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Sure, everyone knows he comes to see me—to check on me—just like Waylon sometimes does. Just like Gavin and Linda and even Reggie, when Mom’s working and someone has to keep an eye on Phoebe…
And on me.
Apparently I’m no longer trusted to take care of my sister on my own.
“When’s the last time you even saw Waylon?” Gavin asks.
Frowning, I look down, and try to recall. Last week…or was that last month?
Fuck, I can’t remember.
“You’re not the only one grieving here. He’s?—”
Tension steels my spine, and I explode, “I’m not fucking grieving!” The words wrench out of me ragged and angry. “She’s not dead. Don’t say it like she is. Grief is for the dead, and she’s not dead.”
A beat passes, then, “Mason, it’s been a ye?—”
“You think I don’t know that?”
A year.
A year to the day today.
My throat squeezes, burning hot at the reminder. My vision blurs, and I roll my head to face the window, squeezing them so tight, it makes pain rocket down my arm. My hand’s throbbing like a bitch and I relish it.
I sought out that nasty comment in the forum.
I was looking for someone to get pissed off at, someone local, someone I could actually retaliate against.
I can admit that much.
Who can fucking blame me?
It’s been a whole goddamn year since Izzy was taken from us. I know what that means. I know what everyone’s thinking—what everyone wants to say, but won’t.
Well, that was until this very moment, when Gavin just had to go blow it all to shit.
But I refuse to even give it a second of my consideration. I refuse to even hear the words. Not when I still have Jeremy’s assurances to rely on. Not when in my bones, in my gut, in my fucking veins…I know she’s fucking out there somewhere.
As far as I’m concerned, without concrete proof that she’s gone for good, there’s still a fifty-fifty chance she’s still alive, and those aren’t numbers I’m willing to gamble on by giving up.
The thought of her out there, lonely, scared…hurt…
Thinking we all moved on—gave up on her…
It’s enough to make me want to punch my broken hand through the passenger window.
I can’t give up on her. I won’t. Not ever. Not until I have no choice. Not until I see her lifeless body with my own two eyes, and there’s no room left for doubt or denial.
“They’re still looking,” I say slowly, raggedly. “The FBI hasn’t given up yet, so why the fuck should I?”
Silence follows my words, and carries all the way to the Urgent Care.
It’s not until we park, and he kills the engine, that he says, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Jaw working, all I manage is a nod. I unbuckle my seatbelt, wincing as I maneuver it around my injured arm.
“But it doesn’t mean you can go on like this,” he says.
