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His eyes met mine finally.

Completely devastated.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I do.”

The pain in his voice nearly undid me.

“Why?” I asked helplessly, my grip loosening against his arm.

Without thinking, my thumb brushed back and forth against his skin in slow strokes.

The exact same way he used to calm me down when a depressive episode would hit, when the world got too loud and my thoughts became unbearable, when I thought that something in me was permanently broken, that no matter how positive I looked at the world, something was cracked and inherently wrong with me. Theo would trace circles against my wrist until I could breathe again. He reminded me that there was nothing wrong with me, that I was perfect the way I was and sometimes brains did silly things to confuse and trick us. He was the one who I had first opened up to about it. He was the first one who encouraged me to tell my dad, to reach out and ask for help. It didn’t matter how it all ended; nothing in me could walk away from him now, from trying to help.

His eyes dropped to the movement instantly. His entire body stilled, years of tension stretched violently tight between us.

“You wanna know why?” he asked quietly. The tone sent a chill down my spine.

Because suddenly, Theo didn’t look angry anymore, he looked terrified.

“You wanna know why I keep pushing you away?” he continued, stepping closer slowly until I had to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. “Because every time you look at me like this, I forget I’m supposed to stay away from you.”

My breath caught. I knew his demons, I knew the fear of being his father, of ruining everything he touched like his dad. I could visualize his messy scrawl in the letters, admitting this huge fear to me on paper but never out loud.

Theo laughed once under his breath, bitter and broken. “You make me forget every fucking reason I had for leaving in the first place.”

“Then rewrite it. Don’t disappear this time. Fight for what you love,” I forced back.

“Everything and everyone I have ever loved only gets hurt. I hurt them; it’s my fault.” His voice was cracking. The shadows of his father still haunting him were so clear now.

“Theo,” I whispered, tilting his head up with a finger, “you are not him.” I put every ounce of sternness into my voice, hoping it conveyed how important this statement was, that no one saw him as his father.

He shook his head, creases forming on his forehead as he screwed his eyes shut.

“I couldn’t get to you. I failed you. I fail everyone.” His voice was gravel breaking between words, tears leaking out of his eyes as I brushed them away. I had a thousand questions. Why had he not come after the crash? What stopped him? But I knew what. I knew it was his father; something in me always knew. And no matter the heartbreak and bone-deep sadness it caused me and the years without him, I knew without any reasoning that he had tried to get to me. “I’m so sorry Maisey, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Shhh,” I shushed him, pulling him into me. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me to him. I breathed him in, relishing the warmth of him, the feeling of being tangled up in his arms again.

“You were alone. I watched them take you on a stretcher. He locked me in a room. I couldn’t get to you. I couldn’t get t-to y-you.”

“It’s okay,” my voice cracked. “It’s okay, Theo.” We let the silence envelop us like an old friend, the same comfortable silence we shared every night for so long. His breathing slowed and began to match my own. Any anger had long since simmered out. Eventually, he pulled back his hands, pushing the hair from my face, and he brushed a kiss to my temple.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Maisey. That day⁠—”

22

MAISEY | 17 YEARS OLD

DAY OF THE CRASH - 10 YEARS AGO

“Alright kiddo, remember that turn on the last half, hit it strong. Your car is faster on the straight. Steady wins the race.” My father tapped my helmet twice like he did every race. I was neck and neck with Theo in points to win the championship. The energy buzzed around me. Winning the F2 championship again was the dream. It would make hopes of being looked at seriously for Formula One come true. I had cut out so many magazines with pictures of trophies for my vision board this year. I had battled with my mental health more this year than any other and opened up to my parents about it thanks to Theo’s secret encouragement. I carved a new path; I dug myself out and worked for this very moment.

“I’m so fucking ready!” I said, feeling serious.

My father laughed at me. “You owe so much to the swear jar, Maisey girl.”

“You said it doesn’t count on race days!” I shot back.

He smiled. “Don’t tell your mother.”