Page 105 of True Blue

Is this what rock bottom is?

Because if it is, rock bottom gives someone a lot of time to think. And think and think and think.

I keep cataloging every moment I could have chosen differently.

Then I start tracing the rot backwards. High school with Lily, saying yes when I should have said no because Mom wanted it. Middle school, while Danielle and Stephanie did chores and I got to fuck off and play. Childhood, skinning my knee and crying while Dad called me a little pansy boy.

And then I think back even earlier, into the years I can't clearly remember, and that's the part that scares me most.

What if this rot is so old it's built into me? What if my family put it there so deep I can't ever carve it out?

I don't like lingering on those thoughts.

I've also had a lot of time to think about love.

Which means I've had a lot of time to think about Indie, because at this point, those words are synonymous in my head.

Indie is love.

But love is not just one feeling, is it? You can't just say I love you, and that's it; everything is perfect. I think of Nana and Pop, the truest love I've ever witnessed. Mutual support and respect, and defending each other even when the other one isn't in earshot. I wanted to emulate that, and I think I did in some areas.

Because I love Indie, and she, for some reason, loved me too. Love is made up of a thousand small things—trust, honesty, vulnerability, laughter, grief, care, choosing each other again and again. All of it wrapped into one word.

But love isn't a noun, it's not an adjective, it's a verb.

It's speaking up when it's scary. It's correcting my mother when she says Indie's name wrong. It's believing Indie when she says someone gave her gluten on purpose to hurt her.

It's defending her when people pick at her height, her quietness, every single thing I happen to adore about her.

I felt love for Indie, but I did not show it. Not the way she showed it to me.

"Do you feel her loss?"

Phoebe's voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

I nod once. "Every second."

"Good," she grinds the cigarette out beneath her shoe, and looks at me with disgust. "Maybe that's a fraction of what she's felt since January."

Then she turns and walks back into the cancer center.

I got what I needed, though.

That has to be enough for now.

It's two days later when Heath and Luke drag me out of bed because, according to them, moping isn't going to do shit for me.

Like a heartbreak cliche, I've been lying in bed, listening to sad music, surrounded by Indie—the photos she threw out, the drawings, the photos on my phone. Sleeping off and on because at least asleep, maybe I'll dream I didn't ruin everything and still have her. Staying awake because I also think I deserve every second of the heartbreak.

It's a vicious cycle. Not healthy. Not productive. Definitely pathetic.

"Dude, you fucking reek," Luke says, grimacing. That's when I realize I genuinely can't remember the last time I showered. "Get up. Shower. Eat something. We're going to the gym."

I want to argue, but I don't. Because my head is pounding from lack of food, and I feel weak. So, I get up and carefully—gently—place the precious drawings and photos of Indie away in my fire safe. My eye catches the ringbox in there, and I almost want to ignore it.

But I can't.

With a shaky hand—God, I really need to get some food in me—I grab the box and open it up.