Chapter Six. Case

I wake early to Pax's silent house. I tap the lamp on the nightstand, and the dim light illuminates a bunch of retro Baywatch posters on the walls. I groan under my breath.

My mouth tastes like death, my head is fuzzy as all get-out, and it's way too early in the morning for this much vintage David Hasselhoff.

I drop my bare feet to the carpeted floor with a groan. A quick glance at the alarm clock tells me its barely 5:30 a.m. Which makes sense. I was probably asleep by 10:00 p.m. The new Case Michaels, everyone: party like a firework—flare hot and fizzle fast.

It's too early to bother Pax, but I don't feel like sitting in this room, staring at the walls until everyone wakes up to nurse their hangovers. And I'm definitely not interested in answering for my actions last night.

There's a chance I might be losing my shit.

My temper surges all over again, only this time, Walker's ghost is nowhere to be seen. I'm sure being sober has something to do with Walker's absence, and I'm doubly sure I don't want to investigate beyond that. Not before sunrise, anyway.

I get dressed, leaving the sleep shorts I borrowed folded on the bed. I can't remember where Pax's laundry room is, and besides, I don't know how to do laundry.

I sneak down the stairs and out the door and find my car parked on the drive but mercifully not blocked in. It unlocks with a muted bleep, and then I let out a hiss at the chill of the leather on my clammy skin. I turn on the heated seats, and everything warms up quickly, including my heated steering wheel. I got this car when I turned sixteen and never much thought twice about it. Yeah, of course it's nice—nicer than what my classmates drove. But I've always had nicer things than my classmates. I never thought it made me better than anyone else. My dad did. But not me. Or did I?

Fucking Christine. It's just a car.

I drive the ten minutes home and pull up the long and winding gravel drive right as someone else is turning off their headlights. It's 6:00 a.m. and someone is already here to open up the stables? I don't think I realized Camilla worked such long days.

But as I get closer and turn off the engine, I realize it's not Camilla. And I notice the other car is… rough. A true junker. Like, even in the dim, shadowy light of dawn, I can see this rusty Ford Taurus is held together with duct tape and prayers.

Of courseit's Winnie Sutton's car. Of course she's coming in to work at the same time I'm stumbling home from a night of drinking and diving naked into a pool full of shrieky girls.

I want to crawl out of my skin as I sink into the earth and also evaporate into the ether.

I hear Walker's chuckle in the back of my mind. Must be some residual Lone Star swirling around in my bloodstream. Nice of him to stick around for this.

I open my door and wave as naturally as possible. I wish I had stopped for coffee or something so at least I could look like I was awake intentionally. Like, "Hey, I was just up checking my stocks and bonds and needed to get my caffeine fix because getting up early on purpose is totally a thing I do." I clear my throat, but it's still gravelly. "Good morning."

Winnie tugs a chunky knit hat over her long dark waves, taking in my wrinkled appearance. "Good morning?" She seems less sure. "Rough night?"

I immediately notice she doesn't even consider I woke up early and I can't help but be pissed at her presumption, correct though it may be.

"Not as rough as I would have liked," I quip back with a leer that feels wrong on my face. Winnie's expression shutters immediately. I should backtrack, but instead, because I'm an idiot, I double down. "Maybe you should try it sometime. Instead of acting like a boring middle-aged mom."

I don't even know what I'm talking about. Winnie Sutton, so tiny in her oversize work coat, with her brilliant, flashing eyes and pink cheeks, is the furthest thing from boring.

"Better to act like an adult who is trying to make something of her life than to act like a petulant child who had something bad happen for the very first time ever in his life and can't cope."

"What do you know about anything? I'm coping fine! And it was more than just bad."

Her eyes soften a fraction before they harden all over again. "You smell like stale beer, look like shit, and are stumbling home at a time when the rest of the world is getting ready for their day. If that's what coping looks like…" She trails off, derision thick in the air between us.

My heart is pounding in my chest and maybe a little in my skull. I step closer to her, near enough to smell coffee and laundry soap and leather and barn, and I work at not pressing closer to get more of it, because I'm spitting mad—

But I also feel fucking alive right now. "So I went out to a party. I was invited to a party because people like having me around. They seek me out. Weird how I didn't see you last night.… Or any night." I somehow keep from mentioning how I didn't know who she was, because, even in my fury, I'm aware that says more about my shortcomings than hers. I cross my arms over my chest; she does the same. "But guess who I did see last night?" I pause for dramatic effect.

She rolls her eyes and drops her hands. "Please, don't tell me. I don't care. I have to get to work."

"Your brother," I cut in. "I met Jesse." An exaggeration, but I'm not about to tell her I gave him my last beer. She freezes in place, and her face drains of color so fast I'm glad I kept the last part to myself.

"Was he okay?"

