CHAPTER 2

America's sweetheart is—

My chest tightens, beating sluggishly against my ribcage.

Nicholas Harrington is—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Dead.

Nicholas Harrington – America's sweetheart – is dead.

Nicky is dead. A tragic accident.

America's sweetheart, they call him. Not called him. They call him America's sweetheart as if he's still alive. He was half English by his mother, but America had claimed him as their own. He'd lived in London for ten years – I lived with him for seven of those years until his death – but he still is and likely always will be America's sweetheart.

I stand at the window inside my home office, judging the world for its audacity these past two years. The day Nicholas died, the blue winter sky had flaunted its cloudlessness. The snowdrops had pushed through the frost left behind by England's gray winter, and I'd raged over that delicate flower with a ridiculous name like snowdrops, that still dared to announce that winter was coming to an end.

Those snowdrops should have remained dead beneath the cold earth, as Nicholas had been. Has been for seven-hundred-and-thirty days.

Even now, I glare out at the snow. How dare the continuity of life intrude on my sorrow and act like half my soul has not been taken from me?

Two years. I have lived without Nicholas for two years. I saw him for the last time two unbearable fucking years ago. I carried his coffin with my head held high, even when all I wanted was to sink into the cold earth with him. When all I wanted was to shake him and tell him to get up. Get up, Nicky, and let's go home. It's almost our wedding, don't you remember?

I mourned with dignity in front of the world that loved him, even when the chaos exploding inside me could barely be contained.

I said goodbye, my love; rest easy until I see you again, even when all I wanted to do was beat his unmoving chest and demand that he wake up. How dare he ruin our lives like this?

The noise inside my head quickly became an unbearable companion. For two years, the sun rose in the east and set in the west, unbothered by the emptiness Nicholas had left behind.

I can't breathe without you, I whisper to him sometimes in my rare moments of unjadedness. Come back, Nicky, so I can breathe again.

The people whose lives he touched celebrated him in various ways – on his birthday, during graduation ceremonies at schools and colleges he'd supported, during speeches given by emerging artists whose work Nicholas had championed. They all reflected on the greatness of the humanitarian, philanthropist and UN Ambassador who captured the world with his soft heart for those in need and his fierceness in his advocacy for the marginalized.

But when it was all over, they went back to their homes to enjoy their aliveness. They celebrated the return of the birds and the warmth of the sun because the world had not ended for them that winter two years ago. Only for me. I stayed in London sixteen months after that, trying to remain close to him, but even that became unbearable. I returned to the United States eight months ago, loveless. Lover-less.

My home in Greenwich Village here in Manhattan isn't a prison, as my mother likes to call it. It's a sanctuary. I was not at our London home the day Nicholas needed me the most. Now, I don't ever want to leave home.

My home office, which is located on the east end of my house, is the greatest distance I travel for work. I am yet to return to traveling to my New York office or internationally for work. My home gym, on the opposite side of the house, is the furthest I travel to keep in shape, and Evaline, my and Nicky's housekeeper, who moved with me from London, is my only companion. I have not left this house for the entirety of the time I've been here. And for the sixteen months I remained in London, I hadn't left our home, except for mandatory work or family commitments.

He was to be, not just a Harrington but a Harrington-Ashford yesterday's headline said. It was one of many, which went on to describe how much more powerful Nicholas and I would become after our families were connected through our marriage. Such news reports seem to have become customary on the anniversary of Nicholas's death.

Sometimes the newspapers talk about me too. They call me a recluse. Forever heartbroken. They're right. My public appearances in London after Nicholas's death had been so rare it became expensive for tabloids to buy paparazzi shots of me. Here in the U.S, it's non-existent.

Nicholas might have come from one of the richest families in the world, marrying into an equally wealthy family, but he was as connected to the other, less privileged ninety-eight percent of the world's population as if he were a Bhuddist monk.

Nicholas understood humanity in a way that was rare for someone with his privilege. Although, it wasn"t so rare if you knew how dark Nicky's darkness could get. Nicky knew, intimately, the depths of human suffering. He had suffered so much, but the world got to see only the parts of him that didn't hurt, and the parts of him that didn't hurt the ones he loved.

He was taken from me seven months before he was to become Nicholas Alexander Harrington-Ashford. And now, all I have left of him are his words on a few text messages begging me to help him as I had always promised I would. That, and an unquenchable, unrelenting search for something to make the noise stop, even for just one full minute.

Forever thirty-two. I turned thirty-three a month ago. Nicky will never be thirty-three. Sometimes, I want to tell him about all the things that have happened since that day. Like how Evaline became a grandmother for the first time last year. Or that Elliot Winston, whose college education Nicholas had paid for, recently graduated cum laude.

"Hayden?"

I turn away from the window. "Mom. Hi."

My mother is here to check up on me, and to make sure that, at least today, I'll leave my house. If, for no one else, then at least for Nicholas, surely, I can attend an annual dinner on the anniversary of his death held by our families and scrutinized by the international press.

I don't know how I'll do it, but yes, for Nicholas, I should do this. I must. I can no longer do anything else for him.

So, here I am, in my office, dressed in my Sunday best, and ready to face the world again and remember Nicholas's life. Only, unlike everyone else, whose winters aren't a constant reminder of the emptiness of the world, all I can remember is his fucking death. How he died. Why he died. The very last word he spoke before he died.

My mother's eyes move between me and the potted plant sitting on my mahogany desk. It's a small-sizedpeace lily. God knows how much longer it would've lived if Nicholas hadn't rescued it from King Edward Children"s Hospital only three months before his death.

