Page 101 of Filthy Beautiful
* * *
I was fourteen years old when my brother’s best friend died. And probably the worst part about it, for me—other than Gabe dying and my brother locking himself away from the world—was the fact that, because I was only fourteen, no one really talked to me about it.
About any of it.
It was the strangest thing.
My brothercouldn’ttalk to me about it. He was having a hard enough time himself, dealing with it, and I understood that. But everyone else… They all treated me like my thoughts and feelings on the matter weren’t… relevant?
I felt like some puppy who was patted on the head and brushed aside, every time Gabe’s death came up.
My parents were so consumed with trying to “fix” my brother or something—while trying to act like everything was fine—that they just didn’t seem to see that I was struggling, too.
Everyone just seemed to forget about me for a while. A long, long while.
Everyone except Xander.
Of all our friends and family, Xander was the only person who actually asked me how I was doing—and thenlistenedto the answer.
He’d visit Cary, and then he’d come by my parents’ place to talk to them, tell them how he was doing. And then he’d come talk to me. And we’d talk—about whatever I wanted to talk about.
He’d listen.
He came by so regularly in those first few months that I started anticipating his visits. Then looking forward to them…
Then longing for them.
Then… getting excited about them.
I knew I’d developed a huge crush on him. How could I not?
He was like this handsome tattooed prince who brought the welcome glow of the moon into a very dark night.
Then, the very last time he came to see me, he told me what no one else had.
That he was leaving, on tour.
I knew he’d been urging Cary to keep working, to form another band with him, but Cary kept refusing. So Xander and Dean had formed a new band, Steel Trap; they were heading to New York to record an album, and then they were planning to go on tour.
Xander said goodbye to me, and he left.
And I cried.
Holy hell, did I cry.
After Xander was gone, I’d cried for weeks. In private. I’d never cried like that before, even after Gabe died and Cary fell apart. It was like everything was hitting me all at once. All the loss, compounded by Xander walking out of my life for the next God-only-knew how long.
It didn’t exactly sound like he had plans to come home anytime soon. Sounded more like he was dying to get away.
And who could blame him?
For the next almost-two years, while I never actually saw him, I clung to that impression I had of Xander Rush; the one that had been carved right into my heart and soul while I was so… raw.
He was kind.
He cared about me.
He was a tattooed prince.
