Chapter 27

AGE 17, AUGUST

I should've known better…

My vision blurs.

Ears ring.

I crumple the rejection letter into a ball, and shoot off the bed, chucking the culmination of my crushed dreams at the trash can next to my desk.

It coasts the rim…

And falls to the floor.

Can't even manage that, a familiar insidious voice whispers.

My jaw ticks. Fists clench at my sides. "Pieces" by Sum 41 is blasting from the stereo on my dresser, but I barely hear it.

"Fuck this."

Next thing I know, I'm storming across my room and into the adjoining bathroom that connects Izzy's room and mine, kicking the door shut behind me, muffling the music.

I don't bother locking it. Or the one to Izzy's room that is already closed. Not like anyone's home anyway.

It's Saturday night, and Izzy and Mason are doing some kind of talent exhibition at the Arts Center for local high school students. I opted to drive myself and meet everyone there closer to when it starts. Last I checked, I still had another hour, give or take.

My heart pumps heavily, surging to my ears, drowning out every other sound now but a whooshing thud-thud thud-thud.

My reflection in the mirror over the sink is a black and golden blond blur. Dropping down on my knees, I pull out the bottom drawer, and rustle through all the shit that's collected in here over the years, until I finally find my stash, tucked away in an empty Altoids container.

Popping it open, my nostrils flare with the scent of cinnamon still clinging to the tin—my mouth watering. Just under it, a barely-there whiff of weed.

I pluck out one of the joints I rolled the other night, and slip it between my lips. I'm about to slam the small tin box shut, and take my ass outside to smoke it when my fingers pause, my gaze catching, lingering on the razor blade glinting back at me from underneath the two remaining joints.

"Don't do it," I mutter, and even to my own ears, it sounds like a dare. A taunt.

Bitterness runs through my veins, flaring my nose.

I purse my lips around the joint.

It's been months since I cut. I don't do it often, not like I used to, back when I was still in school and my anxiety and anger and self-hatred was at an all-time high.

When I was a kid, and this first started, I didn't know any better. Not really. Not to the full degree.

But I do now, even if I have a hard time understanding why it's so taboo. Which is what makes reasoning with myself in moments like this so hard. And why I can't seem to just throw it out, whether weeks or months go by in between.

What can I say? I've grown attached.

Some people set fire to their insides. I prefer to see mine in a thin stream of blood, drawn by my own hand.

It's a secret, like my art. Like the name carved into my heart. It's mine.

And it's not like I'm doing any real damage. It's about the release—the power of the moment. And it's about the healing—the relief that comes with hitting the metaphorical reset button the second I lift the blade from my arm. The pain and the itch as it scabs over. The pride that comes when it fades into a pale white scar.

And that's if it even scars at all. Most don't.

But I prefer it when they do, even if it means risking someone finding out. Scarring shows I won, even if my victory remains only between me and that voice in my head—the one that's done far, far worse to my insides over the years.

If they could see into my brain, feel what I feel, I think they'd understand…

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I pinch the unlit joint from between my lips, and tuck it behind my ear, pushing my hair back too in the process.

Plopping back on my ass, I set the tin box down next to me, plant my sock-clad feet on the tile, legs bent loosely in front of me. I use my teeth to pull up my sleeve, revealing my slim pale wrist. I used to wear chunky bracelets or armbands, but it's been so long since I needed to. Only if you look close enough, will you find evidence of past wars waged.

I blow a piece of blond hair out of my eyes, and turn my wrist up.

Gently, carefully, I pluck the razor out of the box, and bring it sharp-side down to my wrist, just under the heel of my palm.

Steering clear of the pale blue veins branching under too-thin skin, I go for a more cushiony spot, and inhale deeply, before releasing at the same time I press down hard enough to break skin.

Not too deep, not too deep, I chant inwardly, watching a drop of ruby red blood bubble up, just as I start dragging it slowly across my skin, millimeter by millimeter.

A little bit more…

Just enough for the sting to register.

Just enough to be almost too much.

A cottony feeling, not unlike what I get from smoking weed, fills my head. My tongue pokes out, trailing over my bottom lip.

There, that thing inside me purrs. Momentarily satisfied.

My lashes flutter. I could moan from the relief, it feels that good. Not so much the small cut itself, but the familiar fantasy playing out in my head—the one where I imagine my skin hissing with the give of pressure, the inky black smoke of that disease inside me curling up into the air. It's been so lon?—

The door opens.

