Chapter 6: The Stars Will Show You

The slap echoed in the room, sharp and final. She stared at me, stunned.

She was stunned. After a moment, she screamed, “You dare hit me!”

Her scream was shrill, desperate. She lunged at me, nails flashing.

She lunged at me, crying and scratching. “You bitch! You already stole him! Now you want to take what he gave me too!”

We crashed into the TV stand, the camera slipping from my grasp. The strap caught, snapping with a sickening sound.

In the struggle, the camera’s fragile strap snapped. Jordan grabbed the body and smashed it hard on the ground.

A loud crash. My mind went blank. The camera shattered into pieces before my eyes. There was cruel pride in Jordan’s eyes.

“If I can’t have it, neither can you!”

Her words were a knife, twisting in the wound. I saw red.

A wave of despair and rage crashed over me. I grabbed Jordan’s head and slammed it against the wall. Just once, and she started bleeding. She screamed, “Help! Murder!”

The world went fuzzy at the edges. I barely registered the blood, the screaming, the pounding on the door.

The hotel room door burst open. Mason rushed in. When he saw Jordan, his eyes went wild. He pinned me to the wall.

His hands were rough, his voice frantic. I barely heard him over the roaring in my ears.

“Addison! Are you out of your mind?!”

Jordan, trembling behind him, touched her forehead, legs shaking. “…Mason, I’m so scared.”

Her voice was small, pitiful. I didn’t care. I was beyond caring.

I shoved him away and dropped to the ground, trying in vain to piece the camera fragments together with shaking hands. My fingertips were cut by glass, but I didn’t care. No matter how I tried, the pieces wouldn’t fit.

The blood smeared across my hands, but I kept going, desperate. The camera was gone, and with it, the last piece of my mother.

Mason grabbed my hand. “Calm down! It’s broken! It can’t be put back together!”

He tried to pull me away, but I fought him, sobbing.

I shook, tears streaming down my face. He gritted his teeth. “It’s just a broken camera! Just buy another one! Is it worth losing your mind over this?!”

His words were a slap, colder than the Ohio winter. He didn’t get it—he never would.

I bit my lip until it bled, the taste of blood filling my mouth. Just a broken camera. This was my mom’s only keepsake, and he called it just a broken camera.

The pain was sharp, grounding. I looked up at him, hatred boiling in my chest.

I looked up, unable to suppress the hatred in my heart, and suddenly slapped Mason. The blood on my fingertips smeared his face.

The mark was bright against his skin, a reminder he couldn’t ignore.

“Mason Grant, get out! Get out!”

My voice was raw, ragged. I meant every word.

In his shocked gaze, I took off my engagement ring and threw it in the trash. I packed my things and went back to my hometown—to see my mom.

I left without looking back, the ring clattering into the trash. The drive home was a blur—gray skies, endless fields, the taste of salt and iron on my tongue.

I sat in front of her grave all day. During that time, Mason called me countless times. I didn’t answer, and blocked him. Sometimes I felt ashamed. If my mom saw what I’d become these past years, would she be disappointed? I let her down. I hadn’t become proud, brave, or strong. Instead, I wasted three years on a man who wasn’t worth it.

I talked to her in whispers, telling her everything I couldn’t say out loud. The shame and regret threatened to swallow me whole, but I stayed. I owed her that much.

On the third day, I went to the cemetery as usual. But this time, I saw something unexpected by the headstone—a pot of bird of paradise flowers. My heart pounded wildly. That was my mom’s favorite flower. Who had come?

I knelt by the flowers, tracing the petals with trembling fingers. They were fresh, vibrant—a message from someone who remembered.

I ran to the cemetery office to ask. They told me that every few months, someone sent them. Then they gave me an address.

My heart raced as I clutched the slip of paper. I knew, deep down, who it was. But I needed to see for myself.

I had a hunch, but didn’t dare believe it. Following the address, I found a flower shop. The owner told me that about three years ago, she’d received an order to place a pot of bird of paradise at Ms. Diane Lane’s grave every three months. The person had paid for three years in advance, so she remembered clearly.

The shop was small, overflowing with blooms. The owner’s eyes were kind, her voice gentle. She remembered the order right away, her face lighting up with recognition.