Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
But is it really fair of me to ask that when it’s exactly what I did to him two years ago?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mason
Everything is empty.
Each day blurs together with the last. Death has a weird way of cloaking time, which is why I don’t realize it’s the day of Cameron’s funeral until Denver’s standing above me in a black suit with a black shirt, trying to wake me.
I don’t want to face today. I’m still trying to convince myself it didn’t happen and that Cameron is still here.
“Where’s the service again?” I ask.
“Hollywood Forever, but we’re supposed to be going from Harley’s place. Show a united front.”
Sure, united front. Fuck, that pisses me off. “Use this opportunity as a PR stunt to get us back together, you mean?”
Denver frowns. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? Harley’s a workaholic and obsessive to the point I worry about his mental health, but he wouldn’t use Cameron like that. No way.”
Deep down, I know what Denver says is true, but all the toxicity from this industry is bleeding into real-life issues—serious ones—and I’m not okay with that. It’s maddening enough that instead of Cameron being in the headlines, we are. He’s the one who died, and everyone is speculating about the Eleven boys and whether or not this will bring us back together. It’s disgusting.
“I’ll meet you there. I … I need to do this alone.” If I do it at all.
“I’ll call Harley and tell him to save us seats at the service.”
“That’s not exactly the definition of alone.”
Denver flinches back. “What?”
“Sorry. That came out harsher than I intended it to. I really need to process this separate from us. From Eleven. And from everything Hollywood.”
Denver kneels by the bed, and his lips form into a thin line. “I have a bad feeling that if I walk out of here, I’m not going to see you at all today. Everyone is allowed to grieve in their own way, but I guarantee if you miss out on saying goodbye, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”
I lean up on my elbows. “What’s the difference between saying goodbye to him when I’m alone without the media and saying goodbye to a casket? It’s not like his soul will be there. It’s his body in a wooden case being covered by dirt. I don’t need to see that.”
Denver takes my hand. “It might make you finally accept that he’s gone.”
I want to say I’ve still got four more stages of grief to get through before I’m anywhere near acceptance, but maybe he’s right. It might be a step.
I just don’t know if I can face it. “Maybe I can come late and stand at the back. I don’t want the attention. I don’t want to have to keep it together in front of the media.”
“It’s being held in the gardens. I really hope you make it. For your sake.” Denver leans in and kisses my forehead as he stands. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
What I need is to forget, but I don’t think even Denver has that kind of power over me.
When Denver leaves, I force myself to get up and shower in case I get the sudden urge to go, but like I said to Denver, I can say goodbye to Cameron wherever I am. I don’t need to be where he is.
I’m not exactly a spiritual person—I don’t believe in God, I don’t have faith—but I believe once someone is passed, their soul is no longer here. Where it goes? I have no idea. I like the idea of an afterlife, but it’s hard to believe in one.
Cameron wouldn’t give a flying fuck if I was at his funeral service. He’d tell me to toast to him, say a prayer because he was the faithful type, and get my ass back to work.
And it’s there, under the warm spray of Denver’s shower, that I finally let myself break down and cry for the first time since it happened. I’ve shed tears, but I haven’t full-on bawled until now.
Thinking back over the last eighteen months, of him turning up in Montana, of calling me, him constantly trying to get me to come back, it reminds me of the voicemail he left a few weeks ago after our business lunch. I listened to the message but didn’t delete it.
I rush to get out of the shower and find my phone. Only wearing a towel, I step onto Denver’s balcony overlooking his view of Malibu, the water in the short distance, a view not dissimilar to what I used to have in Palos Verdes. It may be a different beach, a different area, but it’s the same damn ocean, and I have the same alone feeling.
Sucking in a deep breath, I put my phone to my ear and listen to what Cameron had to say.