Chapter 81

Spring has truly sprung.

The field around my house has turned a vibrant green, bringing with it pops of colors from the wildflowers that seemed to have bloomed overnight. Or maybe I just hadn't noticed them before.

The grass is up to my shins now, the flowers even higher, and I almost feel bad for riding over them with my bike the way I am.

Last night, after the rink, my friends came back to my house, and we sat on the floor of the kitchen in our overly obnoxious gowns and ate day-old pizza and ice cream straight out of the boxes. We were a mess—an exhausted, beautiful mess.

Then someone knocked on the door, and I picked myself up off the floor to answer it. Jonah stood on the other side, his hands in his pockets. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. "Sammy," I called out, and she appeared from the kitchen, pizza sauce on her cheek and ice cream on her lips, but Jonah didn't care. He stepped up to her, kissed her as if she held the oxygen his lungs needed to survive.

They spent the night in my dad's bed.

I'll be sure to change the sheets.

I said goodbye to all three of them about a half hour ago, and the second I stepped out of the house, I felt a shift in the air, as if I'd just taken my first full breath since…

… since Jace.

The sun beamed down on me, warming my flesh, and it seemed to melt the hardened parts of my soul. I went back in the house, changed into a swimsuit and a dress to match the wildflowers around me, and got on my bike.

I've lived here a while now, but I've never actually stepped foot in the creek before. I'm determined to do it today.

I ride through the field, the wind blowing through my loose hair, while my brother's ring glints from the sun shining above.

It's a good day for a good day.

I find the opening in the woods easily and race through the path, between the trees, and over the large roots that try and fail to stop me.

Then I brake.

Hard.

The bike tips forward, and I stop myself from flying over it. Instead, I swerve, losing control of it, and next thing I know I'm on my side, on the dirt ground, the bike on top of me, and I'm laughing.

"Jesus, Harlow," Jace huffs, rushing toward me. He picks up the bike as if it weighs nothing and throws it aside, glaring at it as if it did him dirty. "Are you hurt? Why are you laughing?"

I quiet my laughter and sit up, brushing the dirt off me. "Remember that time—on the first day of school—when I was riding on the driveway and you honked your horn?"

His lips tick at the memory. "You fell into the ditch."

"I was expecting you to offer me a ride, you know?"

"I didn't know that at the time, but I do now."

He doesn't offer his hand to help me up, and so I get up on my own and make my way to my bike. "I'm sorry," I tell him, standing the bike upright and grasping the handlebars. "I didn't know you'd be here. I'll go."

"You don't have to," he's quick to say, and I face him. He's standing by the front of his van, his hands loose at his sides, and he's looking at me, but not in the eyes, and I slowly release the handlebars, letting the bike fall to the ground again.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He motions toward the creek. "I'm just doing some upgrades."

"Upgrades?" I follow him to the creek edge, and smile when I see what he's done to the space. The log we used to sit on is still there, but there are others added now and even more string lights hanging above. "This is nice."

"Yeah?" he asks, moving toward a tree where he'd clearly been hanging some lights. "I was thinking about inviting a few of the guys from the team over."

I smile full force, grateful he's too busy hammering a nail into the tree trunk to notice. "Look at you, all social."

He chuckles, and it's strange and beautiful all at once. Kind of like Jace, in general. "I figured I should do something with them, considering they've helped me out the past four years. Some of them are so bad they made me look exceptional."

I laugh under my breath, because he doesn't say it to be cruel or cocky. He says it because it's true. He turns to me now, his eyes lighter beneath the sun's rays making their way through the leaves above. "You can sit," he says. "If you want to…"

"Okay." I sit on the log, my usual spot, while he continues with the lights. I'm silent as I watch him, lost in my thoughts. There's a lot I've wanted to tell him in the weeks we've been apart. A lot that I should tell him. But it's hard to bring up the past. Hard to dig up that pain again. I clear my throat, and he stops hammering a moment, then starts again. "So, um… I've been seeing a therapist."

He stops now, his hands lowering at his sides as he turns to me slowly. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." My gaze drops, as if on its own, because I can't look at him when I say what I say next. "I just now got comfortable enough to tell her about what happened—with my mom, I mean. Anyway… I was going through the timeline of events with her, and uh, she mentioned that maybe… maybe you might think that you're responsible for what you saw in my bathroom that time… with the… the, um…" I trail off, unable to speak through the knot in my throat. Silence fills the space around us, and he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. I collect what courage I have and finally lift my gaze. He hasn't moved. But his chest rises and falls now, his breaths harsh against the stillness. His eyes are on mine, but his stare is hollow, empty, void of emotion. I'm almost too afraid to ask. "Do you think that?"

He blinks once, switching his gaze from hollow to sadness, and my heart aches at the sight of it and the way he nods. Just once.

"Jace…" I wish I could hug him, but that wouldn't change the past. Only the truth will. "I started… self-harming a few years ago. It had nothing to do with you."

"But that time it did, right?" He moves around the log opposite and sits down, his elbows on his knees. "Because I gave you the money for the car, and then the next day you were… doing that, and the day after, you broke up with me."

"No." God, I hate myself for not realizing he might feel this way, for not saying something earlier, because he looks so broken as he speaks. So destroyed by the thought. "I started doing it the day after what happened with my mom. You… you weren't the cause of that. I promise."

"Then how did I not notice it before then? You would have scars, right? If you started earlier…"

"I do have scars," I admit. "But you can't really feel them unless you know that they're there, and, um… I always made sure we were mainly in the dark, so you couldn't see. I'm not exactly proud of them."

