Page 179 of Please Open Me
“It’s been two weeks since America’s Sweetheart, French Popstar Mason Albright, died in a tragic house fire in rural Hartwood Maine.” The news anchor’s voice was unbearably smooth, like she was discussing the weather, andnotthe love of my life burning to death.
And, just to twist the knife, Sebastian wasn’t even mentioned.
Not once.
Not in any of the reports.
Not in the obituaries.
Not at the candlelight vigils or the specials they aired in the middle of the night, looping clips of Mason’s most iconic performances like it would somehow soften the loss.
The man who likely followed her into the flames didn’t even make the crawl text.
Just Mason.
The pop icon. The sweetheart.The tragedy.
Never the person.
Never the woman who dropped two cubes of sugar in her tea and then forgot to drink it. Never the one who hummed while brushing her teeth or stayed up way too late reading filthy monster smut with tabs sticking out of every dog-eared page. They didn’t talk about the mother who spent her days covered in toddlers and couldn’t have been happier if she tried.
They never saw that version of her.
But I did.
And now she was gone.
In December, we’d all been prepared for Mason to die.
She’d been unresponsive. Fragile. Fading.
And even though it was sudden, at least we had time to brace for it. To start grieving before her final breath and get a plan in place.
But this?
Now we weren’t just mourning one unexpected loss, we were drowning in two.
Admittedly, the boys were taking it much harder than I was. Which... made sense.
I never reallyfeltsadness. Not the way they did. Not in the way that stole your breath and pressed grief into your ribcage until it shattered you from the inside out.
But I still had toplay the part.
Still had to nod at the right moments, cry when someone else cried, hold shaking hands and say all the correct platitudes.
It was exhausting.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because grief was heavy, and pretending to carry it in the same way as everyone else was starting to break my back.
Cameron hadn’t spoken a single word since we got news of the fire. That type of silence was weird for him. In all the time I’d known Cameron, he’d been a big man with an even bigger personality. A gentle giant who always had a smile on his face.
Now, he was a shell of a man who did his best to hide a growing drinking problem. He’d hid his sadness in a sea of cheap whisky and watered down beer. Last night, I’d found him passed out on the couch clutching one of Sebastian’s hoodies and the tanktop Mason had worn on her last night alive.
And I should’ve stopped him.
Should’ve said something.
