Daybreak (Sorrowsong University, #2)

Daybreak (Sorrowsong University, #2) — Chapter no 19

Chapter 19

OPHELIA

Knowing Cain Green isn’t in Scotland would be relaxing if I didn’t know he was in New York. Alex must be tired of me texting him every five seconds for confirmation that he and his sisters are still alive.

His latest update comes in the form of his arm, covered in eyeshadow swatches while three different hands swipe varying shades of purple onto the remaining bits of space on his forearm.

Alex Help. It’s 3am.

I grin, typing out a reply on my laptop from one of the Nightshade library’s dark, dusty corners, where I study opposite Divya.

Ophelia Purple might be your color.

He sends back a zoomed in photo, and though it’s blurry, I know it’s a closely cropped photo of my hair.

Alex This is my color.

Ophelia Careful, Corbeau. Wouldn’t want to come on too strong.

Alex This crush I have on you is getting out of control.

Alex FaceTime me when you shower later.

My bottom lip almost bleeds from the effort of biting down on my smile. Over a man, no less. How far I have fallen.

I close the tab before I add failing all my exams to the list of things I’m doing over a man. Divya gives me a knowing look, teasing but smiling ear- to-ear as she sits with her headphones on, poring over a cardiology textbook.

I think she’s been sitting here for thirteen hours. Medical degrees aren’t for the weak.

It’s gloomy out, as it always is. The sky has a dark, rumbling underbelly that’s rolling its way over the unkempt pines. A fine mist of rain obscures the spires of the castle, but inside, the fireplace beside the library bar is kicking out a steady warmth. A cozy glow from the brass wall lamps casts the dusty shelves and creaky desks in a soft light. It’s quiet in here, thanks to some party that went on way too late last night, so the sense of foreboding that looms over my shoulder while I write my notes on grief in childhood makes no sense to me.

I hate the distance. It feels like helplessness a lot of the time. Whenever Alex has a bad day, all I can do is text him.

I just hope it’s enough to get us through the next two years.

DIVYA IS ASLEEP on her laptop keyboard when I get back from swim practice, exactly where I left her.

I drape my jacket over her shoulders and leave her to rest.

I work in the library until the lines of my multimodal perception essay don’t seem to make any sense anymore, until I’ve stared at the word cognition for so long that it looks like a weird assembly of letters with no meaning.

It’s then that I notice the strange looks starting.

Actually, they’ve never really stopped. I can’t walk across this campus and not catch a few death glares, but they definitely seem to intensify.

The two girls on the brown chesterfield by the fireplace, dressed like they’re off horse riding and not sitting in a dusty castle in the Scottish Highlands, swivel where they sit. One of them whispers something to the other, which isn’t uncommon. Something about my outfit, usually, or my slightly wonky teeth, or my freckles. I’d hoped to keep myself out of the spotlight this year, but getting back together with Alex has shattered that

plan. Everything I do now seems to be publicly debated, sorted into worthy of him and not worthy of him.

But this time, no one seems to be laughing. If anything, they seem … sympathetic? Worried? Angry? I’m not sure; I’m terrible at reading people.

When I glance around the sagging wood shelves and dusty vaulted ceilings of the room, a lot of people are staring at me. I open the camera app on my MacBook to see if I have leftover pasta sauce on my chin, but it’s got some dumb filter on it that makes me eyes bigger than the rest of my head.

In the photo gallery on the bottom left, photos of Alex and me in bed at my parents’ house with giant bug eyes and tears of laughter glistening on our cheeks stare back at me.

The ache in my chest is hollow and heavy all at once. Long distance is hard. Especially on afternoons like this one, when I can’t get hold of him and I’m left wondering if he’s in a million meetings or lying in bed, grappling for reasons to keep going.

Colette’s name appears in the top corner of my screen,

Colette Hey, honey. Are you okay?

Ophelia Have I put on a particularly pitiful outfit, or something?

Colette You don’t know?

Alex. A sickening feeling hits me. A hundred images flit through my brain. Oh God. A call from Colette has my phone vibrating on the desk, but

I hit decline and gather my things.

I can’t lose anyone else.

Ophelia Text it.

I stumble my way out of the library and into the foyer. The walls are closing in on me, the decaying portraits laughing at my panic.

Colette sends a link to a news article.

