The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

So much for fresh fucking starts.

Outside, I stared into a dark, quiet night and began to walk.

Chapter Three

That Friday, the end of the first week of school, I woke at five a.m.—like usual. Dawn had just begun to creep into my

bedroom that was impeccably neat and yet completely full of everything that was me.

Bibi called it my nest.

“You’re like a magpie, collecting beautiful, shiny things.”

My best friend, Violet, called it a reflection of my creative energy. My full-sized bed was tucked in one corner to make room for shelves filled with books about metal work, gemology, crystal energy, artist biographies, and poetry collections. Collages hung on every available wall space along with mandalas I’d drawn in black ink and a few watercolors from my brief foray into painting. Pencil sketches and doodles were stacked in neat piles on my desk under the window beside planners and notebooks full of To Do Lists—each with every item scratched off.

I flipped on the multicolored lights hung where the wall met the ceiling. Their soft glow gave the room a dim but colorful ambience I loved.

I put on some Prince and sat at my desk to draw, and in twenty minutes, I had a rough sketch for a new piece. A ring where thin strands of metal—copper and silver, probably—coiled around a semiprecious stone like a vine. This afternoon’s work in the garage. I smiled.

I make my own shiny things.

Of all my creative outlets, making jewelry pulled me the strongest. The work was difficult; it required a lot of skill, materials, and time. Early mornings, late nights, and weekends. If I didn’t give it everything, the nothing feeling would swoop in, whispering I was a mistake my mother never wanted.

I held up the drawing of the ring. It wasn’t curing cancer, but it was what I had to give. To put something beautiful in the world that wasn’t there before.

The clock read six thirty. I exchanged the head scarf I slept in for a shower cap, showered, then ran through my morning hair care routine. My cousin Letitia was an artist herself, I thought as I sprayed shea moisturizer on my scalp and along the hundreds of perfect little braids that fell softly around my shoulders. Not for the first time, I considered taking her up on her offer to fly back to NOLA in six weeks for a touch-up at her salon. Maybe I’d barge in on Mama and demand answers. About her. My father. Maybe then, the hollow feeling inside would be filled up with the truth.

Maybe you don’t want to know the truth.

The warm smells of breakfast seeped into my sanctuary, dispelling cold thoughts. I dressed in a sundress in yellow and strappy sandals. A half dozen coppery bracelets slid down my wrists, and I slipped on a silver and turquoise ring I’d made earlier that summer. Before I stepped out, I checked my horoscope desk calendar with its prediction for the day.

Be prepared for something unexpected.

I scoffed. Nothing was unexpected. I planned and prepared to make sure of that.

I joined Bibi in the kitchen where she was at the stove, presiding over pancakes and bacon. She shuffled around the small space in a white house dress and slippers, her robe sweeping over the old linoleum.

“Morning, Bibi,” I said, pecking her cheek.

“Good morning, honey pie. Grab a seat. There’s fresh cantaloupe.”

I sat at the too-big dining table tucked between the kitchen and living room. A bowl of sliced melon sat amid the ceramic tea set in the center. Bibi made her way from the stove with two plates in her hands and joined me. In her own house, it was nearly impossible to tell her vision was all but gone. Or that she was eighty years old.

She set a plate in front of me while I refilled her teacup from the ceramic pot.

“How was your first week as a senior?” Bibi asked. “Anything new and exciting on the horizon for this year?”

“Not much,” I said. “There’re a couple of new guys in our grade this year. Roman or Roland Somebody. He’s in my History class. Allegedly. So far, he’s been a no-show. The other guy, Holden Parish, is rumored to be a billionaire.”

“A billionaire. My, my.”

“I don’t know if that’s true, but he’s a stone-cold hottie and the girls are throwing themselves at his feet. Which is hilarious because I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s gay.”

Bibi grinned over her teacup. “And how is Miss Violet? Is she throwing herself at this handsome new gentleman?”

“Not remotely. She has a grand plan to date the star quarterback of the football team and lock Miller in the Friend Zone permanently. Meanwhile, poor Miller is still playing guitar and singing love songs to her every night.” I sighed. “New year, same story.”

My best friend had met Miller Stratton when we were thirteen. He’d been homeless then, living out of a car with his mom, and his situation had gone straight to Violet’s soft heart. A beautiful friendship grew between them, though “beautiful friendship” was Violet’s phrase. It was obvious to everyone—me, mostly—that what they had went a lot deeper than friendship.