i cried thrice in this chapter, twice in the last

*

Rhysand can't sleep on the left side of the bed. Sanford always sleeps on the left side.

The house is haunting with traces of her.

Rhysand finds a hair tie in the bathroom. The tumbler she used for work is sitting on their cupboards, the mug she always uses sits in a drawer. There's a shirt she forgot to take, some notes from school in his studio, and—and Rhysand can hear her laughter, sometimes. Can see himself and her, slow dancing in the kitchen. Can smell the pancakes burning in the air.

When Rhysand leaves, he clutches Jenner's shirt. "Call me. Call me if...if she comes back. Call me and I'll be at the first flight out."

His best friend nods. He hugs him. "I'll call you even if she doesn't. Pick up, okay, shithead?"

Rhysand nods. "Yeah. Yeah. Don't burn our kitchen down."

He pushes him off. "Go."

When Rhysand leaves, he looks back one more time, like he's going to see her with Jenner, watching him, waving goodbye with tears in her eyes.

There's no one beside Jenner. Rhysand gets on the plane.

*

Rhysand turns twenty-eight.

He gets a text, then. Happy birthday, Rhysand. Please be happy today :)

Rhysand knows it's from her. She hasn't changed her number. He's called it a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times. Left four hundred, five, six messages and voicemails.

Sanford answered once. Told him that he couldn't keep doing this. That he shouldn't wait for her, that he should stop contacting MJ and Sabina, too.

"I love you," Rhysand said. Grips his chest where his heart hurts. "I still love you. I wish I didn't."

"Then stop," Sanford whispered. Rhysand could hear her crying.

"I can't," Rhysand answered, and his voice shook. And God. No one has ever made his voice shake as much as she has. No one has ever hurt him as much as she has. No one has ever—has ever loved him as much as she has. "Come back. Come back to me, take responsibility for this. Sanford, please. Sunshine. Please. I love you. Come back." He was rambling, choking on his words, cheeks staining with tears.

It takes a lot out of him to reply to her message without his fingers trembling. Thanks.

She's not here. She's not here. Even when he blows the candle on his cake—she's not here.

Except for the watch, Rhysand didn't touch any of his things in that box. He kept the letter, stashed it somewhere in his suitcase, never wanting to read it again—but, but it's the only thing Sanford left him.

He touches the watch on his wrist. The sun.

It burns on his skin.

*

Rhysand does well with his music.

He should. He traded Sanford for it.

*

Sanford turns twenty-three.

Rhysand messages. Happy birthday, Sanford. Smile for real today. - RH

It takes her long to reply, too. Thank you. And I will. :) - S

*

Rhysand only got to spend three of his birthdays, three of hers, three Halloweens, three Christmases, and three New Years with Sanford. Three anniversaries.

It's not enough.

It would've been their fourth today.

*

Trey calls him a couple of times.

"Hey," Rhysand says, clenching his hand into a fist, unconsciously rubbing his finger on the sun on his wrist. He's always worried when Trey calls. Is she hurt? Is she coming back? Is she okay?

"Busy, kid?" he asks lightly.

"Not really," he answers, leaning back against his chair. "What's up? What happened?"

Trey pauses. "It's not...she's not back yet, Rhys."

Rhysand expected it. He expected it, but it still hurts. "But she's okay? She's fine?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he whispers, swallowing hard. "Okay. Why'd you call, old man?"

Trey guffaws loudly. "Just because you're on the other side of the world doesn't mean I can't kick your ass, kid."

"I'd like to see you try. Did you get my gift?"

"I said I didn't want a damn gift," he snaps, and Rhysand knows he's rolling his eyes. "I'm still using the foot massager. And I said I wanted you to come to Parkway and cook dinner here."

Rhysand hangs his head. "I know. I'm sorry. I can't yet. Not...not without her."

Trey knows what happened. Of course he does—the news reached him just a few days after Sanford left. She didn't tell him, and he didn't tell him. Trey found out through the town press, and it wasn't easy going to work, but he did, anyway, and he stood up for his daughter, taught those who talked shit about her a lesson, and kept his head high.