I yelp, flinching, nicking myself deeper than I normally would. Pain flares—a jolt of sharp, hot heat racing up my arm, but I barely give it any notice in my mad scramble.

"Get out!" I'm shouting in a panic, clambering to a stand, shoving my sleeve down.

"What the fuck?" a shaky voice breathes from the doorway leading into Izzy's room.

I fumble for the tin box, quickly drop the razor back inside, and snap it closed. "Get out!"

In my haste, it goes tumbling out of my hand. And while it remains closed, I watch with horror as it skids right across the room. As if Mason Wyatt suddenly turned into fucking Magneto, it shoots right for the toe of his black Vans planted just past the threshold.

A short, hysterical laugh bursts out of me. Eyes wide and unblinking, my mouth fumbles for something to say—preferably some magic spell to rewind time.

Fuck my life.

Shoulders slumped, my arms hanging lifelessly at my sides, clenched fists hidden under long black baggy sleeves.

I can feel wet, sticky warmth trickling down my wrist, collecting in the palm of my left hand, flooding the valleys and grooves of my skin, my nail beds…

With unfocused eyes and numb resignation, I watch as Mason slowly, so slowly, bends down, and picks up the mint container.

"Don't," I whisper, but there's no weight to it. He's already opening it, with deft, long piano fingers.

His face is downcast—light ashy brown hair curling over his brow, hiding his eyes from me. All I can make out is the sharpened edge of his jaw, made to look even sharper—more terrifying—by the shadows closing in on him from behind.

The silence is deafening, broken up only by the muffled sound of "Tears Don't Fall" by Bullet For My Valentine playing from my room, vibrating the door behind me.

How long have I been in here?

I didn't think that long…

Why the fuck didn't I just play it safe and lock the doors?

"What are you doing here?" I hear myself ask, my voice distant even to my own ears.

"Izzy forgot her lucky scrunchie."

I frown. "She doesn't have a lucky scrunchie."

"I know," he murmurs, barely audible.

What the hell?

I can feel more than hear the drops of blood that crash to the tile.

As if Mason too senses it, his head lifts at the same time he gently closes the tin box, having seen all that he needed to see.

My heart pounds. Heavily in my ears, but the pulse of it is felt at my wrist.

He steps further into the room, pale blue eyes drifting up to my face. I don't tear my gaze away, even when our eyes lock, and I'm crawling out of my skin to get away.

I can feel more blood trickling down my wrist. I don't need to look to know. Maybe if I pretend it all away hard enough, I can make it all disappear. All of this. Go back in time. Wake up…

Please be a fucking nightmare.

There's a dangerous sort of quiet to Mason I've never witnessed before. An ease with which he blindly, yet carefully, sets the can on the counter, rather than flinging it across the room like I'm expecting him to. All the while, his gaze remains fastened to mine, growing more distant with each passing second.

Mason doesn't do quiet. He doesn't mentally check out like this. He doesn't hold shit in. It's not in his nature. He's like my sister in that way—hot-headed and passionate, with a hair-trigger temper.

Not that he turns it on us, or anyone undeserving of it—neither of them do. They're just…intense.

He's intense.

Always has been.

Whereas I'm the smoke that trickles up into the air from black, chipped husks, those two are the embers in the ashes. Fan the flames, and they ignite.

But unlike my sister…

He can bottle shit up. And he does.

He's just far more calculated about when he unleashes. Repressing it never lasts for long, not for him. He always finds an outlet, even if it's just to storm into my room, throw himself on my bed, and vent about it, if all else fails.

All else being taking it out on a piano, or screaming into a pillow like he used to do as a kid.

My feet carry me back a step, then another. My jaw trembles. Our gazes are wide against one another's—mine panicked, his in disbelief.

"It's not what you think," I find myself uttering.

His lashes flutter, and I realize then that his eyes are red around the edges. "You…" That's all he manages to get out.

His brow creases, and he's shaking his head.

"Mason?"

His brow furrows, his gaze lowering to the floor. And I watch as all the color seems to leech from his face. He stumbles back a step, shaking his head faster and faster.

"Mason."

His throat bobs with a swallow.

"Mason!" This time, when his name punches out of me, I surge forward, and grab his shoulders.

His eyes snap up, wild and panicked, darting all over my face. But it's as if he's not even seeing me.

What…

His gaze snaps to the right—my left—and he's grabbing my arm, just above the elbow.