He remains still as he takes in my words, and eventually he nods, looks away. "You do it because it replaces your emotional pain with a physical one."

It's not a question, so I don't agree or disagree. Instead, I ask, "Let me guess, you researched it?"

Another nod, and his eyes are on mine again. "I do it too. Not the cutting, but with basketball. Before you moved in, I'd play on the half-court, sometimes for five, six hours at a time, or however long it took until I couldn't feel the pain anymore."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, because I am. And because I understand that need to feel nothing. That's why drugs and alcohol had been my only friends… until I moved here.

"Where have you been, Harlow?" he asks now, his words quiet.

"Dallas."

"To see Christian?"

I almost laugh at the thought. "No. I went to Levi's—my brother's best friend. I just needed to be somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe. After…"

His throat moves with his swallow, and he rubs the tension from his neck. "Are you guys together now?"

"No," I answer quickly. "Are you and Reyna?"

His eyes shift to mine, eyebrows raised in question.

"I saw you and her in your bedroom… from my window…" Unease crawls up my spine, making me shift in my spot. "I saw you kiss her."

"Sorry," he murmurs, and he can't look at me anymore.

"Don't apologize," I assure. "We weren't together, and… I don't know." I heave out a sigh. "I don't really know what's been going on in your life, so maybe you needed something familiar and safe too."

"I did," he says, and that's all the answer I need.

Even though my mind knows he did nothing wrong, my heart doesn't understand that. The twisting in my gut, the pain in my chest, almost blinds me. Heat burns behind my nose, causing tears to well in my eyes, and Jace repeats, "I'm sorry, Harlow."

"It's okay." I try to smile, but it doesn't show, and it shouldn't hurt this much, but it does.

"I was going through a lot," Jace says, and I see him shift, almost as if he wants to walk over to me. Hold me. He doesn't. And I'm grateful he doesn't because I don't know how I'd handle it. "My grandpa's sick," he explains. "In the head. The night before my last game, he, uh… he took things too far, even for me."

I wipe at my eyes now, pushing aside my pain so I can listen to his.

He's talking to the trees when he adds, "He pushed me into this glass cabinet and got me to the ground. Used one of the shards to hold to my throat…"

"Jace…"

"He kept threatening to kill me, and I swear, I thought he actually would. I had to defend myself, push him off me, but then I noticed that he'd cut his hand open with the glass, and I… I called Jonah, asked him to get his mom. Connie—she's a nurse. She took us to this clinic in Fremont, and the clinic called the cops, and he was arrested."

I realize I'm not breathing as he tells me all this, and so I force air into my lungs, creating an audible gasp that has his eyes moving to mine again.

"He had to sit in jail for a few days, and by the time the judge saw him, he was as close to sober as he had been for years, but… he didn't know where he was or what he was doing there. He didn't know where he lived. What year it was. Who the current president is. Nothing. The only thing he knew was me. He kept asking for me. His grandson… And the judge—she called me afterward, and she told me that her dad… he, um… he had dementia, and she could see the signs in the few minutes she spent with my grandpa."

"Jace, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he shrugs, his eyes glossy with tears. "I always knew that there was something wrong with him, especially in the past few years. He hadn't always been like this. And I'm sure the alcohol didn't do him any favors, but the man was literally losing his mind, day after day, and he didn't understand why, and everyone I took him to see couldn't look past the drunk old man standing in front of them."

"Is that why I haven't seen him around lately? He's in jail?"

Jace shakes his head. "The judge gave him court-mandated rehab. He's in a facility in Odessa right now, and they've done initial tests for dementia, but they want him to stay a little longer—get one side of him better before they do more."

"But you already know the outcome, don't you? Because you know him better than anyone."

Jace nods. "He's sick, Harlow. There were nights when, even though he was so drunk he couldn't stand, he would still call me by my name. He'd ask about school and basketball and making captain… he'd tell me he loved me… but then… then he'd hurt me. But every time he did it, he didn't see me. He saw my dad. And if you were in his shoes…"

"I can't even imagine," I tell him honestly. I hold back a sob, adding, "I hope you know that I'll always have love in my heart for you, Jace, and if you ever need someone to talk to, or…" Silence stretches between us, and I almost take back my words. But I can't, because I meant every one of them.

"I've been hanging out at Jonah's a lot lately," he tells me. "Connie likes to have me over for dinner at least twice a week."

I can't help but smile. "I'm glad you have them."

"Yeah, me too," he says, his gaze dropping. "Anyway. Connie—I guess she must've noticed some signs since she's around me more, and the other day, she pulled me aside and asked if I'd ever been tested."

My eyebrows shoot up. "For, like, an STI?"

He lifts his gaze, shaking his head. "For autism, I guess."

"Oh." Oh, God. It makes so much sense, and I don't know why I didn't pick up on it earlier. All his idiosyncrasies… all these little nuances that make him who he is… the parts of him I had to learn to accept, then later embraced with every part of me.

"So, I researched it… and it kind of explains some things, like…" he trails off.

"Like?"

"Like how I didn't quite understand why giving you that money was wrong. I guess I owe you an apology."

"Jace…" I tilt my head back as I watch him get to his feet.

"Anyway, I should go," he says, and I ignore the immediate pain in my chest. "I told my grandpa I'd visit him today. He probably doesn't remember, but still…" He makes his way to his van, saying over his shoulder, "He's teaching me to play chess."

My eyes narrow. "You know how to play chess."

He turns, starts walking backward. "Yeah, but he doesn't know that." And then he smiles, so childlike and free of the pain he's suffered.

I smile back… and replace my heartbreak with his happiness.