And if Sanford had stayed with Rhysand, he'd have done the same. Sterling would fire him, and he—he wouldn't care.

Sanford would. She knew he was going to lose Sterling, and she didn't want that.

And besides...she said she needed to heal on her own.

Rhysand wasn't perfect, either. He fucked up. He let Sophia lie to him, let Sophia do this to her. And he suffocated Sanford, too. Made her cry.

He was too scared of her leaving that his fear had made her leave.

And Rhysand will never forgive himself for watching the light die in her eyes. For causing it. For just watching when she needed him. For letting her lose herself just so she can love him.

It was selfish. It was beyond selfish. Rhysand can't ask her to come back. She'll—she'll do so when she's ready.

Rhysand knows she loves him. He knows.

Trey understands. He says Rhysand needs to stop sending him money, too.

"I have too much of my own," Rhysand argues, managing a small smile.

"Don't brag about being famous now."

"Stop complaining and spend them on something you want. Go fishing. Get a pet. Go on a date, for fuck's sake."

"I don't need a date," Trey snaps.

Rhysand rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say."

On the other line, he pauses. "Are you...are you doing okay? You're not smoking anymore, right, kid?"

Rhysand takes a deep breath. "Just...sometimes. I try not to. It's not that often anymore."

"Good. Good. Come...come home here if you want to. Anytime. You know you can. We'll have beer and get drunk."

Rhysand's chest hurts. Trey has been saying this since...since Sanford left. "I know. Thank you. Merry Christmas."

Trey sighs. "Merry Christmas, kid."

"Decorate the house a bit, okay? Hang the star up on the tree."

"Yeah, I got it. Take care, don't smoke. And I know you're busy, but call me sometime."

Rhysand nods. "Will do. Bye."

*

Sophia places an iPad in front of him. "Your schedule today."

Rhysand leans forward on his chair and picks it up, sucking on the lollipop in his mouth. "Okay. Get out. I'm recording something."

Sophia swallows hard. Looks at the people in the room. "Rhys, you can't keep doing—"

"It's Mr. Harton to you," Rhysand says, shoving the iPad back to her. He leans back against his chair, pushes his lollipop against his cheek. "Get out."

Sophia does.

One of the artists he's working with, Brian, whistles. "Dude. You can't keep doing this to Sophia. She's your—"

"Watch him fire me when I bring all the profit to this fucking company." Rhysand tips his chin up to the booth. "Get in, I need to record you."

Brian gets up immediately, ditching the sandwich on the table.

Rhysand gestures for his co-producer to come closer. "We need to brush up on the verse here..."

Rhysand's name is all over the newspapers and the press.

When he's asked where his inspiration comes from, his answer stays the same: "My heart belongs to one person. I write all my songs to her."

He has projects everywhere. He has tracks he needs to work on, he has artists from all around the world asking for him—for him to work magic on their songs. He's busy. He has a lot of work. It keeps him from longing for warmth on his bed—keeps him from forgetting that the left side is empty.

He has a lot of work, and yet...and yet, when the lyrics come to him, he doesn't want anyone else to sing it except for Derek.

"You want me to record what you sent me?" Derek asks from the other end of the line, and Rhysand can see his eyebrows raising. "Bro, these are..." he whistles. "These lyrics are fucking raw. You want me to sing them?"

"When I come back, we'll record them right away," Rhysand says. "I don't want anyone else singing them." She likes your voice, he wants to say. But doesn't.

Derek agrees.

Rhysand works. He works and works and works.

He should do well with his music. Sanford left so he can choose music.

*

Rhysand turns twenty-nine.

Happy birthday, Rhysand. Please be happy. Always. - S

Rhysand's reply doesn't take hours. Thanks. And trying. - RH

*

Rhysand gets an email with a weird subject line—PLEASE READ MR HARTON :D

He narrows his eyes at the sender: [email protected]

Rhysand clicks it.

