Page 142 of Aria

Now he’s gone.

“Oh my God… I don’t know what to say,” I choked, bile rising in my chest.

“I’m sorry I had to be the messenger,” Lisa said, her tone sober. “I didn’t want you to see it on the news first.”

“I appreciate you calling me. I just… I can’t believe it.”

Lisa paused. “Chels, do you need me to come down to stay with you? I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay. I’m not alone at all.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to work,” she replied with a sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

I was about to say my goodbyes when a thought popped into my head. “Hey… can you let me know if there’s a service or something?”

“You would come to New York?”

A bundle of nerves bubbled in my gut. “Yes… I think I’d like to be there.”

“I’ll definitely keep you posted, then.”

“Thanks, Lis,” I replied. “Love you.”

Setting the phone back down on the bathroom sink, my old life flashed through my mind, buried memories clawing their way to the surface. I recalled all the sweet moments I’d shared with Devon, from our very first coffee date, to our bonding session over pot stickers at one of the band’s practices. I remembered the way I had felt when I’d picked up the phone that fateful day and heard Devon’s voice on the other line. I couldn’t believe he had called me after I’d stormed out of their V.I.P. suite.

It was a lifetime ago—I’d been a completely different person then. Frightened, insecure, and ridden with self-hatred. I’d be lying if I said those same feelings weren’t inching their way back into my psyche as I stared at the cell phone in my palm.

I had always felt responsible for Devon’s foray into drugs.

I shook my head, inhaling a long, calming breath.

It wasn’t my fault.

None of it was my fault.

* * *

The days proceeded on like a bad dream. Reporters had started coming out of the woodwork, asking for an interview and wanting to know how I felt about Devon’s death.

Horrible. Sick. Sad.

That’s how any normal person would feel about the death of someone they cared about. I’d tried to avoid the cameras and media frenzy, burying myself in my work and relationships—afternoon shopping trips with my mother, fishing with my father, quiet lunches with Elsa and Maggie.

I appreciated the busy schedule; it kept my mind off things.

My phone buzzed one morning as I strolled into work.

“Good morning, Chelsie,” Anne greeted as she ran a basket of spa towels down to the laundry room.

I smiled at my friend before reaching into my pocket for my phone. It was a text from Lisa.

Lisa:The service is tomorrow at three o’clock. Can you make it?

My breath caught. That was in less than thirty-six hours. I still had to research flight times, transportation, hotel…

Was it even realistic?

Should I leave the past in the past?

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