I say his name again, but this time, it's barely even a murmur. With my hand still on his shoulder, it takes nothing at all for him to shove my sleeve up. It's baggy and loose and easily bunches around my elbow, exposing all my sins for him in a watercolor collage of red and pink.

It doesn't feel so satisfying right now, to see the evidence.

This time when his gaze snaps to mine, it's hard and accusatory. And I feel something in me shrinking back, my chest caving in as I try to make myself smaller.

Wincing, I look down, blond hair hanging over my face. "It's not what you think."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

At the unexpected roughness of his voice, my gaze snaps up, peering at him through stringy gold hair. My mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

"What the fuck is this?" he grits out, and while he sounds furious—and he no doubt is—I can't help but notice the tremor in his voice. In his fingers gripping me too.

Suddenly, he's dragging me by the forearm over to the sink, keeping my wrist and hand elevated. He kicks on the faucet, and shoves my bloodied hand underneath the cold stream of water.

I flinch when he twists my arm, lifting the inside of my wrist right up to the water, but he either doesn't notice or ignore me. The sting is quick to fade, and I watch as pink water floods the basin, before swirling down slowly…too slowly.

Izzy and her stupid hair clogging the drain.

"This might need stitches," Mason says flatly.

"No. It doesn't."

He scoffs, and it's not a very nice sound.

"It's nothing," I say before I can think better of it.

The fingers still gripping me just under the inside of my elbow turn bruising, and I wince. "You're hurting me."

With those three words, he releases me like I burned him.

Shaking my head, I twist and turn my hand and wrist, ensuring all the blood smears have been washed off.

Footsteps retreat, and I can sense him watching, waiting…for what, who knows?

Grabbing one of the folded washcloths off to the side, I press it down on my wrist.

"I didn't mean to go this deep. You startled me. I slipped," I say in a monotone voice. "It was just an accident." And while I'm aware my voice sounds far from convincing, I do mean it.

When my words are met with nothing but silence, I lift my head, finding Mason in the mirror. His face is downturned once more, so I can't even try to make out what he's thinking. Though, if the ticking of his jaw is anything to go by, he's still assuming the worst.

Turning, I rest my lower back against the counter and sigh. "Mason, look at me."

A beat passes, but he finally does as I say, and my stomach bottoms out when I see the agonized look in his eyes.

"Mase…" I shake my head. "I wasn't trying to kill myself."

His face creases.

Keeping hold of my wounded wrist, I bring the hand to my chest, splaying my fingers over where my heart pounds against my t-shirt. "I swear. I wasn't."

His throat ripples with another hard swallow, and he finally gives a short, accepting nod.

I sag in relief, my exhale punching out of me. Eyes falling shut, I murmur, "Fuck."

"Why?"

Eyes opening, I find his gleaming icy blue orbs staring back at me, begging me for some kind of explanation that makes sense.

I shrug. "I don't know. I just…" I wave my fingers from where my hand's still locked around my wrist. "I just need it out sometimes."

"It?"

Again, I shrug. "I don't really know how to explain it, especially not in a way that will make you think it's okay."

He nods slowly. "You've done this before."

His gaze flicks to my arm, and I wonder if it's only now registering that it wasn't just smears of blood he saw on my arm.

Shit.

"How long?"

"Mas—"

"How. Long."

Blowing out a breath, I say, "It doesn't ma?—"

"Of course it fucking matters!" he explodes.

I flinch at his outburst, and my elbow knocks something over on the counter. I don't look to see what it is.

He mutters a curse and turns away, clasping the back of his head. "It matters, Jeremy. You hurting yourself matters," he grits out.

"I'm not…"

He whirls on me. "You're not what? Hurting yourself?" He gestures angrily at my arm. "How is slicing your skin open not hurting yourself?"

"I told you?—"

"You want it out. Yeah, I heard you." He shakes his head, a humorless laugh escaping him. "What do you want out?"

"I don't?—"

"Stop fucking doing that!"

"Doing what?" I shout back, catching both of us off guard.

We both stare at each other, wide-eyed, chests heaving.

"It's not a big deal, okay?" I hunch my shoulders. "I barely even do it anymore. This was the first in…months, maybe a whole year." Definitely not a year.