Former Model and Wife to Missing Aviation Tycoon Elise Corbeau Believed to Be in Critical Condition After Collapsing Outside Her

Manhattan Home.

No.

No, no, no.

“Ophelia, there you are.” Vincenzo jogs in from the rain, phone pressed to his ear. He pulls it away again, hitting redial. “Come on, man. Pick up,” he whispers, a gentle hand wrapping round my arm as he pulls me toward the dark spiral staircase. I have to run to keep up with him, a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

“He’s not answering,” Vincenzo tells me. “I’ve been trying him for the last twenty minutes.”

I don’t have to imagine what Alex is going through. I know it. I relive it every night, every time I’m bored, every time I see burgers, Scrabble tiles, helicopters, anything that reminds me of them.

I have to go to New York. I have to be with him.

“Bella.” Vincenzo’s voice cuts through the fog, phone on loudspeaker so he can text and talk as he guides us up the steps.

“Did you hear about Elise?” Belladonna’s voice is strained on the line.

“Yeah. I’m gonna fly back.”

“Your exams, Vincenzo.”

“I’ll retake them, do an extra semester if I need to. This is bigger than

exams.”

“Have you heard from Alex?”

“No.” Panic lines the word.

“I’ll come back with you. Call you back in a minute.”

I call Alex while Vincenzo calls his father. I focus on the steady rhythm of his combat boots on the stone floor, trying to not think about what this means.

This means air travel, and even my terror for Alex and his mother isn’t

enough to distract me from that.

I can hardly breathe.

My call to Alex goes to voicemail. I try not to crumble. Please, lord, let him be okay.

Ophelia Tread water, Alex. Tread water until midnight, and we’ll figure it out from there.

We stop at the top of the stairs, and Vincenzo reaches out for the door, hand pausing above the handle like he’s forgotten to do something. He drags me into a rough hug. “You okay?”

I swallow thickly, force out a shrug. His presence is comforting, sure and confident as always. I’m grateful Alex has him, has always had him.

“I’m worried about him.”

He pulls away, two giant hands settling on my shoulders like he’s trying to keep me together. “He’ll be okay. He has you. You two are the real deal.”

“He has me,” I repeat, with a nod. I need to show up for him. I’m not the girl who fell into despair for four years. I’m not the girl who runs away, who closes off her heart. I’ve grown. “Let’s go.”

VINCENZO HOVERS IN my doorway while I empty the bottomless pit of junk that is the top drawer of my bedside table onto the bed. My passport is there, stuck closed by a melted Haribo. It’ll do.

“I can’t bring liquids?” I ask, throwing an eclectic mix of clothes into a bag without really looking. The flight is the elephant in the room. I can tell that Vincenzo doesn’t believe there’s any universe in which I’ll actually set foot on a plane.

Neither do I, but I’m hoping I’ll just do it when the time comes.

“Yeah, you can.”

“What?”

“It’s a private jet. You can bring what you like.”

“I …” Oh no. A private jet. My hands shake violently as I try to get a hold of the zipper on my bag. “I … I can …”

“Worry about the whole plane thing later, Pheelz.”

“Yeah,” I choke out, finally zipping up my duffel. Vincenzo slings both my bags and both of his own over his shoulder, picking up another phone call as we walk.

He leads me out of the mansion and onto the shady path to the car park.

I stop beside his distinctive Maserati, but he keeps walking, toward Belladonna’s Bronco. “She’s the faster driver.”

Belladonna arrives, together with Jack, one of Alex’s friends from the rugby team whose parents are part of Elise’s medical team. I haven’t spoken to Belladonna since the night in the woods, though she often makes an

appearance in my nightmares, an endless loop of Laura’s death and blood on my hands.

It’s tense between us. We’ve not spoken, save for the odd question she texts through from her men to confirm they’ve cleared up all traces of Laura’s existence and buried the final copy of the photo that started all this.

I have no right to be upset that she intervened, that she killed to protect herself, but I am. She had every right to be angry that I put her in that position, and by the look she shoots my way, she still is.

Vincenzo tosses all of our bags into the back, and the four of us climb into the car. Belladonna makes Eike look slow. I have one hand pressed to the roof and the other braced on the window as she skids the car out of Sorrowsong’s long forested driveway.

On the plus side, it makes me slightly less apprehensive of the flight, because at this rate, none of us are making it to the airport alive.

