Page 75 of Second to None

I must have drifted off at some point because I woke up to the blaring of my phone alarm, eyes gritty with sleep, sunlight slicing straight through to the back of my brain. Right, then. Travel day, which doubled as last-day-before-school day. Up and at ‘em, or whatever.

My parents were already fluttering around the house, bags ready by the door, while the two security guys were sipping coffee in the kitchen. I nodded at them, in no shape for small talk, and went to pour my own.

“All quiet?” I asked eventually, when my will to live had been kicked out of its coma by a double serving of my usual caffeine dose, along with a spoonful of sugar I only added in desperate times.

“Yes.” The leader of the two—Paolo—nodded. “Mr Monroe was spotted arriving in Los Angeles, so we think that will reduce attention here.”

Spotted? It meant that Cass had wanted to be seen, because he’d long since mastered the art of incognito travel. I didn’t try to read into his motivations, just grunted some form of assent and tried to get a handle on my plan for the morning, tiredness blurring the edges of my thoughts. To-do list: start packing, wake Emily, get breakfast ready, wake Emily again, finish packing, and then help her with her bag. Shoes on at half past nine, and not a minute later.

Okay.

By some minor miracle—and my dad pushing everyone along—we did actually finish loading our rental car at a quarter to ten. When I did a final check of the house, Cass’s guitar sat alone in the living room, half-caught by a beam of sunlight. I could just leave it. Maybe I should.

I took it with me into the backseat of the van driven by the security guys, Emily a quiet, grumpy bundle next to me. Yeah, well, me too. Shame I was an adult.

I closed my eyes for the drive, Sardinia’s roads winding through my head, a faint sense of queasiness heavy in my bones. The body of Cass’s guitar pressed against my leg, but I made no attempt to shift it.

Olbia Airport. The VIP terminal was swanky, same as always with these things, a private concierge greeting us to handle our check-in and all travel formalities while we waited in a luxury lounge. Over the years, my ability to be wowed by this kind of stuff had evaporated into thin air—I remembered sleeping on the floor in places like this, curled around some throw pillow I’d grabbed off an armchair, remembered someone shaking me awake and I had no clue where I was, or what the hell I was doing this for.

My parents were rather more impressed. While my mum took Emily to inspect a range of smoothie options, my dad was drooling over a wide selection of newspapers and magazines, returning with a stack that should last him until, oh, approximately next year. “Quite something, isn’t it?” he said.

I nodded, glancing at what he’d fanned out on the sofa table before us. The local paper led with a picture of Cass and me on the cover—taken at the restaurant, the focus on him.‘Fuga romantica in Sardegna?’it asked. My gut cramped, and I looked away.

“You don’t even speak Italian,” I told my dad.

He swayed his head. “Eh, I’ll get the gist of it. There are apps to translate these things, you know?”

Why do you care?I didn’t ask, just shrugged and pulled out my phone.

“Listen, son,” Dad said after a brief stretch of silence. Restrained lounge music wove around us, no other travellers nearby. “About Cass.”

I looked up, wary. My dad wasn’t the type to offer frequent life advice or emotional counselling, and whatever this was, I’d had enough input to last me for a good long while. “Dad?—”

“Have you listened to his second and third albums?” he asked before I could stop him. “Because I have. And maybe you should too before you make up your mind.”

“Whatdifferencedoes it make?” It came out rather too harshly, but my dad didn’t seem to take offense.

“Maybe none at all,” he said, voice a little gruff. “Or maybe it does. I’d like to think we raised you to be curious and open-minded, to gather all the information before you jump to conclusions.”

Oh, hell. Lay on the parental persuasion, huh? I’d read all about motivational prompting when I’d mainlined parenting books some two years ago, responsibility weighing heavy on me.

And somehow, it still fuckingworked.

“I’ll listen to them,” I told my dad, sharp to signal the end of this conversation.

He patted my shoulder in that way he had, a little awkward yet heartfelt. “Good. That’s very good, son.”

I inhaled and ducked my head, exhaustion casting a charcoal blanket over my thoughts.

* * *

Between Sardinia and England,Sunday, August 31st

Blue sky and cotton-wool clouds. Emily was curled against my side with her headphones on, watching some cartoon, while my parents sat a row ahead, murmuring in voices that didn’t make it over the white-noise hum of the engines.

I unlocked my phone for the third time. The cover of Cass’s second album, downloaded at the airport along with his third, stared back at me—or rather Cass did, an intense black-and-white shot from the chest up, bare shoulders catching gentle light, eyes a dark grey. Inexplicable fear left a sour taste in my mouth.

No one forced me to listen. Maybe it was safer if I stayed away, stopped poking at old wounds.

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