I wake up in the morning and he’s gone.

No note. No kiss goodbye.

A fissure of unease unfurls as I push to my feet and start walking through the loft. His key are missing from the hook; his boots are no longer sitting by the door. I peek in Linc and Aiden’s rooms and find them empty, too.

Odd.

I kill an hour or so by making coffee and cooking myself breakfast, trying to ignore the anxiety spreading through my system. I can’t stop wondering where he is, what he’s doing… I obsess about everything that could be going wrong as I wash the dishes and stack them in the rack to dry.

Yesterday, when we woke up after the launch party, we had a long talk. Our first in a long time. He was so open, so honest — about the stress he’s been under to make this album work, about his need to make things right with the guys, after what happened during the Red Machine fiasco. He even opened up about his father’s struggles with alcohol, and I shared stories about my parents in return.

After dinner, we sat on the balcony together, playing music and laughing about the insanity of our first record being out in the world. I made a pot of chai and we toasted to our future with brimming teacups before falling into bed.

My last thought, as I fell asleep in his arms, was a hopeful one.

We can do this. Together, we can put this back together.

But now, as I look around the empty apartment for signs of him, I feel nerves flutter back to life inside me. Some of that happiness we reclaimed last night feels shaky in the pale light of day.

How many times did Mom and Dad seem like they were on the right track, only to fall off again? How many times did you get your hopes up, only to have them shattered when you found them high on the living room rug?

My past is working against me, tearing at me with razor sharp claws. I know, in my heart, that Ryder isn’t the same as the people who raised me. But I can’t help myself from automatically jumping to the worst case scenario. From making comparisons.

Where is he?

Another hour passes by before it occurs to me to check my iPad for news. When I power it on, my screen inbox practically explodes with emails from Francesca and about a hundred other in-house PR people from Route 66 who I’ve never met.

SUBJECT: ** CALL ME ASAP! **

_______

Felicity,

Ryder and Linc were arrested for drug possession last night at The Viper Room.

We’re handling it. The lawyers are in route now. I’ll follow them shortly.

There will be paparazzi outside your place, hoping for a scoop. Avoid leaving the loft if possible.

I’ll be in touch soon.

Francesca

My heart sinks to my feet as I sink to the floor.

I’m numb with disbelief. Stunned that he’d do this.

There’s no anger. No sadness. No heartbreak.

Just… emptiness. An aching, hollow desolation in the left side of my chest, a space that used to be reserved for Ryder.

When I finally rise to my feet, I float like a ghost through the apartment, methodically gathering my things. My silver watch from the counter; my sweater from its spot on the couch; my favorite pair of sandals from the mat by the door; my new suitcase from the closet, where it sits beside the matching one Ryder bought for himself.

For when we take our first trip together, he’d said, grinning at me.

The tags are still on. My hands are steady, my breaths are even as I reach out and yank them off. I let them fall to the floor in the middle of the hallway, fluttering like leaves in the wind as they descend.

It doesn’t take long to pack. I don’t have much.

New clothes. New wallet. New tablet.

Same songbook. Same guitar. Same girl.

Cut adrift. Again.

On the run. Again.

I take one last look around, checking the vanity in the bathroom for any remaining items, pulling open the bedside table drawers on both sides of the bed, to see if any of my things found their way inside. I freeze when my fingers land on a small, blue box in Ryder’s drawer. My eyes lock on it and I’m suddenly struggling to breathe. I can feel my emotions raging behind the dense wall I’ve thrown up against my mind, trying desperately to reach me.

I don’t let them in.

And I don’t open the ring box. With my pointer finger, I stroke the velvet. Just once. That’s all I’ll allow myself. That’s all I can handle, without falling apart completely.

At least a minute passes before I’m able to tear my eyes from the future I almost had. Another before I’m actually able to turn and walk out of the room, my suitcase wheels rolling against the hardwood so loud, it makes my ears bleed.

I leave the bedside table drawer open when I walk out.

I don’t let myself look back.