Starstruck (Heartstrings Duet #1)

1. angels are crying

[ 1 ]

ANGELS ARE CRYING

LENNON

Present Day

January

“WORLD ON FIRE” BY DAUGHTRY

I wake in another unfamiliar place next to another unfamiliar face. Just like last night. And the night before that. And nearly every night since that horrific day three months ago.

To say I haven’t been doing well since the accident would be an understatement.

Physically, I’ve healed. The bruises that once covered my face and chest have faded entirely, and my stitches have fallen out, leaving minimal scarring in their place. My concussion is gone, and I’m breathing normally again, which means my ribs are healing—well enough that the doctor gave me the all clear to return to work this week.

After we get through today, that is.

But no matter how quickly my physical appearance returns to what it was before the accident, I still don’t look like myself. Because the person staring back at me whenever I look in a mirror now is partially responsible for the death of both of her parents, and no matter how hard I try to convince myself that things will go back to normal eventually, I am not the same person I once was.

A few hours after we spoke to the cops that day in the hospital, the doctor informed us that our mother had died. The piece of glass embedded in her chest had been shredding her heart every time it beat, and despite their best efforts, they weren’t able to get the bleeding under control in time to save her.

To make matters worse, we were then told that our father was on life support. Apparently, his brain had swelled so bad that the neurosurgeon had to remove a piece of his skull to try to reduce it, but they hadn’t seen any brain activity and weren’t sure if he was going to wake up. In other words, he was braindead. They told us that if there was no change within six hours, we would have to decide whether or not to take him off of life support.

Three days later, we did just that.

Our father didn’t have an advanced directive with his wishes, so his life was left in our hands. Making a decision like that is a responsibility I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

It took us a few days before we finally agreed to let him go. It was heartbreaking, but we knew it was for the best. Our father never would’ve wanted to live hooked up to machines, and we knew better than to hope he would wake up one day.

Hope is debilitating, and we couldn’t bear it.

Due to my fractured ribs and concussion, they kept me there for another six days after we unplugged our dad. I was having difficulty breathing and had some internal bleeding they wanted to keep an eye on. But I’m doing better now, they say. At least physically.

My mental well-being is a different story.

The past six weeks have pretty much been a blur of boys and bars, one night fading into the next until I can’t remember who or where I am.

It’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Especially since I haven’t been writing .

From a distance, one might look at me and think my parents’ deaths set me free. And truth be told, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

If you put the Lennon from before the accident and the Lennon from after the accident in a room together, they wouldn’t recognize each other. My life before wasn’t bad by any means, but it also wasn’t anything special.

Nearly dying for eight years put a bit of a damper on things. After I went into remission until the day of the accident, I played by the rules. I did everything other people wanted me to do and nothing for myself, because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I had spent so many years feeling like a burden to the people around me that I promised myself I would never burden them with anything again.

I was always there when they needed me and I knew they’d come running if I needed them, but I tried so hard not to need them. I had already stolen so many years from them, I didn’t want to steal anymore.

Except now I have.

Now I’ve taken every last one of my parents’ years.

That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.

For so long, I’d kept my head down, loving them from a distance. I didn’t do anything that might make anyone think less of me. I stayed with a man I wasn’t in love with for much longer than I should have simply because he was safe, and I needed safe desperately. Whether it was my parents, my siblings, or my ex Nathan—I’d always felt like there was someone else’s voice in the back of my mind telling me what I should or shouldn’t do, even when that wasn’t the case.

But now there’s no one. My parents are dead. Nathan is gone. My siblings are here, but I’ve been avoiding them. I’m not the same person I was before this, but I still don’t want to burden them with how much I’ve been struggling.

So there’s just me .

And just me is fine, because so long as it’s just me, I can’t hurt anymore. I can’t lose anyone else if the only person I have is myself.

Coping like this has been the only way to keep my mind off of the fact that nothing makes sense anymore.

Because one day, you’re living by the rules of others, always playing it safe, and the next, you’re lying in a hospital bed being told that your parents are dead.

After that I started wondering, what’s the point?

What’s the point of me living my life by someone else’s rules, never doing anything I want, to stay safe and protected when a drunk driver can rip it all out from under me in the blink of an eye?

What’s the point of anything if the two people who mean the most to me in the world, the two people who I’ve always looked up to, the two people who’ve always seemed invincible in my eyes, could die so suddenly?

What’s the point of constantly trying to stay out of harm’s way when God or the universe or whoever the hell is up there keeps pushing me into it?

I’ve always been told I’m a miracle for surviving cancer. I was told I’m a miracle after surviving the car crash, too. But what kind of miracle am I really if after everything I’ve done to avoid them, bad things still happen?

And why, even after all that, am I the one who’s still alive?

So I said fuck playing it safe, which is how I ended up in another stranger’s bed. If I’m going to be tortured with the memory of my parents and the role I played in killing them, I’m going to have fun doing it.

And here we are.

I unravel myself from the hot, naked man sprawled out beside me. He’s another nameless guy from a different bar than the last, because I’ve made it a rule to not sleep with the same man twice. I’m not ready to give my heart to anyone new, and casual, no- repeat sex is the best way to keep things from getting messy.

