on stage had stumbled and faked their way through the set for their fans, Noah had shined.

I’d really wanted him to know that.

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