Page 116 of The Muse
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flynn
I don’t wantZoya Malone’s life, but I can’t stop stalking her online. Her band has played in stadiums around the world, even at the Roman Colosseum with some dude named Andrea Bocelli … andBuckingham Palace! The cello-playing girl I watch in videos doesn’t feel like the tour guide I met in the gallery. June blushed and flirted. She was vulnerable and seemingly relatable. Zoya is a larger-than-life force.
Like her band’s name, Zoya feelsa world awayto me.
She’s polished and elegant, playing classical music one minute, but in the next video, she’s playing Metallica and AC/DC songs … on a fucking cello. It’s mesmerizing as hell.
I can still feel her touch and hear her whisperI love you.
It’s not real. The woman on stage, with tears in her eyes every time a sold-out venue gives her a standing ovation, doesn’t feel like the woman I love.
And she’s not.
“What are you watching?” Callie asks, setting another box on her desk.
I lay my phone face down. “Nothing.”
“Looked like June,” she says, opening the box.
I pull out another stack of photos to scan. Callie has so many printed photos that belonged not only to her and Rupert, but to her parents and grandparents. Some are black and white photos from the early 1900s.
“Have you talked with her?” Callie asks.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“She went back to California for a family emergency.”
“Oh no. Did she call you?”
“I found out from her roommate.” I scan another photo as Callie sorts them according to the people or groups of people in them.
“So you haven’t talked to her?”
“I texted her, but she didn’t say what the emergency was, and I didn’t ask.”
“That’s good. Respecting her space and privacy for now is smart.”
“I don’t think she’s coming back, so there’s plenty of space between us.”
“Well, Rupert told me you don’t want to live in her world anyway.” Callie holds certain photos longer than others. And some, like the one in her hands of her grandson, she holds the longest. Tears fill her eyes, then she quickly blinks them away and smiles at me before moving to the next photo.
“Sometimes I watch YouTube videos of her performing. It’s a good reminder that we have nothing in common,” I say.
“I look at pictures of my son and his family. They’re good reminders that I will feel emotionally gutted for the rest of my life.” She shrugs while sorting the photos. “Reminders are good, huh?”
I know she’s trying to make a point. But I don’t need it.
“This one is ripped,” I say, ignoring her comment.
“Oh, I think there’s some clear tape in the bottom drawer on the left.”
To get to the tape, I lift two framed certificates out of the way. One has her name under Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. The other is from the American Board of Emergency Medicine.
“What are these?” I ask, holding them up.
