36. Happiness in Yourself

For a while, Winter thought that Sydney wouldn't get a chance to say farewell at all, that this was the way that Panacea would once again step out of his life. Once he'd flown back to America, he'd been caught up in a media whirlwind, everyone foaming at the mouth for an interview about how he'd been trapped in Singapore during the president's assassination.

In the midst of government upheaval and protests in the streets, in the midst of headlines and his phone ringing off the hook, Winter had waited for word from Sydney.

Nothing.

At night, her figure danced through his dreams. He would lie in bed and reach his hand out, would feel her hand touch his in return, would imagine the warmth of her snuggling close to him, her hair brushing his face. He would dream of her calling on the phone and would try to pick up, only to be met over and over with static on the other end. He would see her on the street and try to say hello, but no matter how loudly he called to her, she wouldn't look back. He would startle awake in bed, heart pounding, her name on the edge of his lips, certain that she must have been here.

But she wasn't. The other side of his bed was always empty and cold.

"He's canceling the book."

Winter frowned at Gavi from across the booth tucked into a private corner of the restaurant. It was a late night, and the streets of Santa Monica outside the window were devoid of the tourists that had flocked along the sidewalk earlier in the day. No one else was around except for the waiters, who seemed to give them a respectable distance.

"Are you sure?" Winter asked in a low voice.

Gavi nodded. She was dressed as simply as he'd ever seen her, in an oversized sweater and baggy jeans, her hair tied up in a messy bun—but even so, she looked glamorous, like she was someone destined to be famous. She dipped a fry in ketchup. "Heard it from my publicist friend. You'll probably get the official letter from your legal team soon."

It was strange—after everything that had happened, after losing Niall and nearly their own lives—to concern himself with something like the tell-all book. But Winter felt a rush of relief nevertheless.

"Did he say why?" he asked.

Gavi smiled and lowered her eyes. "You really don't read the news, do you? I leaked a supposedly candid conversation with a friend of mine," she said. "Complaining about how everything in the book is fabricated and entirely false, and about how I could tell because I've been there for so much of it. It caused a bit of backlash online." She licked the fry, then nibbled its edge. "I guess he didn't want to deal with the mounting questions from his publisher in addition to your lawsuit, so he backed down. It's done."

Winter leaned back in his seat. Between the endless coverage about Rosen, he had tried to avoid the clips of his father at the publisher's office, had tried to avoid the tabloids still printing excerpts from the book.

"Thank you," he said to her. "For doing that."

Gavi was quiet for a moment. "I think it's probably the least I could have done."

It was the closest thing he'd ever gotten to an apology from her. Winter gave her a small smile. "True," he said. "But I still appreciate it."

She laughed a little at that, then fell silent. This, at least, was something they were good at—sitting in comfortable silence, each letting the other dwell in their own thoughts. So they did, picking at their food until they were full.

As Winter paid the check and they gathered their things, Gavi asked, "So, how are things with Ashley? You seeing her or what?"

Winter shook his head and kept his voice calm. "It couldn't have gone anywhere. She's not working for me anymore, anyway. I think everything that happened in Singapore was too overwhelming for her."

Gavi made a sympathetic noise. They rose from their booth, then headed toward the back door. As they stepped out into the cool, wet night, Gavi stopped in the parking lot and turned to look at him.

"Hey," she said, then hesitated.

"Hm?" Winter said.

Gavi rarely looked vulnerable, but she did now, her makeup-free face illuminated under the streetlights. "Look." She paused again, sighed in frustration, then went on. "I'm sorry about how things went. Sometimes I don't know why I do these things or let them spiral out of control. I just…" She trailed off a bit. "Lies are easier for me than the truth. You know? Sometimes I wish I could live in one."

Winter looked at her and felt that old twinge in his heart. They had always understood each other in this way, at least—they hungered for different sorts of attention, but they were hungry all the same, always afraid in one way or another to lose the eye of the world. When she looked up at him, he saw that fear in her eyes, like she might disappear if she didn't play these games with life.

"I know," he said.

She smiled, wistfully this time. "I know you know," she replied.

"Maybe we can just understand each other, then, and leave it at that," he said. "For old time's sake."

She held a hand out to him. "Maybe," she answered.

He took her hand and shook it. "Take care of yourself, Gavi."

"You too, Winter."

Winter looked on as she got into her car. At some other point in his life, he might have felt the yawning absence of her, might have missed the chaos she always brought with her, however painful it might be. He might have felt that trap close around him again, pulling him back into their endless, fruitless relationship.

But his heart pointed in a different direction now. So he watched her go, until she pulled out of the lot and disappeared around the corner. Then he turned his back.

Later that same night, he got a call from his father.

He woke from a fitful sleep to see the ID on his phone. Hesitated.

The number rang for a while, went silent. Then rang again.

Winter sat there and stared at his father's name. He could imagine the entire conversation, knew that it must be about the book, could see in his mind his father's cold eyes, his cruel face. Even so, everything in him—the once-obedient son, the ashamed child, the lonely boy—screamed to pick it up, to answer in spite of everything, because a son was supposed to pick up for his father.

But this time, he didn't. He stayed there, his hand trembling, his jaw set, and let the phone ring. Let it go silent again. As it did, he thought of Sydney and let the memory of her give him strength.

Sometimes you didn't have to let people back into your life, to absorb all the cruelty of the world. Sometimes you didn't have to open your heart. Sometimes it was okay to just let them go.

So Winter gathered his courage, put his phone away, and let his father go.

A month passed. He still hadn't heard from Sydney.

"You haven't been eating," Dameon told him as they lounged in the living room of Winter's home.

November had arrived in earnest, and a steady rain pelted the windows. Winter looked out at the soaking world and shrugged. "I'm okay," he said.