His eyes crease, and he shakes his head. "You can talk to someone. Talk to me. Is it…is it because of what happened last year? Because?—"

"It's because of a lot of things," I cut in harshly. "I just get all up in my head sometimes, or…or things don't work out the way I want them to, and my brain just…" I shake my head. "I don't know."

He's watching me with a look I can't place. "You don't have to…mutilate yourself like some kind of mart?—"

A horrible laugh bursts out of me. "Mutilate?" I roll my eyes. "Come on, don't be dramatic."

"You're the one carving up your skin!"

"That's not?—"

"That's exactly what you're doing," he throws back.

I stare at him. "You should just go," I say tiredly. "You don't get it." No one fucking does.

His eyes bug and he looks around. "Are you fucking serious?"

"You're overreacting," I tell him flatly, and a choked laugh fills the room.

"I'm overreacting?" He nods. Huffs through his nose. "Right."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snarl.

He gestures at my chest, where I hold my injured arm.

"Wow," I say flatly.

His jaw works, and he shrugs.

"You have no fucking idea."

"Explain it then."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"I'll wait."

Gritting my teeth, I look away. Pushy asshole.

Well, sucks for him, because I don't break easily. I've had years of practice.

He starts humming the Jeopardy song.

Seriously?

Slowly, slowly, I turn my head, leveling him with a withering glare.

And he just quirks a brow, upping the volume.

Fuck.

I eye the door longingly, and he quickly bisects my path before I can so much as even take a step. I glance to the door to Izzy's room next to me, and the song abruptly cuts off. "I will tackle you to the floor."

My gaze snaps to his.

"Talk," he enunciates slowly. A beat passes. "Or I call your parents."

My eyes bulge. "You're not serious."

He digs out his phone, and waves it. "Deadly."

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

"Convince me you weren't trying to kill yourself, or?—"

"Fine," I grit. And then with no warning whatsoever, I blurt out in a rush, "Not all of us can be like you and Izzy, okay?"

He rears back at that, clearly no more expecting my words than I anticipated saying them. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Cheeks heating, I quickly try to backtrack. "Nothing, I just?—"

"No. Don't do that. Tell me. Explain it. Make me understand."

Wetting my lips, I shrug. "I just meant…you guys are different. You're not like me. You can…feel things, and-and you're brave about it. Honest. Open. Even when it consumes you."

Mason goes to say something, but I keep talking.

"And you have each other," I utter quietly. I give my head a little shake. "All three of you do. Even though Waylon's like me—he keeps it all inside—he still somehow managed to…to have you. To be normal."

"Jeremy—"

"And I know it's partially my fault," I rush out, my voice on the verge of breaking.

I look down, staring at some spot on his chest. He's wearing a Pearl Jam t-shirt today under his blue and gray flannel—white with black lettering.

"But I'm not…I'm not like you guys. I can't go out and hang out with you, and smile like nothing's wrong." My breaths quicken, pumping out of me heavily. "Everyone stares. That's what it feels like. Like everyone's w-watching me, and dissecting every little thing I do, waiting for me to slip up, and…." I shake my head. "It just gets so loud in my head. And trust me, I wish I could ignore it. I wish I could turn it off."

When I look up, I find Mason staring at me with pained eyes. He nods, telling me he's listening, and it encourages me to keep going.

"It just…it feels like it's too late for me."

His frown deepens.

"And I don't mean that in an, ‘I'm going to kill myself' way," I tell him quickly. "I just mean…you, Izzy, Way, and me…it is what it is. It's you three on one side, and me on the other."

He shakes his head. "No. No, Jer?—"

"It's okay," I say strongly. "It's okay." My lips curve with a small smile. "Maybe…maybe this is just how it's meant to be. Maybe next year, I'll?—"

"You're coming to New York with us."

I stare at him.

He's frowning. "You know that, right? I mean…" He looks around the bathroom, as if realizing…

They never talked to me about it.

Izzy said we'd be together, but no one ever actually talked with me about it. Asked what I wanted.

"Am I?" I say not unkindly.

His eyes widen, and then with a fierceness that hollows my gut, he says, "Of course you are."

My mouth thins.

"Fuck, I know in a lot of ways it looks like it's always been the three of us one side, and then you?—"

"Because it is."

"But there's me and you too," he argues back. "You know that, right?"

Frowning, I stare at him.

He huffs a short laugh, lip curling up bitterly, and before he turns away, I don't miss the flash of hurt in his pale eyes.

"Mason…" I push off the sink, taking a step.

"You keep pushing me away."

