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“She didn’t understand that I couldn’t just decide to stay in Boston after college. I would have gone anywhere a company wanted me,” I continue. And that was the problem. One of too many.

“Couldn’t she have come with you?”

“No. She wanted to stay here, close to her parents. Our dreams were incompatible, and it was up to me to give up mine. But I wasn’t ready to do that. That’s why we argued that day.” The words come out harshly and quickly, like pulling off a Band-Aid. “We were fighting, and she wanted to run away because that’s what she always did. Normally I was fine with that, but that day I couldn’t let her go. I held her back, and she broke free and stumbled. Into the street. In front of a car.”

A familiar pressure builds in my eyes. Images flood my head. Blood and more blood. Blue eyes wide with panic. Suddenly it’s all back, even though I’ve done such a good job of suppressing the memories over the last few years. Not entirely, but enough.

Now it’s all flooding back: Loud voices. Horrified screams. The sound of screeching tires. Raindrops on my skin, on the street, everywhere, mixing with the blood.

My stomach cramps, and I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. I sit up quickly and swing my legs out of bed. Lia slips off my chest with a gasp, but I hardly notice. My vision is blurred, and I feel dizzy. My fingers claw at the edge of the bed, but I can’t manage to stand up; my legs won’t do what I tell them.

More memories, and everything hurts. My hands on her face, her fingers on my wrist. So little strength and so much blood.

I gasp for air; I can’t breathe. Why does it still hurt so much? Why does it hurt so much again?

It shouldn’t still be like this, not after so long. Maybe that’s how it works when you’ve never really dealt with it. When you suppressed what happened because there’s more.

More responsibility. More guilt. More pain.

More of everything.

Silver spots are dancing in my vision, and my chest is tight. The world blurs, and I. Can’t. Breathe.

And then Lia’s slender hand is on my chest, directly over my wildly pounding heart. She pulls me close, and I think she leans against me, but I’m not sure because everything is spinning.

But I can feel her lips on my skin, right on the pulse in my neck. She’s talking to me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I just feel her lips moving gently and quickly.

And then at some point, the words she’s whispering against my skin finally sink in. “It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m with you. It’s okay.”

Again and again. Always the same words, until the tightness in my chest slowly loosens and my eyes stop burning. Until I can breathe again.

Lia pulls me back onto the mattress, gently but firmly. She pushes me onto my back and nestles silently against me.

Silence takes over as my muscles slowly relax. My voice is hoarse when I’m able to speak again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out . . . I didn’t think it would be this hard.” I don’t need to say more; she understands that it’s hard to talk about. Even after so many years.

“Please don’t apologize. Not to me.” It comes out as a barely audible whisper.

“You know what it’s like,” I say. Totally ambiguous, but she understands me anyway.

“Yes,” she says simply. She hesitates, her chest heaving. I think she’ll leave it at that, but then she continues. “My brother died. One of my brothers, I mean. I had two. But it was . . . Sam. Six years ago his heart just stopped beating. There was nothing anyone could do, no way to save him. It just stopped. It’s not the same, I know, but—” She pauses and swallows, and then goes on, her eyes gleaming with tears. “I think I can understand how you feel.”

“Yes, I think so too.” My lips brush her temple, soft skin, fine hair. Her eyelids flutter, and she takes a breath. I’m afraid she’s trying to control herself, trying not to cry. “Talk to me, it’s okay,” I whisper softly. But she shakes her head.

“No, it’s not. This is about you, not me.”

“It doesn’t matter. You can talk to me. Please talk to me, Ophelia.”

She hesitates and then gives in. “Sam was . . . our family glue. The one who made sure we all stuck together. He was Dad’s favorite and Mom’s too, and that was okay because he was everyone’s favorite. Sam was our bridge, even though Jase and I are much more alike—or maybe because of that. And after he was gone . . . nothing was the same anymore. Nothing. I tried to hold us all together, but it didn’t work, and that’s why nothing is the way it should be.”

She shudders, but she doesn’t make a sound. I can still feel her tears, and I instinctively pull her closer to me, wondering if she’s ever talked to anyone about her brother. I’m almost afraid she hasn’t. Just like I’ve never talked about Isabel. Because talking means remembering, and there are no good memories left. There’s only the end. Silence spreads between us. It’s not uncomfortable or strange, just very heavy.

“Thank you for telling me about Isabel,” she says after a while.

I nod. A secret for a secret.

“Thank you for telling me about Sam.”