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I have no doubt that one day he will be able to move on. It just won’t be, and can’t ever be, with me.
Moments on top of moments flash through my head. All the pain and grief we’ve suffered these last five years. Anguish that has chiseled a home in each of our chests—a black desert place that will never flourish or be filled again. A stain on our souls we’ll never be rid of, even if it gets a little easier with time to ignore.
Moments where I had to watch this boy I love mourn the loss of someone I know—deep down—he’d trade me for in a heartbeat if given the chance.
And I can’t even fucking blame him.
I can’t blame any of them.
Because it’s true, it’s true, andGod,do I wish I had the power to go back and switch places with her.
It would’ve been so much easier for everyone if it had been me…
But it wasn’t.
And this is all we are left with.
The ashes of our grief.
8
MASON WYATT
I wakeup shivering to the sounds of birds chirping.
Morning dew clings heavily to the air, making my chilly skin feel sticky all over.
Rolling over, I stretch my arm out and still when I register the scratchy material of the lounge seat, reminding me where I am.
Jeremy.
My eyes pop open, and I feel something stutter in my chest when I find the spot next to me empty. It’s quickly followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach, when I remember the promise I forced out of him last night.
Slowly pushing up on my elbow, I glance down through slitted eyes, frowning when I see that a thin navy blue blanket covers my lower half.
Did he do that?
Looking around, I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the early dawn light. Half the sky is still purple, while the other bright and glaring.
I yawn and sit up, cracking my stiff back with a wince.
Gathering the blanket, I push off from the lounger, and pad barefoot back toward the house.
I quietly slide the doors open, peeking around, half expecting to find someone up, waiting for me. Like I’m a teenager all over again, creeping back into my parent’s house after having snuck out to go see Izzy, or hang out with Waylon, or go to a party.
A pipe creaks from somewhere above, telling me a shower’s going. But otherwise it’s silent.
The clock on the stove reads 6:46.
Waylon, probably.
Clamping down on my chattering teeth, I poke my head in the other room. Something like relief eases my chest when I spot Shawn almost exactly as I left him late last night, sprawled out on his back, an arm thrown across his face, and a heavy gray blanket bunched up around his waist.
Unlike me, he’s wearing a shirt.
He rarely goes without one, but particular when he’s sleeping. It could be 100 degrees out, and he’d still be dressed head to toe.
Back when he first moved in with Mom, Phoebe, and me, he couldn’t even sleep without the door being locked. So the fact he’s passed out on a couch in a house he’s never been before says a lot about how far he’s come, even if some things remain the same.