My frown deepens, and I think, I have to. I have to push you away, because if I don't…

If I don't…

"What about our friendship?" he says quietly. "What about us? Do I mean nothing to you?"

You mean everything to me, and that's the problem.

But of course I can't say that.

Swallowing tightly, I shake my head. "You're my best friend, Mason," I whisper. My only friend, really. And if that isn't just the saddest thing ever.

"And you're mine."

A shiver races down my spine at those three words, my eyes falling shut.

Gritting my teeth against the unexpected assault of feelings rising up, feelings I've taken great care in pushing back over the last couple years, I bow my head, and run my fingers through my hair. The cloth on my wrist forgotten, I let it hang from my fingers.

I'm not though, I think sadly. I'm not yours…

"But you'll always be hers first," I whisper before I can help myself. "Theirs," I quickly amend, turning around to face the sink. I clear my throat. "You'll always be theirs first."

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

A long moment passes before he says anything.

I don't even hear him breathing.

There's just the angry attack of a guitar coming from the other room, and the cries of battered rooms and broken bones and last breaths followed by a scream.

Despite Mason's eerie stillness, his penetrating gaze is undeniable. The way it moves over me, tracing my movements… The way it calls to me, silent, yet with irrevocable force. Like it carries its very own gravitational pull.

Willing myself to ignore it, I remove the washcloth, unsurprised to find that the bleeding has stopped. The cut is shallow, save for a little jagged dip where I flinched.

It looked worse than it actually is.

Making a mental note to just throw the rag out rather than try to wash the blood out—and wipe down the tiled floor before Izzy gets home—I bypass Mason, and throw my door open.

Deep-throated screams and heavy drumming and screeching guitar blast from my speakers, flooding the room, drowning all else out. Heading straight for my dresser, I crank down the volume, before calling out, "You should go." I yank open the top right drawer. "You're going to be late."

A beat passes, then, "I backed out." His voice carries faintly from the connecting room.

Frowning, my fingers still around the black bundle of armbands buried beneath my socks. "What? Why?"

Clenching the fabric in my hand, I turn around to find Mason still in the bathroom, rustling in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

With a Band Aid box in one hand, and a crushed, nearly empty tube of Neosporin in the other, he strides into my room, and shrugs a shoulder. "Chickened out."

I frown. He says it so…casually.

"Come here," he says, nodding to the bed just as the song ends and skips to the next. "Jesus Christ" by Brand New.

At the soft, more somber strokes of guitar filling the room, a sharp contrast to the last track, Mason arches me a humored look.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just love your wide array of tastes," he says.

Rolling my eyes, I walk over, joining him just as he takes a seat.

He's one to talk.

Though he's a lot more organized than me. I just throw whatever I'm feeling onto a CD, and call it something stupid. Like the one playing now—it's labeled Sad Shit #3?.Lame, I know.

Mason's system is much more methodical. By genre. By decade. By mood. By style.

He's even better at storing them than me. It's a miracle most of my CDs even still work, since the binders I have go mostly unused at this point. Unless it's to hold shit I haven't listened to in years.

"I can do that myself," I say warily, when he grabs the back of my hand, turning my wrist face-up. "Seriously, just…go get her scrunchie or whatever and get outta here.

"First of all, pretty sure you weren't going to do this at all, if I didn't," he says, nailing a pointed look at the armbands in my hands. "So that's why you wear those." Not a question.

I shake my head. "Sometimes. I also just like them."

He nods, aiming the little nozzle of the antibiotic ointment at the cut on my wrist. It's darker in here than it was in the bathroom, what with the sun having started to go down and no lights on, leaving just what's fanning across the floor from the en suite. Neither of us make a move to flip on the lamp.

It's quiet, and my breathing sounds way too loud all of a sudden.

"I got it," I mutter, batting his hand away, and using my own fingers to spread in the greasy ointment.

He clears his throat. "Second of all…" he continues where he'd left off. "I know she made that up. She was worried you'd also chicken out from going if you had to go alone. And I figured that since I backed out, I could sway you to ride with me."

"I wanted to go alone. I didn't have to," I say petulantly.

"Exactly. You wanted an out."

My mouth opens, only to close when I have no retort to that. He's not wrong.

He chuckles. "You don't fool me."

Not sure what to do with that, I rip the Band Aid from his fingers, and apply it over my cut. "So what happened?" I say, turning the attention back on him. "What spooked you?"

