Page 31 of Bombshell

It takes me a moment to realize, she’s speaking to me—and that I’m crying. I swipe at the tears and force a smile. “Fine.”

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” she says, wheeling the stroller over and lifting the baby into her arms. “To think that all this meant something once and now it’s just here for us to press our noses to the glass and gawk at.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I guess you’re right. I was just thinking about the inevitably of death.”

“That’s cheery,” she says with a snort. “Going through a rough patch, love?”

“You could say that?” I can’t help peeking at the baby in her arms. She’s still sleeping, tiny fists curled up next to rosy cheeks that match her romper. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s my little rainbow after the storm,” her mother agrees. “You know, that’s the thing about life, you can look at the ruins and see everything that’s lost or you can pick up the pieces and make something beautiful.”

“What if there aren’t any pieces left?” I whisper, staring at the baby.

“Our pasts always leave us something to hold onto. Sometimes we just have to dig to find it,” she says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “You’ll find it. Just keep searching your heart.”

She ruffles her son’s hair, and he looks up at her with wide, moon-eyes. “I can’t figure out what it says, Mummy.”

“Well, maybe next time,” she says to him seriously, winking at me. “Come along, darling.”

I watch them walk away, until they disappear into the next room. Maybe she’s right, and I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I don’t need to decipher Sterling. It’s too late for that. But I need to understand what he left behind. I’m not the girl he met last August, and he’s not responsible for that. Not entirely. So I can keep standing here in the ruins, looking at what’s lost, or I can make something beautiful of what’s left.

I’m tired of being stuck in the past—any past. Making my way through the Great Court, I leave it behind, stepping out of the museum and into bright, spring sunshine. The rain is gone, wet sidewalks the only evidence of the storm. I reach the street and begin to walk. I have no direction in mind. Maybe I’ll choose to dig for those pieces Sterling left behind. Maybe I’ll just wait for life to hand me new pieces. For now, I can go anywhere I choose, and the sheer freedom of that is exhilarating.

I hit a busy street a block or two away from the museum and the smell of fish and chips wafts toward me from a small restaurant. The effect is instant. My mouth waters but instead of my stomach rumbling, I clasp a hand over my mouth and nose as my stomach lurches at the greasy scent. A few people near me move away, widening the space between us. I keep my hand over my nose and cross the street quickly to get away from the terrible smell. When I finally look around, daring to uncover my face, I’m on a residential street, safe from the smell of greasy restaurants and too many people. But the only thing besides row houses is a blinking green pharmacy cross.

Life is handing me another sign. I pop inside and an older man in a white coat calls out a greeting.

I swallow, trying to calm my stomach, which is still churning a little.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Yeah. I was walking and I smelled fish and now I think I need…” I wonder what the equivalent to Pepto Bismol is in the UK.

He looks me up and down, no doubt taking in my pale face, and chuckles. “I’ve got it.”

The man disappears behind the counter, and I wait at the register, pleased that the more time passes, the less queasy I feel. I’m digging out my wallet when he comes back and places a box on the counter.

I look at it and blink before laughing nervously. “Oh, I...no. I’m sorry I wanted something for my stomach.”

“Read you wrong! My apologies.” He pulls a bottle of chewable tablets out and replaces the box. “This should do it.”

He tucks the pregnancy test under the counter as it hits me as suddenly and fiercely as the smell had a few minutes ago.

“Actually…I’ll take that, too.” I pay for both quickly, shoving them into my purse as I try to get my bearings and make it back to the hotel, praying Ava and Poppy are still out flirting with Scottish boys. Praying that I’m wrong. Praying that I didn’t just find the piece of the past Sterling left behind.

11

Sterling

I never thought I’d come back here, but the devil must have a sense of humor because there’s no time to make it to New York before I head to the next part of training. Summer’s arrived in Valmont, and the campus is crowded with girls sunbathing on the quad and guys playing frisbee. The first summer session has started. It’s hard to believe I should be here, trying to get ahead on my degree by taking a six-week session of Biology or some bullshit. Why did I ever think I belonged here? It looks like one of the glossy pictures in the brochure that Francie brought home my senior year. That brochure failed to mention that under the idyllic appearance, there’s something rotten in Valmont. The money. The people. There’s hardly a difference between the two.

I turn a few heads as I walk through campus in my freshly-pressed uniform, my hair’s been cropped closely to my head. My face is cleanly shaven per expectation. I pass two girls who were in my lit class last fall and they smile at me, leaning to put their heads together. I can’t help but smirk. It seems a uniform is all it takes to have girls throwing themselves at you. Not that I’m interested in another Valmont girl. I’ve learned my lesson there.

I’m not sure what to expect when I reach my old dormitory. I hadn’t left much information about where I was going. Part of me expects to find the place empty. Maybe temporarily occupied by someone else, Cyrus long gone. I figure I might have to track down the residence hall staff to get the last of my belongings. But I guess, even rich kids need to get ahead on coursework, because Poppy leans against the wall, the door to the room cracked open. They’re still here. My friends. Probably so they can get their corner office at daddy’s firm and start their golf addictions. Seeing Poppy sends memories flooding through me. Not of her, but of eating hot chicken and birthday parties and the wedding. Memories of Adair.

“Hurry up! I’m starving,” she yells.

“Found it,” Cyrus calls, ducking out of the room with a book. He freezes, the door still half-open when he sees me. His eyes narrow, sweeping up and down me. “Sterling?”