Page 8 of Never After Us
My least favorite trilogy in existence.
I inhale, straighten my spine, wipe whatever might’ve betrayed me off my face—and nod.
“Okay,” I say.“Let’s do this.”
ChapterThree
Alec
After what feels like fucking forever, I’m back home.
Or at least back in the city that’s supposed to make sense—the only place where my brain slows down enough for me to function like a semi-civilized human being instead of the man who nearly strangled a paparazzo with a mic cord a few weeks ago.
Okay, I didn’t actually do it, but I thought about it.I was close enough to taste the lawsuit.
The truth is, Seattle is the only place where my pulse doesn’t try to sprint out of my chest.Here, I can almost believe I’m a person capable of peace.Or the watered-down version of peace that passes for my reality.
The sedan glides up the ramp from Sea-Tac, tires skating over damp pavement.The air outside the cracked window carries that familiar February chill—cold enough to wake up my senses, not cold enough to punish me for being alive.
The second thing I notice is the music—violins, low and melodic, drifting through the car speakers.
Classical.
Of course Eddie arranged this.
He probably told the driver, “Appease the beast.Play something soothing so he doesn’t bite through the steering wheel.”
He might be onto something, because the sound does something to my nerves I don’t want to analyze too closely.He also offered to send the jet, his pride and joy—the one with leather seats, a minibar, and a flight attendant who’s been flirting with him since ’99.
But I can’t do jets.Not after that last flight—turbulence hitting hard, the cabin shrinking, and me convinced I’d die in noise-canceling headphones listening to Bach.Not exactly the exit I’d want.
So, no.Private jets are off the table.
Now they just trigger every worst-case scenario my brain’s been stockpiling for years.The air feels thinner.The walls feel closer.And I remember things I’ve worked very hard to forget.
Fuck jets.
Cars, though—cars I can do.Wheels on pavement mean escape is possible.Doors open from the inside.Oxygen exists.
At least someone understands it and humors me.
That’s the thing about Eddie—childhood friend, almost-brother, and the one person who somehow learned to read me long before I learned to read myself.He’s flawed as fuck, but he tries.And he tries for me harder than I deserve.
Which is probably why he sent this driver.
The man looks like someone’s proud grandfather—silver hair, posture so straight he could balance a dictionary on top of it.He greeted me politely when I got in, then went silent.
He didn’t ask about the flight.Didn’t comment on the weather.Didn’t mention movies, politics, or music.Either he sensed that today is not the day to poke the bear ...or Eddie told him to avoid any conversational triggers that might lead me into an existential spiral.
Knowing Eddie, he faxed the man a manual titledOperating Alec Horvath Without Causing Damage.
If he did, I’m grateful, though.
The silence helps.
The violin helps too, even if I’d never admit that to anyone without a medical degree.
After spending several weeks in Los Angeles, this moment—this stillness, this almost gentle atmosphere—feels unnatural.Like I’ve stepped into a scene someone else ordered, and I’m just borrowing it for the night.A little too calm.A little too beautiful.