Dear Mr. Harton,

I'm sorry for messaging? Emailing? Whichever, it's just, i felt like i needed to reach out, im sorry it took so long :D

Um, congrats on the music, I listen to a lot of your songs. You are great!!

And also...I wanted to say that I'm sorry for what hapepned with Andy before, i know why she stopped talking to me was bc i liked her, and i don't hold it against her, i shouldn't have liked her when she wasn't single

She was just so...vibrant? And caring? And i couldnt help it, im sorry, i told her tho, and i told her not to worry bc ill get over it, and i did

Sorry about inviting her to my place :/ and for the picture as well and for the times we hung out IM SORRY

Im just...is she ok? Dont worry i dont have feelings anymore for her, i stopped w my stupid crush she was clearly SO SO IN love with u, im just worried. She was my first friend in college and in baked. I message her and she replies sometimes, but im still worried :c

And i wanted to say im sorry, again. But i promise you that night in my apartment nothing happened, we fell asleep and that was it, andy would never ever ever do that to anytone

um thats it i guess? Pls email back when u have the time, mr. harton :D

- kyle

Rhysand takes a deep breath and types his reply.

Kyle,

Thanks for messaging. And I'm sorry about punching you before, I just realized I never apologized.

Thank you for listening to my songs. And I know, I believed her when she said nothing happened. She wouldn't do that to anyone.

And she is. Vibrant. And caring. And so much more.

Don't apologize for liking her, I can't hold that against you.

She's fine. I've been told she's fine. Don't stop texting her, though. She misses her friends.

I'm coming back to South Bend soon. If you're still working at Baked!, I'd love some cheese tarts.

- Rhysand Harton

*

His work abroad is done, so Rhysand comes back to South Bend.

Jenner hugs him at the airport. Trey does, too.

The house is his. Jenner wants to move out—find a place of his own.

"You can have it," his friend says, clapping his shoulder. "You...it's more important to you than to me."

That night, the first night back—Rhysand cries on their bed.

The left side is still empty.

*

Rhysand gets some cheese tarts from Kyle.

It tastes the same as Sanford used to make. He beams at this and says, "That's a compliment out of all compliments. Thank you, sir."

The kid is a bouncing ball of energy. It—punching him before...Rhysand feels bad.

He trails after him, and Rhysand treats him to some burgers—the kid looks like he's dying from university.

Kyle takes a big bite. "You're kinda cool, Mr. Harton."

"That shit sounds so formal," Rhysand grumbles, watching him eat. "Rhys is fine."

"Kuya Rhys," he says, grinning. "It's a term in my language that we use for older guys we're close to. Or from a younger sibling to an older brother. Can I call you that?"

Rhysand tosses him a potato wedge. "Eat, brat. And yeah, whatever."

Kyle grins, widely, and Rhysand thinks he's full from watching the kid eat.

*

His co-workers invite him out for a drink. Sage and Embry are insistent.

Rhysand goes with them to get them to shut up. What they didn't tell him was that Sophia was coming, too.

"I'm out." Rhysand slams his drink on the table. He grabs his jacket off the sofa.

"Dude, no!" Sage yells, snatching his wrist. "Come on, don't leave. I didn't invite her!"

"I didn't either. And do you still think she did it?" Embry asks, rubbing the nape of his neck. "She said she didn't...but I don't believe her, too." He sighs. "I miss Andy."

The name stings. He tosses his jacket to Embry. "Bathroom," he mutters, leaving, feeling the intern's eyes on him.

It doesn't surprise him when she's waiting outside, glaring at him. "You can't keep doing this to me. I'll tell my uncle."

Rhysand doesn't blink. "Tell him, then."

He knows she can't. Sterling can't afford to lose him.

Sophia's jaw tightens. "Rhysand. What changed? You weren't like this before."

"I should've been like this a long time ago," he answers lazily. "Leave or I will leave."

Sophia grabs his arm. Rhysand yanks it back—hard enough for her to stumble in her heels. "Rhysand—please."

"Tell me the truth," he says, voice low and threatening. "You tell me the fucking truth."

