P.S. I’m Still Yours: Chapter 26

I’m in hell.

Call me dramatic, but going through life without Hadley Queen is what I imagine hell to look like.

Only, in my version of hell, there are no flames, no tormented souls, no devil…

Just silence.

Loneliness.

And this intense, piercing cold that chills you to the bone.

I’ve been alone with all these thoughts… all this guilt… for over a month now.

I’d say I reached my lowest point last night, when I ruined all of my progress by drinking my way through that club’s entire liquor supply, but something tells me I’ve yet to hit rock bottom.

I’m sure there are many more ways for me to punish myself and drive my health, career, and sanity into the ground. Alcohol is just the first step on my journey to ruin.

At least she’s safe.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself since the cops called to update me on the welfare check this morning.

I don’t know how my baby’s doing, seeing as we haven’t spoken since she left the beach house, but one of the officers who stopped by her dorm said she seemed fine.

Fine. I hate that word.

It’s a stupid fucking word that’s open to interpretation.

Is she fine in the sense that she’s doing okay or fine in the sense that she’s miserable but not so miserable that she’d do something stupid?

In case it wasn’t clear, I’m losing my fucking mind.

The universe must agree because the next thing I know, my publicist’s bursting through my bedroom door without knocking, parking herself at the end of my bed and shrieking, “What in the ever-loving fuck were you thinking?”

“Here we go,” I drawl, rolling onto my back and rubbing my eyes.

“It’s all over the internet!” Drea continues, stomping over to the side of my bed and ripping the blanket off my body. “Do you have any idea how bad this makes you look?”

I don’t even bat an eye, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. “I’m guessing really bad?”

“Just weeks before the trial, to make it worse. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to make my job harder?” She shoves her phone into my face, the headline and subhead displayed on her screen leaving me unfazed.

I snort at the picture they attached below. Not only can you see me death-staring the dude who talked about my mom, but you can also see his face and the fear in his eyes. Bastard looks like he’s about to shit his pants.

Already bored with her speech, I unlock my phone, doing the exact same thing I’ve been doing every single morning for a month now.

I stalk Hadley’s socials.

Did I mention Hadley’s a fucking ghost on social media?

She only has three posts on Instagram. Three! One of them is a selfie of her with her roommate, the other is a picture of a sunset she took in Golden Cove, and the last one is a picture of her and Gray devouring ice cream cones when they were little.

My stomach twists at the caption. She used a quote from one of Anaya’s songs. Hads wasn’t lying when she said she loved her music.

Jesus.

Drea goes on and on in the background. “You’re lucky Scar took you home when he did. First, you go and do all these interviews preaching sobriety, and then… Hey, asshole! Are you even listening to me?”

I click on Hadley’s Instagram, my heart doing a whole-ass backflip when I see that she’s posted something for the first time in forever.

She just posted to her story, but I’ll take anything. I’m about to click to view her story when my phone is ripped out of my hands.

“Hey!” The desperation in my voice makes me cringe.

“What are you looking at—” Drea shuts herself up the second she recognizes Hadley’s profile. “Oh.”

“Give me my phone,” I snap.

That phone is the last thing connecting me to my girl.

I need it.

Pity floods Drea’s gaze. “You’re never going to tell me what happened between you two, are you?”

“Give it.” I ignore her question, holding out my hand in her direction.

She pauses, probably wondering if she should push for answers, but she seems to decide against it because she sighs. “Piece of advice. You might want to skip her story.”

What?

She gives me my phone back and spins, heading for the door. Seconds before she walks out of my room, she says, “Get dressed. We need to fix your mess.”

I wait for her to close the door before doing exactly what she told me not to do.

I click Hadley’s story, aching to see her beautiful face. Problem is, Hadley isn’t the one recording the video. Some girl I don’t know is.

I connect the dots in seconds.

I think that’s her roommate.

The brunette seems drunk as hell, holding a red cup and blowing kisses to the camera. Loud music blares through my phone speaker, making it clear she’s at a party. You can see colorful flashing lights rotating in the background, along with drunk college students dancing and grinding on each other.

The girl flips the camera over and quickly films her surroundings before ending the recording.

I only see her on the third watch.

Hadley.

Talking and cuddling with some douchebag on the couch pushed up against the wall.

He has his hand on her thigh and his arm looped around her shoulders.

I must rewatch the story a dozen times to make sure I’m not imagining things.

I want nothing more than to go fucking ballistic on my phone. But smashing my phone into a thousand pieces is not going to help me get my girl back.

Only one thing will.

“Wake up, sunshine! We’re going to be late for class.” Maggie’s voice stirs me awake.

My eyes flutter open, and I attempt to sit up, only to be forced back down onto the mattress by the dizziness crashing into me.

Why do I feel like I’m dying?

Memories of last night come flooding back in, along with a tinge of dirty shame and the promise to never drink this much again.

Why did I think going to a frat party on a Sunday night would be a good idea?

I reach for my phone on my nightstand just as Maggie’s walking into the bathroom and shutting the door.

I check the screen, cursing at the time. 8:50 a.m. We came home at around 3:00 a.m. last night, and I have class in an hour.

My gaze drops to the notifications I’ve missed while asleep.

I have a text from my mom, asking me how school is going and when she can come visit, but that’s not all.

I also have a few messages from an unknown number.

The first message is a zoomed-in screenshot of my last Instagram story—courtesy of a very drunk Maggie.