The last thing I need is more mess in my life.

I tiptoe around the bed, grabbing my clothes thrown throughout the room as I do. I quickly dress, searching for my keys and wallet in my pockets. I pull up my Uber app as I look back at the sleeping beauty in the bed, memories from last night on repeat in my mind.

I make it outside at the same time my Uber pulls up to the curb. I ensure it’s actually mine before hopping inside, then I rattle off a text to my best friend, Isa.

Me

Another one bites the dust.

She replies instantly, knowing my routine by now.

Isa

Did you just quote Queen?

Well duh. Who else is there to quote?

Only your parents, the voice in my head reminds me. I swallow and shove that thought down as she texts me back.

You’re funny. Who was the victim this time?

Some guy from some bar. I don’t remember his name. At least 5 years older than me. Solid 8/10.

Lord have mercy. What would it take to reach a 10?

Death by orgasm is the only way anyone will reach a 10, tbh

And what a way to go that would b e

“We’re here, ma’am,” the Uber driver announces as he pulls up in front of my new apartment.

I shiver at his use of ma’am but cast a kind smile his way through the rearview mirror as I unbuckle. “Thank you.”

I get out of the vehicle and hurry up the front path. Kenny, my building’s doorman, stands there with a smile plastered across his face, ready and waiting.

“Good morning, Lennon,” he exclaims.

I smile as I approach him. Kenny is a seventy-four-year-old man whose wife died a few years back. He sold their house, and his kids, now fully grown, moved him into this building. They’re good to him, but he was bored out of his mind living on his own, so he got a cat and decided to go back to work. He somehow made a deal with the superintendent to work as a doorman in exchange for being allowed to have a pet, which worked out great, because the old doorman was retiring just as Kenny wanted to start again. He’s become my old man best friend in the month since I’ve lived here.

“Hiya, Kenny. How are you today?”

“I’m just fine, missy. And you? Fun night?”

I flash him a quick smile and a wink to let him know just how fun my night was while sparing him the details. “As always.”

Kenny chuckles and pulls the door open for me.

“Thank you, kind sir.” I smile at him again as I pass through the doors. “Have a great day, Kenny!”

“You, too, Lenny!” he replies, chuckling.

I shake my head and smile—that nickname has become a game for him.

I press the button for the elevator, and once it opens, I make my way up to the eighth floor. I hope to God I never have to move out of here, because it was hell moving in.

The elevator doors close as another text from Isa comes through.

Have you been writing?

I sigh as the elevator dings. I head down the hall to my apartment, number eight-zero-eight, unlock the door, and walk inside before responding to her.

Not a thing

You’ll get there. Let me know how things go today. Love you.

Love you.

I smile at her confidence in me, setting my phone on my nightstand to charge. It’s only twenty-to-eight now, so I have about an hour before I need to be at my sister’s place.

I make my way to my bathroom and start the shower, stripping out of last night’s clothes while it warms. I feel dirty and gross, and my hair is in desperate need of a wash. I go through the motions in the shower, do my skincare, and brush my teeth. Then I put on a round-neck, navy-blue dress with three-quarter length sleeves that stops just above my knees. I pair it with nude tights and pumps before clasping my mom’s locket around my neck.

It’s gold and heart shaped, which most people would probably consider to be tacky, but I’ve always adored this necklace. My dad got it for her as a wedding gift, and she never took it off. Inside, she put a photo of us three kids on the left and one of her and my dad on the right. “ Everyone I love I keep closest to my heart ,” she told me once when I asked about the photos. I haven’t replaced them, and I doubt I ever will.

In their wills, our parents only left a handful of assets to specific people: this locket, which went to me; our dad’s wedding band, which went to Dylan; and our mom’s wedding and engagement band set, which went to Paige. Then Revolution Records, their record label, was left to Jeremy Arden.

Jeremy has been the director of Revolution Records Publishing—the department I work in—since it opened. My parents discovered him over twenty years ago at an open-mic night in the city and they mentored him. He’s practically family to us, and he’s an absolutely fantastic musician—he’s who taught me how to play piano. But he’s never been interested in performing for real, so when they opened Revolution, he was immediately on-board to run the publishing house. My parents held the president position together, and Jeremy was their right-hand man for most things.

Now, with them gone, he’s taken over as president.

I think they left the label to him because they knew how much he loves it. It was unrealistic for my siblings and I to take it over, seeing as Paige has her own life as a lawyer and Dylan as an engineer. I could do it alone, but truthfully, I don’t have any interest in owning the label, and they knew that. Jeremy is the next best thing to any of us, and I know he’ll make them proud.

A third of the rest of their assets was left to each of us kids. Dylan ended up buying Paige and me out of our family home, where he now lives with his family, and we split everything else equally. I’m not sure how he lives there; I can’t walk those halls without being assaulted by memories of our parents. I haven’t been over since their funeral in November, but despite how much it hurts to be there, I am glad the house is still in the family.

I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror after doing a quick face of makeup—just enough to make myself look like I’m not hungover and sleep-deprived. Then I grab my belongings and order myself another Uber to Paige’s house.

The insurance money paid for a new car, but I’ve never been a fan of city driving.

That feeling has only gotten worse since the accident.