Dameon gave him a skeptical look. He hadn't asked details about what happened with Panacea after their harrowing flight home, but Winter could see the questions imprinted in his friend's eyes.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Well enough." Dameon leaned back on the couch. "I don't know how you deal with all the media these days. I still have nightmares."

"I'm sorry." Winter looked down and ran a hand through his hair. "They've stopped trying to interview you, though. Right?"

"It's quieted down. New phone helped."

"It wasn't supposed to go like this."

"Yeah, I didn't think you expected any of that to happen."

Winter laughed a little, then shook his head as Dameon regarded him with a careful eye.

"How's Sydney?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Winter replied. Dameon might have uncovered some of their secrets, but he wasn't meant to get more, and Winter found himself folding back in again, protecting her as much as he could. "I haven't heard from her since we returned."

Dameon nodded. "So that's why you're not eating."

"I'm eating just fine."

Dameon studied him with a thoughtful expression for a while. Then he leaned forward. "When you first agreed to work with Panacea," he said slowly, "you hadn't met Sydney yet."

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"You risked your life for them. Why would you agree to do something like that?"

Winter turned the question over in his head. It was a very Dameon question, the kind that got under his skin and stayed there, seeking the truth.

"Because they needed me," he decided to say.

Dameon searched his gaze.

"I wanted to be their answer," he explained. "I wanted to do something important, without it being broadcast all over the world. I wanted to do something that no one will ever know about."

Dameon didn't reply to that. Instead, he leaned forward and regarded Winter carefully. "Do you remember," he said, "when we first got together?"

Winter looked at him. They hadn't spoken about their past fling in a long time. "Of course I do," he said.

"Do you remember what you told me one morning, when you couldn't sleep?"

The description was vague, but Winter knew immediately what he meant. He had stayed the night at Dameon's apartment, had woken before dawn and ended up on Dameon's balcony to watch the sunrise.

Something's bothering you,Dameon had said from behind him.

Winter had glanced over his shoulder to see the boy approach, had let him curl an arm around his waist. Something's always bothering me, he'd answered.

Dameon hadn't pushed him on it. They'd stood there together as the sky lightened, until the first sliver of orange peeked out from the horizon.

Aren't you happy, Winter?Dameon had asked him then.

Winter had looked on as the sun emerged line by line.

The day I step away from this life,he'd answered, is the day I'm happy with myself.

Winter let the memory fade, let himself return Dameon's stare now as he sat on the couch.

"Winter," Dameon said. "You can't live your entire life like this."

"Like what?"

"In this half state of joy." He nodded at the window. "I know you love being onstage—it's like life is literally pouring out of you. I know you need your music like air. And I know you cared deeply about what you did with Panacea. But you've spent your entire life thriving on making others happy. You are always giving yourself away."

Winter looked down at his hands. "I don't know what else to want," he muttered.

"I know what you want." Dameon nodded at him. "I've never seen you more alive than when Sydney's beside you."

Winter looked at him. "I seem to recall being very stressed out when I'm near her," he replied.

Dameon laughed once. "Fair." He sobered. "But there is something so bright about you when you're with her. It's like you can't bear to not see her. Your body is always turned toward her. You're always aware of what she's doing and where she is. And when you're separated from her, you seem like a boat without an anchor. You seem lost. And you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because she makes you happy. You, Winter. Nobody else."

"I don't know what to do about it," he said. "She's not someone I can just reach out to."

"Then maybe instead of needing to see her, you need to figure out why it is that she matters so much to you," Dameon said. "Maybe you need to see what it is that she brings out of you, to make you so whole."

She made him whole. It was her, not him. But Winter listened to Dameon nevertheless, trying to accept his friend's words.

"You've got to find happiness in yourself," Dameon replied. "Just you. Or you're going to disappear into the lights."

Winter nodded absently. Happiness in himself. It seemed like an impossible thought, but he hung on to it anyway.

"Maybe someday," he said.

Dameon studied him. Outside, the rain continued.

"Maybe someday," he echoed.

After Dameon left, Winter's house settled back into a lonely silence. He got up, played a little piano, then came back to the couch and stared off into space.

He tried not to think about the fact that he might never see Sydney again.

He was okay with it. He had to be. He would endure this just as he had last time, when he'd walked away from Sydney in London and stepped out of her life for a year. He had no idea how long it would be this time. Maybe another year. Maybe several. The thought of that empty time stretching out in front of him, bleak and mysterious, was more than he could bear.

But he had to bear it if he ever hoped to see her again. And if he didn't, he needed to find a way to live with that.

He could hear the patter of rain against the glass. When he turned to look outside, he saw the trees swaying gently in the wind, their leaves lashing occasionally against the windowpanes. He wondered what Sydney was doing right now, whether she was also in her own home in her own city, staring out at the world. He wondered if she was thinking about him.

He wished he'd had the chance to say a proper goodbye. His last memory was still of her landing at the airport, of her lingering eyes before she was forced to get into her own black car. As if there had been a question on her tongue.

At last, he forced himself out of his stupor and stood up, then walked over to the window with his hands in his pockets. He knew he should get some rest, prepare for his usual marathon of dance practice and meetings the next day. Still, he found himself lingering here, waiting for the rain to change.

It was the faint sound of a knock against his front door that made him tilt his head. He glanced in the direction of the sound, his mind stirring from its trance. Had Dameon forgotten something? No one else had his gated community's entry information.

The knock came again, clearer this time. Winter sighed and walked toward his entryway. As he approached, a premonition tingled in the back of his mind, as if he were drawing closer to something that he knew would happen.

He stood in front of the door for a moment, wondering, before he peeked through the hole.

And saw Sydney standing outside, waiting.