The picture shows me sitting on the couch with some rando whose name I don’t even remember.

I figured a little flirting might help me get over Kane, but the guy was too handsy for my taste, and after trying to convince myself that I was into it for ten minutes, I ended up asking Maggie to fake an “emergency” so we could leave.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Who is that?

I obviously didn’t respond fast enough because the stranger double texted me soon after.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

Hads, who the FUCK is that?

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I swear to fucking God if you slept with him, I’m tracking him down and chopping his puny dick right off his body.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

In case it wasn’t clear already, I will not fucking lose you.

Funny enough, the threat isn’t what’s causing my stomach to do cartwheels.

There’s only one person in the world who calls me Hads.

Kane.

I blocked his number the day I found out the truth, which means he either got a new one, or he’s using one of those apps that generate fake numbers for you.

His jealous comment elicits a scoff from me.

If he thinks he has any say in who I fuck after what he did, he’s in for one hell of an awakening.

I will never forgive him for what he did, but what Maggie said got me thinking.

Why didn’t he just tell the police?

I get that he had a fucking gun to his head and there was nothing he could do to stop Gray’s murder, but that doesn’t explain the years of silence that followed.

I know for a fact that Kane loved Gray like a brother—the fact that these two remained close even after Kane got famous makes that clear. The Kane I knew would’ve chosen endless torture over letting his best friend’s murderer run free.

Maybe that’s just it.

Maybe I never really knew him at all.

I block Kane’s new number and drag myself out of bed with a groan. I need to get dressed and chug a gallon of water before class.

I’ve just finished changing clothes when a loud knock echoes through my dorm.

Doubt burdens me.

The last time there was a knock on my door, police officers were standing on the other side.

What is it now?

“Coming!” I call, trying to tame my morning hair with my hands.

The last thing I expected was to find a delivery guy carrying a large package.

“Morning, miss. I have a delivery for—” He double-checks the name on the label. “—Hadley Queen.”

“That’s me,” I say.

He asks me to sign off on the delivery before handing me the heavy box. “There you go.”

I rack my brain for a moment but can’t recall ordering anything.

I take a look at the label and the sender’s name.

Yours. Always.

That’s all it says.

The return address is a PO box in California.

At first, I think a mistake was made and the package was sent to the wrong address, but the box is addressed to my name and my dorm, so the wrong-person scenario is a bit of a stretch.

I don’t waste a second carrying the box to the kitchen counter and opening it.

Inside the box are what seem to be hundreds of postcards and…

Souvenirs?

There are key chains, refrigerator magnets, shot glasses, mugs, bracelets—any souvenir you could think of.

And they all seem to come from different places.

Same goes for the postcards, all of which bear pictures from various countries, states, and capitals.

London, Paris, Rome.

I reach inside and pick up the postcard atop the pile. It’s a Los Angeles postcard with the Hollywood sign photographed from afar.

The oxygen swooshes from my lungs when I turn it over and notice the date.

This was written five years ago.

Hey Hads,

I’ve never written a postcard before. Is Hey even the proper way to start one? I have no idea.

It doesn’t matter, though. All that matters is that I made you a promise. A promise I intend to keep.

I’ve been in LA for a week now and I don’t like it here. My mom says I need time to adjust, but there’s a part of me that misses Silver Springs. Or maybe it’s you that I miss.

You, and your laugh and our secret meetings in the shed. I haven’t been able to sleep thinking about the way I left.

I think I’d love this place a lot more if you were there to see it with me. I think I’d love any place a lot more if you were there to see it with me.

I miss you.

P.S. I got you a keychain with your name on it.

Kane

Seconds elapse before the information registers.

There’s just no way.

He kept his promise?

The ache in my throat becomes unbearable when I’m brought back to that day.

We were in the shed, and I’d just shown him one of my paintings for the first time.

He made me promise to send him some art once I was a famous painter, and I answered with a joke, asking him to send me postcards of all the amazing places he would see as a famous singer.

And he did it.

He actually did it.

I go through the pile of postcards, my sight covered by a thick veil of tears.

All the postcards date back to when Kane was fifteen, up until the day he turned eighteen. Then he stopped writing them.

He never sent them to me.

Every city he visited, every beautiful place he saw… he wrote a postcard about.

I grab another postcard at random. This one dates to before Gray died.

Hey Hads,

I’m in New York this week. Work has been crazy since my album came out. My label’s on my ass to write more romantic songs like the one I wrote for you, but every time I do, they say they’re too depressing.

I’m trying my best to write upbeat lyrics, but it turns out it’s hard writing positive shit when all I do is miss you.

You left a void in me. I fucking hate that I was too stupid to realize how important you are until after I ruined everything. I’m starting to think running away was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I hope it’s not too late to fix it.

Oh, and I’m liking New York.

Even though it kind of smells.

Kane

A laugh rips from my throat as I pick up another letter.

And another one.

Before I know it, I’ve read over twenty of them.

Let me tell you, I was in no way prepared for the Florida postcard.

Hey, Hads,

I’ve finished my tour. I have never been this exhausted in my life, but being done with the tour means I finally get some free time to come see you.

Hopefully, by the same time next week, you’ll be mine again and I won’t feel so shitty about the fact that I’ve been yours since the day I left.

My plan is to surprise you and tell you that I love you.

I ran away because I thought loving you would stop me from following my dreams, but it turns out… my biggest dream is you.

I’ll see you soon.

Kane