Chapter 6

I came across this video once, of a woman in Brazil who'd just survived a horrendous car crash. She was the passenger and, according to witnesses, the car she was in was traveling at insanely high speeds and collided with a concrete pillar, ripping the vehicle in literal half.

In the video, you can see the driver's side of the car completely gone, leaving the woman, still in the passenger's seat, visible to bystanders. That's not even the craziest part of the story. The woman, who had gone into extreme shock, sat for a moment, then reached into her handbag, took out a mirror, and proceeded to calmly apply her makeup.

Now, I'm not comparing my life to a car crash, but also?—

Maybe I am.

And it has nothing to do with the crash itself, but it's about the woman who survived the tragedy.

Only I'm not that woman.

My dad is.

And over the weekend, I watched him slowly wake up from the shock of the past five months and face a version of reality he'd been too distressed to notice before. Swear, there's nothing more heartbreaking than watching the first man you ever loved, the man you look up to, the man you saw as a superhero, fall completely apart, because it suddenly dawned on him that no matter how much he loved the people most important to him, how hard he worked to give those people everything they wanted, he couldn't save them.

In the space of five months, my dad had lost his son, his wife, his house, his friends, and the life he'd envisioned for his future. The only thing he had left was his daughter—his seventeen-year-old weed-addicted daughter, who was caught screwing her dead brother's basketball coach.

On his couch.

By his wife.

What a fucking consolation prize I am.

And to top it all off, the reason we left Dallas in the first place (the shame of my promiscuity, as my mother calls it) has followed us five hours away. I always knew that it would. Just like I knew that packing all our shit and creating a "new beginning" somewhere wouldn't solve all our problems. I just wish…

Sigh.

I wish it wasn't Jace Rivera who ripped the blindfold from my father's eyes and forced him to face the cold, hard truth. And I wish, more than anything, that I didn't care what Jace Rivera knew about me or what he thought of me or what?—

"I don't get it," Sammy muses, and I slowly trail my gaze to her.

"Get what?" I ask.

"The appeal of Jace Rivera." She pushes her lunch tray to the side and peers over her shoulder. "You've been staring at him for a solid five minutes, and I just don't get it."

"There's nothing to get," I mumble, looking past her and back to Jace. He's in his usual black on black, sitting at the end of one of the cafeteria tables, focused on his Nintendo Switch or whatever gaming thingy he has. He's leaning back in his chair, his legs kicked up on the tabletop, ankles crossed, too cool for school. A strand of dark hair falls forward, over his brow, and he flicks his head back, chewing his lip as his thumbs mash at the controller. "He's nice to look at, that's all."

"He's so weird," Sammy says, and my instant response is to glare at her.

She giggles, but I don't know why it's funny. I also don't know why I have such a visceral reaction to what she said. Why I feel the need to protect him the way he's protected me. "Why is he weird?" I ask.

"Look at him," Sammy says, but I already am. "He's a grown-ass man so obsessed with childish video games that he hasn't looked up once. And you know how I know? Because if he did, he would've caught you staring at him, and he hasn't. He has no girlfriend, no real friends… The guy's your textbook definition of a loner, and yet, somehow, he's the most popular guy in the school." She raises her hand between us, as if I was about to speak. I wasn't. "And I get it. It's because of basketball," she adds, rolling her eyes. "And speaking of basketball, how the fuck did he get to where he is? Because it's not like he spends his free time practicing." That she knows of. "He doesn't even like his teammates, let alone do any form of team bonding, and did I mention the college scouts, Harlow? Because they exist, and they circle him like sharks out in the ocean. There are Division I universities willing to give their left nutsack to have Dopey McDreary Depression Boy play on their team. And you know why it's weird? Because he doesn't even try. He's going to end up in the NBfrickenA, and he couldn't give fewer shits about it."

I wait a beat, making sure she's done babbling before saying, "Just because he's good at something doesn't mean it has to be his entire life."

"Valid point," she's quick to say. "I hear your argument, and this is my counter…"

I can't help but smile.

She leans forward, hands moving to emphasize each syllable. "He li-ter-al-ly has nothing else going on."

"He has his…" Jeannie mumbles, and she'd been so quiet this entire time, I'd forgotten she even existed.

"Has his what?" Sammy urges.

Jeannie clears her throat, leaning forward. "He has his Twitch thing…"

"He has a twitch?" Sammy almost yells, looking over her shoulder at him.

"No!" Jeannie shakes her head. "He has a Twitch account. He live streams when he plays video games."

"Oh, how could I forget his geekfest live stream?" Sammy says, rolling her eyes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I heard…" she trails off, looking around the cafeteria, before leaning forward on her elbows, as if she's about to reveal a secret. "I heard he has a mattress in the back of his van, and he just plows girls in there, one after the other."

I ignore the way my stomach turns at the thought.

"I mean, it makes sense, you know…" Sammy continues, "…with his stamina and all."

Shaking my head, I rear back an inch and sigh. "You're such a little gossip," I tease, and she smiles with her eyes, proud of herself. Speaking of gossip… I drop my gaze to the table and swallow my nerves. "Hey, have you, um…" I pause a moment and take a breath, building the confidence to ask, "Have you heard any gossip or rumors about… about me?"

"We've heard some," Sammy admits. "We're really sorry about your brother, Harlow."

I nod, slowly, and ask, "Anything else?"

Sammy and Jeannie share a look, and that single look is all the answer I need.

"Jeannie and I talked," Sammy says, "and since you're our new best friend, we made a promise not to repeat a single word to a single soul."

A knot forms in my throat while heat burns behind my nose, and I don't know what this sudden emotion is or where it came from, but… I don't think I want it to leave. "Thanks," I choke out, unable to look at them.

Sammy squeezes my hand resting on the table. "We got you, babe."

"Thanks," I repeat, lifting my eyes and looking between them. "I really appreciate it."

They both nod, smile, then Jeannie says something so quiet, I can't make it out.

"What?" Sammy asks, moving her ear closer to her cousin. "Speak up!"

Jeannie clears her throat, then says, "I said I watch his live streams—Jace's."

"We're back to this?" Sammy groans.

Jeannie ignores her, saying, "Sometimes he plays shirtless."

I raise my eyebrows.

"And sometimes…" she continues in her usual mousy little voice. "Sometimes when I watch him, I fuck myself until I come all over my fingers."