Sophia swallows hard. "I—I just wanted you to take the promotion. You're talented, Rhysand, I wanted your career to—"

"I'll sue you," Rhysand growls, pushing her off. "I'll fucking sue you, I'll put you behind fucking bars."

But Sanford wouldn't want him to.

"That—that was a long time ago," she stutters, eyes wide. "And you don't have evidence—"

"You don't work for me anymore," Rhysand says, chest heaving. "You don't work in Sterling. You leave. You leave the fucking country, I don't care. You leave and you don't fucking come back. I see you again, I'll press charges."

Rhysand goes back to his friends, downs a drink. Sophia leaves, crying.

"What'd you say to her?" Sage asks, blinking.

"Things I should've said a long time ago," Rhysand answers, downing his next shot.

The moment people start to crowd them and Rhysand notices a couple of pairs of eyes trying to catch his, he leaves.

*

Sanford turns twenty-four.

Happy birthday, Sanford. Smile for me today. - RH

She replies in a second. Thank you. :) Will do. - S

*

When Sabina calls him, Rhysand doesn't hesitate.

She passes him his drink. "We threw her a party."

Rhysand nods. Takes a sip. "That's good," he mutters, feeling the alcohol burn in his throat. "She loves birthdays. Is she—" he pauses, taking a deep breath. "Is she happy? Is she okay?"

Sabina stares at him. "You're not going to ask if she's with someone else?"

Rhysand...Rhysand can't imagine it.

Still, it's—it's possible. Sanford has no obligation to come back to him. She can—she can be with someone else. She can be loved by someone else—as long as it's a love that's right, a love that she deserves, that makes her happy. And Rhysand...Rhysand will be fine.

"Even if she is," he murmurs, taking another swig, "my questions are still the same. Is she teaching? It's the one thing she wanted to do."

Sanford's friend takes a deep breath and runs her finger along the rim of her own glass. "Rhys," she starts, and Rhysand raises his head to meet her gaze, "you loved her."

"Love," Rhysand corrects quietly. "And it wasn't enough before. We were tearing each other apart. I was tearing her apart—I understand why we..." His hand clenches into a fist. "I understand why we needed to take care of ourselves first."

Her eyebrow raises. "I called you over, fully intending to punch you in the face for hurting Andy, but I changed my mind."

Rhysand scoffs. "What, you like me now? Thought you hated me."

"Nah." Sanford's friend clinks her glass with his. "Andy deserves all of the love you're willing to give her. The right one."

Rhysand downs his shot. "If she's happy, I'm fine." I'll be fine.

"Funny," Sabina mutters, downing her own shot. "That's what she said, too."

*

It would've been their fifth anniversary today.

Rhysand and Jenner ask Kyle to teach them to bake cheese tarts in his kitchen.

The kid is annoying, but the cheese tarts are good.

They taste like the ones she used to make.

*

Rhysand's fingers play with the porcupine in his phone charger. "Can we do it one more time?"

Derek slumps over himself. "Fuck, dude. You're overworking me. I don't get paid enough to do this."

Rhysand swallows hard and nods. "Okay. We'll record again tomorrow."

The singer takes off his headphones and leaves the booth.

"Sorry," Rhysand mutters, running a hand through his face. "I just—" He shuts his eyes. Remembers how Sanford would sing loudly in the Jeep—doesn't care if she gets the lyrics wrong. Her voice rings loudly in his ears. "I just want this to sound right."

"I know," Derek says, sighing. He hands him a bottle of water. "I know, man. Let's grab dinner and go home, we need to work on it tomorrow."

Rhysand nods. Grabs his things. "Okay."

*

There are times when it's easy.

When he's working, and—and he has meetings all day, tracks to work on, lyrics to write. It's easy, then.

When he finally goes to sleep, after—after staining the pillows with tears, after tossing and turning all night. It's easy, then, when he's not conscious and when he forgets it's cold, too cold.

When he's with Jenner.

But most of the time, it's...it's unbearable.

And Sanford—Sanford can love someone else. She can. Rhysand will...he'll be fine.

He'll be fine.