They all make phone calls, Belladonna to her father, Vincenzo to his security guys, to his mother, to the airport. Jack to his mom, his girlfriend.

They all ring their people, but my person—my only person—is three thousand miles away, somewhere I can’t hold him or comfort him, like he does so well for me.

All I need to do is get on that plane. I can’t get off once it’s up. I just need to get into my seat and do the panicking afterward.

But I stare at the journey time ticking down on Belladonna’s dashboard like it’s a countdown to my demise. I scrub clammy palms over my tights, trying to think of things I can see, smell, hear, taste.

The gray water and foggy hills of Loch Glascarnoch are vanishing in the rearview mirror. I have a horrible fear that I’ll turn back around when the time comes and let Alex down.

Just over thirteen seconds. That’s how long my parents were in freefall.

It doesn’t sound long, but I bet it was. I wonder if they were conscious. If they knew what was coming. If it felt like the longest thirteen seconds of

their lives.

It’s probably even longer in a plane.

This is not a helpful line of thought.

By the time a warning light forces us to stop for gas about fifteen minutes from the airport, I’m paralyzed by fear.

Vincenzo hops out to fill Belladonna’s car for her, tugging my door open to poke his head in. “Want anything for the … umm … the bus ride?”

“The bus ride?” I say, voice distant and gaze focused straight ahead through the windshield. My teeth chatter, hands shake, pulse hammers.

“I’ll get you some chocolate,” he says, but he sounds far away.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this scared.

“Ophelia, hey,” says Jack, like he’s trying to distract a child. He drapes his hoodie over my legs. “Get her some activities to do, Vin. Like a puzzle

book. And a pack of gum.”

“Will do.” He slams the door.

Jack turns to me. “Download a film and some music, or a podcast or something for the flight. It’ll help.”

Belladonna scowls at me but says nothing.

When Vincenzo gets back to the car, he has what looks like a weekly food shop for a family of four. He dumps a plastic bag on the back seat between Jack and me. “Got you those gross Wine Gums you like, Bella.

And a Red Bull.”

“Thanks, Vinnie.”

“It’s just a seven-hour bus ride, Pheelz. Nothing more.”

“Forty thousand feet in the air.”

Vincenzo turns in his seat as Belladonna pulls the car away, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. Their security guys follow suit in the black SUV behind us. “You got this. I know you do.”

Like Colette, I have some twisted affliction where people being soft and kind to me makes me sad. “Don’t.”

He rummages around in the bag, seat belt almost strangling him. He drops a packet of Werther’s Originals in my lap. “Apparently these are old person candies. You love old person shit.”

“That’s rude,” I grumble. It’s not rude at all. It’s friendship and its companionship and it’s everything I’ve been missing.

Vincenzo’s grin is lopsided, all sparkling eyes and chipped teeth. “Well … you like custard and crosswords. And peace and quiet. You think portable phone chargers are the pinnacle of technology.”

Somehow, he’s dragged a reluctant smile out of me. “These are my favorite sweets.”

He cackles victoriously, sliding back into his seat to face the front.

“Fucking knew it.” He sticks his hand into the back of the car like my dad used to do whenever he heard me rustling a packet in the car. “Gimme one to try.”

I drop one into his palm, watching his oversized hand struggle with the wrapper. He drops it into his mouth and immediately inhales it. The other three of us can’t stop laughing, even Belladonna. I half wonder if he is going to choke to death, but he does manage to swallow it and clear his airway. His hand reappears immediately, fingers moving in an impatient beckoning motion. “Another. Didn’t get to taste that one.”

“Are you going to lodge this one in your windpipe, too?”

“I’m not planning to, no.”

I give him another, finally understanding why Alex is so determined to keep Vincenzo around, despite wanting to cut ties with that world entirely.

In any situation, he’s the one that keeps everyone going.

He must like the sweets, too, because his hand periodically appears in front of me all the way to the airport.

The past fifteen minutes have been a lot better, but the first thing I see when Belladonna steers us into the long-stay car park is a helicopter taking off.

“Shit,” breathes Vincenzo. He slides his headphones over my ears in half a second, music deafening, but it’s too late. I curl in on myself, waiting for the crash, waiting for the almighty boom. I count to thirteen, and when it doesn’t come, I count again. I picture the helicopter spiraling down toward the rugged Scottish Landscape.

In my nightmares, it’s my name that my father screams as he falls.

