After dinner, everyone is pretty keen on disappearing into their bedrooms, and honestly, I can’t say I mind. I’m lying in bed, staring at the full moon hanging over the treeline outside my window. Its pale light spills across the floor. I grab my phone from the nightstand and unlock it, opening Instagram under my secret account. My thumb hovers for half a second before tapping Adriana’s profile.
Jude never posts anymore, really. But Adriana practicallyliveson social media. Daily stories. Behind-the-scenes clips. Stupid candid shots of rehearsals or dinners or whatever party she’s attending that night. Every time she shares a snap of her watching a movie, my stomach twists because I know Jude is probably with her. She documents everything.
Except…
My brows knit together as her profile loads. Her last story bubble is gone. I blink, refreshing the page once. Twice.
Nothing.
I scroll through her feed slowly, my stomach tightening when I see the date of her last post. Several days ago. “Huh…” I murmur to the empty room. That’s weird. Adriana is chronically online. The woman posts as if her life depends on it.A slow wave ofnausea curls through my stomach. I hate her. But I know her patterns. And this…this isn’t normal. My fingers tremble slightly as I tap her most recent post.
It’s a photo from a party somewhere. There’s dim lighting, a stone staircase in the background, and a red rug on a marble floor. It looks extravagant. She’s mid-laugh, head tilted back dramatically, champagne glass raised. The caption is something flippant and glamorous, filled with emojis and tagged brands including Gucci. And behind her, slightly out of focus, stands Jude.
I bite my lip and stare at my screen.
He’s leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth, and staring off to the side, like he’s lost in thought. He looks thinner than I remember. Sharper around the cheekbones. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead.
I pinch the screen to zoom in, and my heart stutters. The corner of his lip is split. It’s barely noticeable, just a thin line that’s half hidden by shadow. Anyone else would likely scroll right past it. But I see it. My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on a staircase. I scroll into the comments, dread pooling heavier with every swipe.
He looks so sick lately.
Is he using again??
He broke up the band to do drugs and party with his girlfriend.
Someone check on him before we lose him for real.
Another beautiful man destroyed by fame.
I swallow hard, my throat tight and dry as if I’ve swallowed sand. I back out of the comments before I can spiral any further and tap over to Jude’s profile. His page loads slowly, just to torture me. No new posts. Of course not.
I scroll anyway. My thumb moving automatically, muscle memory guiding me through photos I’ve seen so many times that I could probably redraw them from memory. Concert shots. Black-and-white studio candids. Grainy tour bus selfies with Micah from a lifetime ago. Photos fans tag him in that he never acknowledges. Then my scrolling stops. My heart aches as I stare at the very first picture he ever posted.
Eight years ago.
I remember helping him upload it because he didn’t know how Instagram worked yet and kept complaining that it was stupid and invasive and “for people who care too much about showing off their lives.”
A deep sigh escapes me as I tap it open. He’s standing at Ecola Point, turned halfway toward the ocean, halfway back toward me. The wind is tugging through his hair, shoving dark strands across his eyes. He’s wearing that oversized gray Redwoods National Park hoodie he practically lived in back then, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands shoved into the front pocket. He’s looking over his shoulder directly at me. At the camera.
That smile…
It’s wide and boyish and a little crooked, like he’s laughing at something I just said. The sunset behind him paints the entire sky molten gold, with his hazel eyes shining almost amber. The caption is painfully simple.
Graves and Easton, est. 2018.
My vision blurs slightly as I trace the edge of the screen with my thumb, memorizing the lines of his face. I haven’t seen him smile like that in so long. I remember that day…
~ A memory ~
My heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. It’s Friday night, which means it’s our night. Jude's Nissan Xterra smellslike salt air, fast food, and the faint trace of his cologne that’s permanently soaked into the seats. The windows are rolled all the way down, warm summer wind whipping through the cabin and tangling my hair across my lips. The radio hums beneath Jude’s voice as he sings along, drumming one hand against the steering wheel.
“Wow,” I say dryly, unwrapping my sub. “How can you sing everything so well? Any genre. I swear, you’re incredible.”
He grins. “I don’t know, Em. Ask whatever creator created me. I’m sure they poured a little too much excellence into my bowl.”
I snort.“Thatwas awfully narcissistic.”
“Not narcissistic if it’s the truth, baby.”