Page 144 of All Twerk, No Play

The split screen shifted, adding in a third screen of his guitar. Fuck, he was so talented. It was no surprise that his YouTube channel was growing exponentially.

Any day now, he’d get a publicist, a manager, a record contract. It’s what I would tell him to do.

Any day now, he’d stop recording these videos.

Any day now, he’d forget about me.

His soft voice sang Taylor’s lyrics about saying ‘yes’ instead of ‘no,’ and I bit my knuckle to prevent a sob. He sang on about tossing pennies to make a wish, and I thought about that winter night on the porch with Mallory when he ran by, singing about throwing a wish in a well.

What had he wished for?

He looked directly into the camera, directly into my soul, and sang about how he wished for things to be different so we could be together. I couldn’t break eye contact with his recording as he ended the video like he ended every video: “Stay strong,Cobrecita. I love you.”

My head dropped onto my arms folded over my desk. I couldn’t cry here, I couldn’t. My mascara would smudge and I only had seven minutes until my next meeting. Did that give me time to watch it again then compose myself? Thousands of careers and livelihoods were on my shoulders, and the company had come so far since I’d been at the helm. I couldn’t let them down … but maybe I could steal three more minutes for him.

“Acceptance.” Connor’s voice made me jump. I minimized the window, pretending to scan emails. “The stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.” He silently placed a tissue box on my desk. “The progression isn’t linear, but acceptance is often perceived as the final stage.”

“You think that he’s accepting that it’s over?” I asked, knowing I should feel relieved that Cruz might move on. God knows I hadn’t.

“It sounds like he’s coming to terms with it. He’s using music to work through his grief.” He opened his palms. “But you haven’t processed any of it.”

“I don’t have time. Thousands of salaries are my responsibility.” As I heard myself speak, I wondered if they were my words or Dad’s, and wondered again where he’d gone for the past three days.

“I remove meetings from your calendar and you put them back on, Victoria,” Connor said gruffly. “You’re working to avoid your feelings. You’re in a hell of your own making, and you’re stoking the fire. If you want to keep hiding in your work, I can’t stop you, but eventually you’re going to implode.”

My defense lodged in my throat, and all that came out was a choking sound. He was right, I was in all hell of my own making, and I had no idea how to claw my way out.

Connor didn't speak, waiting for me to be ready. When I lifted my head, his expression softened, because I couldn't hide my devastation. I wasn't scared to show him, because I knew he could handle it. Connor uprooted his life on a moment's notice to support mine. Twice. Last month I didn't even ask.

"Can I clear your calendar this afternoon," his voice was just above a whisper, "and make an appointment for you with Diann?"

My eyelids dropped shut, hearing what he wasn't saying. Connor had been seeing a therapist for as long as I'd known him, had spoken openly about how it helped with his control issues, but I always thought I had mine handled, that I was strong enough I didn't need that.

"But won't they think I'm …" my voice wavered.

"Do you think I'm weak for talking with an expert, or taking anti-anxiety meds?"

"Of course not. But it's different. I'm …" I lifted my head to the glass office surrounding us.

He said quietly, "If I were in charge, I'd make sure that asking for help is normalized and expected at all levels." He licked his lips. "So can I make the appointment?"

I nodded stiffly. I'd already ruined everything with Cruz, I couldn't put Connor through the same.

His relieved exhale gave me the courage to meet his eyes, which were soft and compassionate. I instantly looked away, back to the screen where Cruz's gorgeous face was drawn in resignation. My heart broke all over again.

“You can’t leave him in this limbo. Every minute you don’t fix this hurts him." Connor scrolled to a song from a few weeks ago. Cruz’s rich voice sang his beloved Foo Fighters, questioning if he could have given more to prove himself. Asking me to remember how much he’d adored me. Promising that if I walked out on him, he’d walk after me.

“I told him to forget me,” I whispered.

“And he’s about as good at following directions as you are,” Connor said. “If you want him to stop, call him. Tell him it’s over.”

The idea of severing my last connection to him felt like a stab to the chest.

“What if I can’t let him go?” I whispered, trying to steady my breath, but willpower couldn’t restrain the surfacing grief.

“If you can’t let him go,” he said, “then you need to go get him.”

The words released the tightness in my gut, a floodgate opening in my chest as I came to a decision. My ribcage expanded with a deep breath, the first one I'd taken in weeks.

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