"I don't know, there were just all these people…" He shakes his head, wavy brown hair shifting, fluttering. "I peeked into the packed auditorium, and I just…couldn't do it."

My gaze finds his, fingers pausing over the band I slip over my wrist.

He smiles knowingly, if not a little self-deprecatingly. "See? I get you more than you think."

Throat thick, I nod.

He gestures at my wrist, where a black band now covers the evidence, Band Aid and all. "You can't do that."

I tense up.

"Never again. Promise me, it'll never happen again."

"And if I don't…"

His hard, determined gaze levels with mine, ensuring I know he means it when he says, "I will tell your parents."

Gritting my teeth, my nostrils flare. "It's not up to you. This isn't any of your business, or theirs."

"Well, I'm making it my fucking business."

"You can't tell. No one. Not my parents. Not Waylon. Not Izzy. Especially not Izzy."

Fuck, of course he's going to tell her. She's his girlfriend. He tells her everything.

My gut tightens painfully, and I jump to a stand, pacing, trying to relieve the anxiety simmering to the surface before it boils over completely.

"Then promise me that was the last time."

I whirl toward him, arm spread, "Fine. I promise."

He cocks his head. "I'll make you show me your arms every day if I have to, to make sure you're not lying."

My eyes bug, and I look around the room, a disbelieving laugh scraping up from my throat. "Seriously?" And before I can think better of it, I cross my arms, and meet his unbending gaze, and say, "And what if I decide to do it somewhere not so obvious. What are you gonna do then?"

The second the words leave me, I regret them.

Heat envelops me, no doubt turning me beet-red. Lips mashed together, all I can do is watch as Mason arches a challenging brow. "Sure you wanna risk finding out?"

I stare at him for a long beat. Surely he can't mean that…

Nope. Wait. Who am I kidding?

This is Mason. Of course he means it. He's nearly as obstinate as my sister. Especially when she's not here to be the bad cop.

Rolling my eyes, I give a short, little shake of my head.

"That's what I thought."

I look down at my lap. "It's not fair."

"What isn't?"

"It doesn't hurt anyone. It?—"

"It hurts you. And therefore, it hurts me, and everyone else who loves you."

At that, I go completely and utterly still. "I don't…"

"You don't what, Jeremy?" He all but growls. He shoots off the bed, and scrubs his hands down his face. "God, when will you get it through your thick skull?'

He whips toward me. "You are loved, Jeremy," he says fiercely, the words wrenching from his chest. Glittering black orbs clash with mine, bright with unburied emotion. "You are so damn loved by so many people, and you just…you won't let any of us in."

Ouch.

Flinching, I curl back, arms folding across each other like I could keep his words from piercing me.

Emotion ripples across his face—anger and something else, something like desperation.

"What did I do?"

Blinking, I shake my head, trying to keep up. Where is this coming from?

"What did I do to make you shut me out? For years now, you've been…pulling away. Just tell me what I did."

You chose my sister.

The words sit right there, on the tip of my tongue. I have to quickly look away, worried he'll see the mess of it all in my eyes. The truth, in all its ugly, unfair glory.

Unfair, because Mason has no idea. No idea I was even an option.

Not that I really ever would've been, seeing as he's straight as a fucking ruler.

He could never love me in the way I crave so desperately…not in this timeline. Not in this universe.

Our stars are only ever meant to exist from opposite sides of the sun burning brightly forever between us.

"Sometimes I feel like…like you only tolerate me, because I'm dating your sister."

At his words, my eyes fall shut, an ugly sort of laugh creaking out of me.

"Tell me it's not true."

"Obviously it's not," I mutter. "We've been friends since we were six."

"Yeah. Exactly."

When I open my eyes, he's nodding.

"So the fact you think you can't come to me? It hurts, okay?"

I stare at him, and he gestures to my arm.

"You could've talked to me. Vented about whatever it is that made you think hurting yourself was your only option." He barks out a short, broken laugh. "Hell, punch me in the face next time for all I care. If that's what it takes to take some control back, to quiet whatever assholes' voices are in your head, just take it out on me. Not yourself."

And all I can do is keep staring at him.

"It might seem harmless now," he says thickly. "But what happens when a shallow nick in your arm is no longer enough? What happens then?"

"I'm not gonna kill myself, Mason," I mumble. "I told you."

His lips thin, and I can see the desperation to believe me he tries so fiercely to cling to reflected in his gleaming pupils.