I shrug, feeling off-balance. Did she really not know where he was? "He was plenty occupied with Chelsea Richardson when I last saw him. Seemed to be doing fine." By the end, I'm no longer throwing it in her face. Instead, I'm throwing her a bone.

Winnie deflates, looking relieved. Then her mouth twists. "I didn't realize he was dating Chelsea. That explains a lot, actually."

Fucking A. "You were worried."

Her eyes dart away, and she tries to come off nonchalant, but it's too late.

"He's fourteen, and he didn't come home at all yesterday or last night. He wasn't in his bed this morning."

"Lucky him," I joke. It doesn't suit me to care about a kid I never met or a girl whose default setting appears to be "let down." "Am I sensing jealousy?"

Winnie narrows her eyes. "Hardly. But if he's not careful, he's gonna get the princess pregnant, and then I'll have more shit to deal with."

I don't think that's all of it, but my headache is getting worse and I don't feel up to matching wits anymore. "Right. That's it, I'm sure. Anyway, shouldn't you be at work?"

She inhales sharply, and I instantly regret my snark, but before I can think of an apology, she spins on her heel and marches toward the barn.

I release a long breath and slam the car door behind me. I reach into my greasy hair, tugging on the ends. Fucking hell, I fucked that up. Again.

Walking up to the house, I grumble a hello to Kerry and continue to my bedroom without sticking around for what would assuredly be another "why Case is a disappointment" speech. Thankfully, I dodge my dad as well. Within moments, I'm dropping my day-old clothes on the floor of my giant bedroom and crawling under my down comforter. I close my eyes, but here, in the silence and the dark, my headache feels worse. I pull my pillow down over my face, but the pressure isn't enough. I exhale deeply, trying to release the tension from my shoulders and neck, and unclench my jaw until my sour breath becomes too much to bear. I should brush my teeth. And take a Motrin or five. Maybe a hot shower would help?

With a muttered cuss, I fling off my covers and stalk to the window, shutting the blinds against the dawning sunrise. That's the first step. My eyes drop to the piece of paper sitting on the top of my desk. Walker's list, looking worse for the wear after these last eventful weeks.

I pick up a rogue, half-sharpened pencil and strike a bold line through Jump into a pool naked (at a party).

I rub a hand down my face, eyes skimming over the rest.

Jump off a corn silo into a pile of hay / snow

Drive backward down a dirt road in the middle of the night going over 60 mph

Eat oysters

Sing karaoke at one of Case's dad's fancy fundraisers(Naturally, I sang "Friends in Low Places" and the crowd went wild. Too easy.)

Learn a language other than English

Road trip somewhere

Walk the Fareway Freight train trestle

Conquer a bull OUTSIDE the arena

Do something illegal

I draw a line through that one, too, figuring underage drinking and also helping a fourteen-year-old underage drink is likely illegal enough to count.

Befriend Winnie Sutton

The paper crumples in my hand before I smooth it out and slump into my desk chair. Well, Case, you've screwed that one up. Walker thought the "horse girl" always hanging around the stables and leading trail rides, the girl who turned out to be Winnie Sutton, was cute but lonely. If it weren't for the fact he was madly in love with Taylor, I would have thought he had a crush on her. But he genuinely seemed intrigued. And frustrated with me for not knowing more. "You live here and see her all the time," he'd say. "Christ's sake, man, she goes to our school. It's embarrassing how out of touch you can be."

He was right, obviously. Even if I barely go to the stables, I could've still gotten to know her. I always thought he was pulling one over on me, saying she needed a friend, but maybe he was right about that, too. After this morning, it seems like he was. And instead of being a friend, I was a total dick and made fun of her for caring about her brother. Literally nothing she said about me was an exaggeration. Even if it stung, where was the lie? I really am a self-absorbed asshole who for the first time in his life is facing something hard (very hard, but still) and can't cope with it.

I've never been the kind of person who cared about having lots of friends. I've only ever cared about having one: Walker. And he was more like a brother. Being popular and having friends are not the same thing—I've lost my one friend, and now I'm alone.

Not for the first time, I consider this list and wonder if Walker maybe made it for me and not him. Maybe this wasn't a "things I want to do before I die" so much as a "things Case should do when he has to live." The last years of my life have been so tied up in the end of Walker's. Days spent trying to pretend everything was normal. Like I wasn't afraid of the way his skin seemed to hang on his lanky frame or the way his lungs would rattle after something as easy as walking up steps. Like I didn't even notice it. Because he needed one person to act normal. But now he's gone, and I don't have to pretend everything is normal anymore.

Except I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to do any of this anymore. Making a friend should be easy, but I've forgotten how.

I put the list in a drawer and slam it shut, heading for the shower. I've changed my mind about getting back into bed. I'm done sleeping.