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When she gets to six, I collapse to the floor with a curse. My laptop wobbles on the coffee table but it doesn’t fall over.

“What is even the point of this?” I mutter into the carpet before wiping my face with the hem of my shirt. “It's not like I'm training to run a marathon.”

“No, but you survived a traumatic brain injury and you’re walking again. That counts for something.”

Yeah, sure. Something.

I’ve been sleeping on Tay and Christian’s couch for two weeks now, ever since the hospital discharged me and I found out my apartment had been leased to someone else. Apparently, landlords don’t wait around when the rent’s overdue and the tenant's in a coma. At least they were nice enough to put all my shit in storage.

No job, no home, and still no clue where the hell my wife is.

Plus, I'm pretty sure she stole my fish.

“I'm really proud of you, Logan,” the physical therapist says gently, flashing me a smile. “You're getting stronger every day. Just keep up with the exercises, and you'll regain your normal strength soon. Same time next week?”

“Sure, can't wait,” I answer flatly, already dreading it. Stronger doesn't mean better. I can barely walk from the front door to my car without getting winded, taking a shower is pure hell, and this apartment is too damn small for three grown men.

She signs off, and I’m left with the sound of Backslide by Twenty One Pilots thumping from Christian’s room while Taylor clatters around in the kitchen. I press the back of my hand to my forehead, chest heaving as I catch my breath.

I’m out of the hospital. I’m alive. I should be grateful, and I am, but Devon's parting words from weeks ago haunt my dreams at night.

“You’re running after the person who only loved that fake version of you.”

No one's heard from him, either. I don't think anyone's tried. Part of me knows he was hurt and lashing out, but there's a darker side that believes what he said is true. Did Salem and I only work because I was hiding? Would who I really am—who I'm becoming—even fit in with the kind of life she wants? I'm not sure, but I'm willing to try if she'll let me. If she'd just reach out and contact one of us.

“Motherfucker,” Taylor shouts, catching my attention. Smoke billows from the oven, and he drops a tray of blackened curly fries to the counter. Meeting my curious gaze, he pushes inked fingers through his hair with an irritated shrug. “I don't fucking know, man, I followed the instructions on the bag. This oven's older than Huck's grandma.”

I'm not the only one struggling with Salem’s absence. He and Christian are both a mess, though I think Christian's surly attitude has more to do with the fact that Arya dumped him. He wouldn't say why, but I’m willing to bet that Dev has something to do with it.

Heaving a sigh, I stand on shaky legs and walk to the island where my phone sits. “Delivery again? I can order something.”

Not that I have much money, but a cheap pizza might fix this endless ache inside of me.

“Nah, let's go shopping,” he grumbles, patting his pockets for his keys. “I'm feeling cooped up.”

The last thing I want to do is walk around a grocery store where I'll either have to use the cart for balance or drive one of those motorized ones, but I don't argue. Maybe some fresh air would do us both some good. Taylor doesn’t wait for an answer, anyway, already halfway to the door with that stormy expression he’s been wearing ever since Salem vanished.

Slowly shrugging on a hoodie, I follow him out to his truck. Every step feels like I’m dragging a corpse behind me, and I guess maybe I am: the old version of myself. The one who didn't need to stop for air after climbing into a passenger seat, who used to think that love could fix me if I just tried hard enough. The one who had a future mapped out in a neat little "heteronormative box," as Huckslee eloquently put it.

Yeah, that guy's dead and buried.

Tay and I ride in silence. Empty streets blur past the window, dusky light casting long shadows across everything, and I wonder if Salem’s somewhere under this same sky. If she’s looking up, if she misses me. Or, who I used to be, anyway. Maybe she’s already moved on and doesn’t miss me at all. That thought makes my stomach ache.

“Do you think she’ll ever come back?” I ask, probably for the fuckteenth time.

There's no answer right away, and when I look over at Tay, he's squinting out the windshield with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

“I think… if she wanted to, she would’ve by now,” he says after a moment. “But I also think she’s scared shitless. We've never lost anyone before, not like this. Not someone we cared to miss. I know you both had your shit, but she cares about you, Logan. A lot. I can't even imagine what that would feel like. When I almost lost Huck…”

He trails off, swallowing hard, and I pat his shoulder to let him know he doesn't need to continue. I remember the days after Huck's suicide attempt, how fucking useless I felt. It’s some weird sense of survivors' guilt or something. I'm not even sure if that's what you'd call it, but I hated myself for not realizing that he needed help. Taylor felt much of the same, if not more. They video chat every day, but I know that being apart during the season must be hard.

“Anyway,” he mutters as we pull into the grocery store parking lot. “I have to tell you something.”

I let out an exasperated groan. “What now?”

Throwing the truck into park, Taylor leans back in his seat with an anxious swallow. “Huck has one more year left on his contract, and when it ends, he’s not signing on again.”

“Yeah, I know. He told me. So?”