"I'm not that kid in the song, okay?" I say raggedly, my words surprising us both.

His eyes flare. "That's not?—"

"I'm not history repeating itself. It's not a prophecy. It's just a song. That's all it is. Stop putting expectations on me," I plead. "Stop putting me into this narrative, where I lose."

His brows knit, and I suck in my cheeks, fighting the urge to hunch my shoulders, and shrink into myself. I'm not even really sure where all that came from, but now that it's out there…

I can't find it in me to take them back.

I love that song, I do, I love that it makes me think of him, us…

But I also hate it for those very same reasons.

Hate it for the image he so clearly has in his head of me.

The poor bullied boy who's headed down a path of destruction.

"You scare me sometimes."

Eyes burning, all I can do is stare back at him, biting my tongue like my life depends on it. And in a way, it does.

Because he scares me too.

He terrifies me.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I am. I just…" I wave a hand between us. "I don't know how to do this sometimes."

"Do what?"

"Be your friend." And it's the truth—a small truth.

Hurt shines back at me. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," I assure him quickly, maybe too quickly. "It's me. I'm the problem. I just… I don't know how to turn it off. I told you. I…I get all up in my head. And it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself that it's not real. How much I remind myself how good I have it—how lucky I am. I have two parents who love me unconditionally. A roof over my head. A sister who would walk through hell to protect me. I have you… you…"

His jaw works, eyes growing impossibly bright when my words die there.

"It just…it doesn't matter," I whisper. "Because that thing inside me…it tells me no one actually likes me. That you're only here out of obligation. That you only care, because it's what Izzy wants."

He scowls. "What? No. Why?—"

I hold up a hand, silencing him. "It's nothing you did. Okay?"

Well, nothing other than date my sister.

Averting my gaze, I mask a wince, shoving that thought away. "It's not even personal."

Except it is…

"I feel this way even about my parents, okay? Izzy too."

And the thing is…that's not even a lie.

I meant it when I told him I don't want to kill myself. I don't…

I just wish things were different. I wish I was different. And sometimes it just really fucking drags me down, knowing I can't just turn this off. I can't be who I know they'd all wish I could be.

"I can't help but feel like…like I'm this constant burden," I find myself telling him, words untangling, and taking shape faster than I can keep up with. "Someone that they always have to protect. Coddle. It's humiliating, and I…I know they probably wish I was different. Was normal. And—" I cut myself off.

Shaking my head, I meet a suspiciously quiet Mason's gaze and tell him, "I drag people down. It's what I do. It makes me selfish, makes me miss out on things like your recitals and school dances and….and things that would make me closer to all of you. Like you said, I'm closed off. I'm not helping myself here. I'm making it worse. And I can't stop."

His face tightens. "It's not your fault. The bullying, your anxiety…it's not your fault."

"From where I stand, it doesn't make much of a difference. You're all still over there,"—I gesture in his direction—"and I'm…" I wave a hand around my room. "I'm here."

He drops his gaze. His arms hang lifelessly at his sides, and his chest rises with his deep breath.

"It's just the way things worked out."

Jaw working, he nods.

A long moment passes where we just stand there, at a loss. He's got his gaze on the floor, like it has the answers. Solutions to impossible puzzles. And I've got my eyes on him, taking their fill while he's not paying attention.

"I got rejected from Kepler," I tell him, referring to the private art school in Brooklyn I applied to for early acceptance. "That's why you found me like you did."

He drags his gaze up to mine.

Shrugging, I say, "I don't have enough formal education in art. Not enough…curriculars or-or awards or recommendations or anything at all, really, to show for my art. Because I stupidly kept it to myself all these years, and never tried to learn and get better."

He frowns. "Jeremy…I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I did it to myself."

He shakes his head, brow furrowing, and says, "Don't say that."

"But it's true."

"There are other schools. What about NYU? They have an art program. We can?—"

"I'm not going to New York. I've decided."

A beat passes. "Where then?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"But…"

"But nothing. New York is you and Izzy and Waylon's dream." I press a hand to my chest. "Not mine."

Eyes creasing, he says, "What's your dream then?"

You. You're my dream.

His gaze burrows into mine, bright, and yet somehow so, so deep. Like I could see right through to that chaotic brain of his, where there's no doubt music notes and lyrics scrawled across every inch of space.

Can he see through me too? See through all the bold lines and shadows that hide what's underneath.