A gift of gratitude to me, he'd said, for my unfailing love for him. Anything can be brought back to life with a little love and care, Hayden. Just look at me. He'd been right about the peace lily. Within weeks, my desk was brightened by the white leaves that looked like flowers. And it is this peace lily he'd been so worried about during his final moments on this earth. Through the crushing darkness of his psychosis and the immeasurable pain of his illness, Nicholas had instructed me to take care of this plant.

My mother and Evaline made sure it made it to the U.S. Sometimes, I don't follow Nicky's instructions. Sometimes, I don't water this fucking plant. Sometimes, I want it to die, like Nicholas died. Why should this peace lily live when Nicholas cannot? I could fill the universe with my love and care, and still, I wouldn't be able to bring him back to life.

Let the plant die, like he died.

My mother steps up to me. "Many would give their whole lives for just one moment of what you and Nicholas had. Is there any comfort in that, Hayden?" she asks. Her hands shake when she lifts them to secure a lapel pin to my coat. I appreciate my mother's grief for the son-in-law she will now never have.

My eyes meet hers, each of us competing with the other for dignified tears.

I lose. My Adam's apple jerks in my throat, trying to facilitate my futile attempts at swallowing my sobs. My body remains rigid, but my tears fall like pathetic fools. "No," I spit out. There is no comfort in knowing that Nicholas and I have – had – the greatest love of all. That our love had become a catalyst for international support of queer love as had never been seen before. What does any of it matter now? Nicholas has been dead for two years.

They tell me I'll find love again. Give it time, they say. All I can say in return is thank you, but inside, I wail with grief, screaming that no one will ever replace Nicky.

My mother flattens her palm over the lapel pin, offering me as much comfort as a mother can.

"Hayden, you don't have to carry the guilt of being alive. You will always love Nicholas, but you have the right to still live. You didn't fail him."

I steel myself against her words. Because I did fail him. This guilt my mother is talking about is not unfounded. I am guilty. I failed Nicholas.

The urge to rip the pin from my suit coat overwhelms me. It lies innocently against my chest, close to my heart, but it feels like a rope around my neck, tight and suffocating. I almost give in to it, this need to fade away. To go where Nicholas went, wherever that is.

But this lapel pin, with his family crest imprinted on it, is a symbol of Nicholas's uncompromising loyalty to me. He gave it to me on the same night I asked him to marry me. He accepted an engagement ring from me, and I accepted this pin as a promise that I had not only his love, loyalty, and allegiance, but that of his family too. It was their tradition to wear this pin during important family events.

So now, I wear it for him as we prepare to celebrate his life.

"Mark flew in this morning with your father. They can't wait to see you," my mother says. I hear the words unspoken. When will you leave this house and visit with your family again? I haven't seen my father and brother in months. I manage with texts and phone calls, but it's only so long a person can hide behind the convenience of technology.

"They're – we're – hoping you'll join us for dinner sometime soon. Dad and I were hoping to make it somewhat of a tradition now that you're back in the States – to have our kids over at our house for dinner at least once a month."

"I'll see."

My mother nods, forcing a smile around my lie. "It'll be good to see Elizabeth and Andrew again too. Elizabeth hasn't been well recently but I'm glad they could fly in for tonight," she says. "They're hoping we'll visit London soon. They've been asking about you. Especially Elizabeth."

I ignore the hope in her voice. The dread of seeing Nicholas's parents emanates from deep inside my bones. An urgent ache requiring immediate attention. Their grief over the death of their son only amplifies mine. I let your Nicholas die, I told them over and over and over again at the hospital. No amount of reassurance would soothe me. I let your Nicholas die. I let my Nicholas die.

The urge to be alone today to endure the second anniversary of Nicholas's death descends upon me immediately and without notice.

I don't want to attend this dinner and eat expensive food while people laugh through tears about some or other funny or sweet memory of Nicholas. As I have always wanted, but never could have, I want to mourn the great love of my life without an audience. Without dignity. I want to sink to the floor and writhe in the ever-present, suffocating agony, and cry the tears that never end.

Privacy, however, does not exist for people like me. Not because the public is interested in me as such, but because they're interested in him. And Nicholas had been too important to the world to be forgotten.

Even in death I have to share him, and so I gather myself now and try my best to quiet my mind.

My mother steps away, stopping to empty a bottle of water into the potted plant. "Take care of your plant, Hayden," she says gently. "It needs only a little love and care to live."

I nod, not at all caring about the plant. Inhaling my grief, and, keeping it trapped inside my chest, I see my mother out, promising I'll see her shortly at dinner.

My suit suffocates me as much as the thick air inside my car. I take the side exit out of my estate to avoid the paparazzi. It's impossible, so I try several back roads. After I've managed to escape the lenses of a dozen reporters, I find myself driving through an unfamiliar part of lower Manhattan. I suppose never getting out has its drawbacks.

As I check the navigator for the next exit, an art gallery on the left catches my eye. It's the secludedness that draws me to the building. Nicholas called these places little gems. He often visited less desirable places to find beautiful things.

I text my mother. "I'll be late."

It's a complication she'll struggle to deal with. The world will be asking what kept me away from the dinner that honors Nicholas's life, as will our families. She won't have answers for them, and I won't have answers for her, other than the fact that I just want to be alone and away from the glitter of public life that had come with being engaged to Nicholas. I just want to be alone with Nicholas today.

I take the left and pull into a parking space next to a sign that says Gallery 180.

Maybe I'll feel Nicholas a little more today inside an art gallery.