If I hadn’t told them to rush home for burger night, maybe they’d still be here.

I stumble out the car, eyes fixed on my muddy Doc Martens.

I’ve come here for no reason.

There’s no way I can get on a plane.

I type Alex an apology and then decide it’s the last thing he needs. I hit backspace furiously, all outside sound muffled by Vincenzo’s music. He and Jack grab all the bags, and Vin lifts one of my headphones up to speak to me, cocking his head toward his father’s men. “They wanna search you

separately before you get on, I’m sorry. They’re not fully convinced you’re stable.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, imagining my disheveled outfit, mascara running down my face, static hair. “What could’ve possibly given them that

impression?”

He smiles ruefully. “Still, I’m sorry.”

We walk into the airport. It’s quieter than when I was last here. It’s a day I can’t bear to think about. A day when Alex and I both thought being apart could be less painful than being together.

“Miss,” says one of Vincenzo’s men, pulling me aside. I snap my eyes up to Vincenzo, wide and panicked.

He gives me a wink and a thumbs up. You’ll be okay. “I’ll meet you out the other side.”

It’s different for private planes, or at least for the Morellos. We skip the short security line. Vincenzo’s men and an airport employee search me in a side room, emptying out my duffel and my tote into trays.

“You scared of flying?” the airport employee asks, as my shaking hands try to relace my boots. I nod, feeling worse by the second. Why did I think I could do this?

“It’s a breeze. Safest mode of transport. No one ever dies,” he says, popping his chewing gum. I almost throw the boot at his head.

True to his word, Vincenzo is waiting for me outside. “The bus is just refueling, then it’s ready.”

I nod, swallowing down bile that rises in my throat. “Okay.”

“Them candies are really good.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you rather have them for fingers, or every time you buy a bag of candy, there’s a finger in it?”

He drags yet another smile out of me. “Vincenzo, I have no idea.”

“I’d rather have them for fingers.”

The shaking seems to have spread from my hands to my entire body, every breath a labored effort. “Same, I think.”

“You want to know a secret?” he asks, and something about his tone forces my gaze up to his.

“No,” I grumble, shivering again. I’m sick of secrets.

“I’m scared of gunshots.”

A soft laugh escapes me, before I realize he’s serious. “You?” As kind and funny as he may seem to those he loves, he lives and breathes violence.

“Yeah, me. My mom took a bullet in the back for me when I was ten.

Jumped in front of me and it caught her spine. My mom is alive and thriving, but guns lost their appeal after that.”

And just like that, I learn Vincenzo isn’t quite the happy ray of sunshine that he lets us all see. “You do shooting practice most weeks.”

“If feeling scared is what I have to do to keep my parents safe, to keep her safe,” he tilts his head in Belladonna’s direction where she picks up a takeaway coffee, “then I’d spend the rest of my life terrified.”

“Feel the fear and do it anyway,” I whisper, nodding.

I can do this. I can do anything. Especially for Alex.

“Fuck yeah, Winters.”

I feel like we just made an unspoken pact. I’ll keep being brave if you do.

One of the men in black suits and earpieces taps Vin on the shoulder.

“Jet’s ready, Mr. Morello.”

We step out onto the tarmac. I wish it wasn’t windy and rainy. I wish the clouds weren’t so thick. None of it eases my nerves.

I manage the weather better than I expected. I manage the quiet whir of the idling engines, and the employees in high-vis jackets holding things that look like tennis rackets.

I manage it all, until I read the black logo that runs down the side of the

white private jet. Green Aviation.

My feet slow to a stop.

Any bravery I’d had dissolves into the frigid air. Pure, undiluted terror seeps in to fill the void.

Thirteen letters, five syllables that mark my parents’ forested grave.

Possibly the last two words they ever read.

The metal blades on the engine look vicious. The windows of the cockpit curl into a snarl. The wings look too thin, too fragile to withstand takeoff.

Vincenzo turns around a few paces ahead, beckoning me forward.

“Come on. Can’t miss our takeoff slot.”

Panic overtakes my chest, all other rational emotions losing out.

Thirteen seconds for them. Endless agony for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking the first step back.

Belladonna swivels where she’s stopped, halfway up the steps into the jet. Her face is stormier than the skies above us. She hands her laptop and coffee to the flight attendant and marches back down.

“Backing out?” she asks me, like it’s a challenge she thinks I’ll have to take her up on.

