I Always Will

Good-Bye

Riley

I manage to get myself across the country without really internalizing the situation.

Then, after switching planes in New York, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, I sit in first class, G&T in hand, and I quietly lose my shit.

Priscilla is still...well, she still is.

How is that possible? It calls into question everything I've ever believed.

Or not believed, I suppose.

Then again, somewhere deep inside me, I must admit, that's not really true. I always thought of her as...somewhere. Watching over me, I guess. It's why I never let go. I made that vow upon her grave, and the very thing that compels me to keep it is the thought that somehow I'm honoring her. My jealousy, my anger, my drugs—my inability to forgive her mistake—are what separated Priscilla from her life. Because of that, I vowed to separate myself from the life I had with her.

Rowan is not the only one who finds her sharpest focus, her true reality, on the stage. But I gave that up, changed the direction of my life, because I promised Priscilla I would become a good person. A better man. I would not let her death be meaningless. I cost Priscilla her life, but in her death, she saved me.

And I have spent my life taking care of people just like Priscilla. Creative, impulsive, vulnerable people. I've shielded my friends and my loved ones from the kinds of situations that I put Priscilla in. Ashlynn, Trace, Arabella, Bodie, even Row.

Good god, Row. And Priscilla. Together? With Dev?

My skin crawls with anxiety at the thought of what might be happening in London.

I need to get to them.

To her.

Bloody hell. Which her do I even mean?

Because I don't have an answer, I gesture to the flight attendant for another drink.

#

Priscilla is buried in a quite nice cemetery in West London. I can still remember watching her well-dressed, quietly weeping parents the day of her funeral. I was banned, of course. I watched from behind a monument, cursing them and their tough love. If they hadn't cut Priscilla off entirely when she joined our band, she would have been living at home, not with me and Avery. What happened would never have happened. I was so angry with them that day.

It didn't take long for the anger to turn inward.

I stand in front of the open iron gates. Once I cross into the cemetery, my feet will take me effortlessly to her grave. Although I've lived in American for over a decade now, I once visited during every trip to London. The last time was some years ago, however. After Row and I married, I let the habit fade.

"Oh, darling," I murmur, but then I take a long fortifying breath against the terror I'm feeling, and I walk briskly onto hallowed ground.

Dev is sprawled on Priscilla's grave, leaning against her tombstone, littering her plot with crumpled cans. He's talking to himself. Or to Priscilla, I suppose.

"It really is amazing, isn't it? When I see a picture of them as girls, they look exactly alike—sometimes in the still shots I can't tell which is which—and in my mind, I know they still share the exact same features, and even the same voice, yet I only have eyes for Bridge, yeah?  And I know he feels the same. I mean, the opposite way. Believe me, I've watched his sneaky ass just to make sure...he's mad for Row. Even after she cheated, and he bloody well hated her, he was still mad for her...oh. Wow. No, I didn't know. He never speaks ill of you, love. He guards your memory like a treasure..."