"I don't know," I tell him, "maybe somewhere warm, like California. Maybe I won't even go to art school."

"But that's your dream."

Then why did you even ask? I wonder.

"Is it though? We're seventeen. It's ridiculous that we have to decide our entire lives so young."

He winces.

"No offense," I mutter.

"No. It's… You're not wrong," he says into a nod. "It is kind of ridiculous. To think we'll still be the same people we are five years from now."

"Do you ever—" I quickly cut myself off.

He arches me a knowing look. "What, have doubts?"

I give a small nod.

His mouth twitches and he looks away.

Wincing, I say, "Sorry. It's none of my?—"

"No, I told you. We're friends. Friends talk about shit." He levels his gaze with mine. "But Izzy's your sister. It's different when it's you telling me not to tell her something. I don't want to…put you in any tough positions."

My eyes widen. "Wait, are you saying?—"

"Shit," he mutters, wincing. "No, no, that sounded bad. It's not like I want to break up with her or anything. I don't. I just…"

My heart pounds.

"Lately, sometimes, I just…I wonder, you know? Not just about her, but piano and school and everything. We're seventeen. It is ridiculous, to have it all figured out this young." Grimacing, he glances away. "I don't know. It's probably just senior year nerves. College stress."

"Right," I murmur.

"Anyway." He clears his throat. "See," he says, gesturing between us. "We can talk about this stuff, okay?"

Says the guy deflecting and changing the subject…

And yet I do nothing to encourage him to elaborate, further reinforcing this ever-present wall between us. Whether he even realizes it or not.

"Okay," I murmur.

Our eyes connect, melding for one long, heavy moment.

His phone pings, and I quickly look away, cheeks hot.

"You should probably get going," I tell him, assuming it's Izzy wondering where he is.

"Actually, I think I'm gonna stay here."

I sigh. "Mase, you don't have to?—"

"I want to."

I turn to peek over at him through my hair.

He thumbs something out on his phone, before locking it and slipping it back into his pocket.

His gaze meets mine, and he shrugs. "I don't really feel like being around people right now. Especially seeing as I totally wussed out."

I study him, wondering if he means that…or if he's just doing this for me.

"You can still go if you want," he says casually—too casually. "I'll just head home, or?—"

"We can watch the new X-Men movie," I blurt before I can think better of it. "I bought it the other day." Given everything that happened with Waylon back in the spring when the movie released, we never got around to seeing it in theaters like we normally would.

He straightens, and a smile creeps up his face. He nods. "Sweet, sounds good to me."

Lips twisting, I nod, and say, "I'm gonna, uh, clean up the bathroom." I don't miss how his face tightens, but I ignore it. "Meet you down there?"

His voice is soft. "Yeah."

I head for my bathroom, and he heads for the hall.

"Hey, Jer?"

Glancing over my shoulder, I find him with his hand gripping the side of the door, head tilted to face me.

"Never again."

Something stutters in my chest.

"For me."

I frown.

"If you won't stop for you, stop for me."

A rock of emotion lodges in my throat, and all I can do is nod.

"Promise?"

I stare deep into his pale blue eyes, and wonder if perhaps a part of him does suspect…

What he means to me.

Just how far I'd go to please him.

Does he have any clue what he's asking of me?

"I can't lose you," he says. "Be it intentional, or accidental…I just can't."

A heavy feeling fills my chest.

But you will lose me… someday, somehow…

It's inevitable.

His mouth thins into a hard slash, and I wonder if he senses what I'm thinking.

It's moments like this I can't help but remember the boy I first met, with the impossibly light blue eyes and the biggest grin.

"Captain America's my favorite!"

He was my hero that day.

And while I still see glimmers of that strong, fiercely protective boy inside him, I know better than to think he's not without his weaknesses. Every superhero has their kryptonite.

And Mason's?

Well, in some ways, I guess you could say we're cut from the same cloth.

Like flocks to like.

Only the whispers in his head, clawing around his airway, aren't born of fears of being perceived the wrong way. Whereas I can barely stomach people looking at me sometimes, Mason's got a touch of the opposite.

He's terrified of people looking away.

Of being left alone.

Chewing the inside of my lip, I nod, and finally manage to rasp, "I promise."

And I know, deep down to my core…

I mean it.

If not for me, for him.

Always for him.

Because I might not be a hero like him, but he is and always has been my kryptonite.