“It’s—my parents died in a Green helicopter.” I stutter over the syllables, can hardly get the final word out.

If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding into the tarmac. “Under a different CEO.”

She looks at the hesitation in my expression and casts her eyes up to the cloudy heavens, cursing in Italian. There’s no kindness in her eyes, no patience remaining. “So help me God, Ophelia. Your man is having the worst day of his life over there, and all we’re asking of you is that you’ll go to him. For once in your shitty life, we’re asking you to put his issues ahead of your own. One time. Just get on this fucking plane and go back to moping another day.”

And then the strangest thing happens. I … get on a plane. The one thing I swore I’d never do, a lifetime of scaring myself and accepting my fate just seems to splinter in two as my boots carry me up the metal steps.

It’s like an out-of-body experience, watching someone who looks like me step through the doorway and into the jet. I’m on the sidelines, flipping violently between cheering and clapping, and begging her to come back.

I’m so stunned that I don’t fully register what’s happened until my boots come to a stop on a plush, pale carpet and Belladonna has asked the staff to close the door.

Vincenzo sinks down on one of the four cream leather seats around a small table while I stand in the center of the aisle, frozen still. “You were harsh, Bella.”

Belladonna sinks down beside him. “No one has ever smacked any sense into her, and it shows.”

My eyes dart around, frantic. The interior is furnished in soft creams and natural wood. The carpet is soft. There’s a screen folded into the wall at the table that Bella, Vin, and Jack have seated themselves at. There’s a sofa along the right-hand side, and two more empty seats farther down, each

with a screen of their own. Four security guys are sitting around a table at the far end. Two flight attendants busy themselves by the door.

It’s quite comfortable, for an aluminum death machine.

I run to the window like a dog watching people play outside, nose against the glass. There are patches of silver on the wings that have the contents of my stomach roiling. “Oh my god,” I choke out. “It’s being held together with fucking sticky tape.”

They glance out the window and laugh, bucking their seat belts.

“No one is worried about this?”

“It’s speed tape,” says Jack, watching me self-combust.

“I don’t want extra speed. I just want a safe, regular speed.”

A pair of navy heels stop behind my feet. “You’ll need to sit down for taxiing and take off, miss.”

I turn to face the flight attendant. Her name tag reads Caroline, and her tone is polite and patient. “There’s tape on the wings.”

“It’s just for securing any minor repairs.”

I drag my palms down my cheeks, voice a quiet squeak. “Minor repairs?”

“Nervous flyer? We’ll get you a drink as soon as we’re airborne.”

A pint of vodka might do it.

I lower into the seat beside Jack and opposite Belladonna, the four of us around the table. It feels like we sit there forever, the plane moving forward at a snail’s pace.

Strange noises sound below us, beside us, behind us. Vincenzo just repeats the word normal over and over after every noise.

And then I’m thrust back in my seat, a deafening roar in my ears. I scramble to cover them, turn the music up to full volume, but I can still hear it. My eyes fly open in alarm, landing on the glacier blue of Belladonna’s.

We’re hurtling down the runway. Too fast, too loud, too out of control.

She’s calm. Composed. Bored, even.

The plane speeds up even more, my head tipping back against the seat. I screw my eyes shut, squeezing two hot tears out. They scorch a path down my cheeks, fists curled tight.

I’m silent and still, breath trapped in my lungs, every muscle bunched tight.

This is awful. Worse than I ever imagined. I cannot believe Alex did this almost weekly at the end of last year. Alex. I’m doing this for Alex. I hope he’s okay. I hope his mother is okay.

A cold hand encircles my own. Belladonna’s fingers thread through mine. A warm hand settles on my other, and I dare to crack an eyelid. Jack holds my left hand, Belladonna leans forward, clutching my right. Her other hand sits in Vincenzo’s on top of the table. We’re connected in some unlikely circle, the three of them calm and composed, me fighting for air.

It almost makes me break down, but I’m distracted by a sickening

sinking feeling, like we’re plummeting.

This is it.

Thirteen, twelve, ten.

I grip Belladonna and Jack’s hands so hard I worry I might break their

fingers.

Nine, eight, seven.

Tears trickle over my jawline, clammy and uncomfortable on my neck.

My stomach sinks. Everything feels like it sinks.

Six, five, four.

My name, cried out in my father’s voice, reverberates in my ears.

Three, two, one.