Devoured

Even if the person that I’m fighting is Lucas.

Shutting off the engine, I pull the keys out of the ignition and stare out at the cabin, which really isn’t a cabin at all but what can only be described as a log mansion. For the last few years, I’ve told Gram that it’s way too much house for her and she needs to downsize. Now . . . I feel like shit for even joking with her like that.

“You make yourself at home, sweetheart. I’m going to go on upstairs and lie down. I’ve not feeling like myself lately,” Gram says once we’re enclosed in the warmth of the house. She’s hanging her coat on the rack in the foyer, so she doesn’t see the way I pull at the high collar of my blouse—my grandmother keeps the house stifling hot.

“Room still the same?” I ask, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I kick myself. What an awkward, horrible thing for me to say.

She makes an unnatural noise that’s supposed to be a chuckle, but it makes me cringe. “For the next couple weeks.”

“You get some rest. I’ll be fine, okay?” But if I’m so fine, why does it feel like someone’s stomping up and down on my chest right now?

While I help myself to a frozen meal in the kitchen—my grandmother is obsessed with the convenience—I call Seth. Of course he doesn’t answer, so I have to leave him a message. “Hey Seth, it’s me, Sienna. I left my bags in your truck. Can you bring them by ASAP?” And because I know he’ll complain at the inconvenience of having to drive across town, I add, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for gas money.” I re-record the message two more times until I’m satisfied with how it sounds, and then I call Tori. The first ring is not even halfway through when she answers. Immediately, she starts talking rapidly.

“Oh my God, Sienna where’ve you been? Don’t you check your texts, woman? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the last hour! You don’t just send a message like that and completely disappear.” She pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath. I can actually picture her right now, fiddling with one of the random whatnots she keeps on her desk because she’s so worked up. If stress balls didn’t exist, Tori would self-implode because it’s absolutely necessary for her hands to stay busy. A nasally female voice says something to her, and Tori hisses back that she’ll do it when Jenna, her boss, confirms the instructions.

“Please, please, please, tell me you’re kidding me about Lucas Wolfe. Please tell me that this is a let’s-screw-with-Tori-moment,” Tori finally says in a low, breathless whisper.

“Nope. Not joking. Definitely him. And sorry for not calling you back sooner, I was . . . occupied.”

She groans, and I hear a door slam then the clacking of her high heels. When she begins to speak again, there’s an echo, like she’s in a stairwell. “Sorry, had to get away from the donkey witch in the next cubicle. So . . . does he remember you? I mean, it was two years ago and you didn’t actually fu—”

“He remembers,” I snap.

She makes a noise that’s a hybrid of a groan and a squeal, like she’s both disgusted by the prospect and excited. “Well, what did he say? What did he do? Holy shit, why is he in Nashville of all places? No offense, babe, but it’s not exactly L.A.”

I’m still wondering the exact same thing. I give her the explanation he gave me: “He’s here to make music. Apparently, my grandma’s house is the right place for him to hole up in while he does it.”

She’s silent for such a long time that I have to pull the phone from my ear to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. It hasn’t. The moment of Tori inserting dramatic silence gives me time to load my chicken pot pie and a Coke on a breakfast tray. I start upstairs, toward the bedroom I slept in as a kid, before Tori says at last, “And that’s it?”

I pause at the top of the steps, supporting my weight against the bannister. There’s a major part of me just dying to confide in her about how Lucas had made me feel in that café, but the other part warns me not to touch that subject at all. Hadn’t Tori been the person I bawled to after the disastrous night with Lucas. Not to mention when I found out Your Toxic Sequel never wanted me on the set of any of their music videos again and thought my career was ruined.

If I told her I still felt the slightest bit of attraction towards Lucas she’d be in Nashville on the first available flight to slap some sense into me.

“Well, I did tell him to go f**k himself,” I say. It’s somewhat true, even if it had been uttered after Lucas had deliberately frustrated me.

She claps her hands slowly. “Bad ass, Jensen. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Ugh, she has no idea.

“Look, I better run, but I’m proud of you, Si, for not letting Lucas run all over you and telling him off. I’ll text or call you tonight.”

But I feel like crap when I hang up the phone and walk into my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind so I won’t wake Gram. With my appetite suddenly a thing of the past, I leave the tray sitting on my dresser.

It’s comforting to see that Gram’s left my room the same as it was in high school and college. The same furnishings, same pink and orange hibiscus bed spreads and Have-A-Day posters.

I curl up in the fetal position on my old bed, burying my face in pillows that smell like fabric softener, and listen to the bitter sound of nothingness in a house that I’ll miss as much as my grandmother. Silent prayers roll through my mind for the next couple weeks to be easy. And more than anything, I hope today is my very last encounter with Lucas Wolfe because I never want to feel that dull ache in my chest again.