Chapter 30

After the showcase,we gather in the hotel's ballroom for hors d"oeuvres and cocktails.

Well, water for me. Though I'd kill for some champagne right now.

Probably not as much as Izzy though, who's currently trying to schmooze the pants off the donors.

As much of a nice change in pace it is to see my sister floundering amongst the crowd of people demanding her attention, I can't help but feel a resigned sort of acceptance and fearlessness as I cut into her conversation with some old couple going on and on about their prize-winning show dog.

"Excuse me. I'm going to have to steal her for a bit." Grabbing her by the shoulders, I spin us around and steer us for the first doors I see, leading us out into the hall.

Izzy all but collapses with relief, and I chuckle quietly, running my hands through my hair. The slicked back look lasted for maybe half the show, if that.

"Thanks for the save," Izzy says.

I slide her a knowing look. "You looked like you were drowning. It was getting painful to watch."

She shudders, shaking her head. "So painful. I love dogs, don't get me wrong, but I really don't give a fuck about how many medals little Fido has won for shitting gold."

I hold up a finger, repressing a laugh, and say, "It's Brantley, and he shits diamonds, not gold."

She snorts at that, and I lose my composure right along with her, dipping my head, and hiding a smile behind my hair.

I reach for her hand, nudging her side. "Come on, let's get some air."

"Mom and Dad?" she says, swinging our joined hands between us, just like we'd do when we were kids.

"Told them we needed a bathroom break."

She snickers at that. It's been a running joke since we were kids—after Waylon asked if being twins meant we have to go to the bathroom at the same time—and as we got older, it sort of became a code for when we needed to get each other out of an awkward situation. And by that, I mean it's usually Izzy saving me at a family get together, or a school function—back when I had no choice but to go—and whisking me away before I can spiral into a panic attack.

The role reversal is nice. Not gonna lie.

Izzy spins around, not letting go of my hand as she all but skips backward. She's laughing, and I'm groaning up at the ceiling, all but stumbling after her. But then I'm laughing too. It's hard not to, even with my earlier revelation nipping right at the heels of the lightheartedness of this moment.

Don't think about that tonight.

Tonight's about celebrating.

It's about my sister.

It's about the fact that there is no way in hell that she didn't secure herself a spot after that performance of a lifetime. People were chomping at the bit to introduce themselves to her. And again, I wondered, who's wooing who here?

So all my heartache—all my bitterness and unrequited longing…

It's been shoved to the backburner.

Because at the end of the day, it's Izzy and me versus the world. And despite this ever-present rift between us—one I know she is still blessedly ignorant to—I love my sister.

I want her to get everything she ever wanted.

And I have to believe, out there, somewhere, there's someone for me too. Someone who will love me the way Mason loves her. Someone I can give my heart to, fully and wholly and without shame, free of the secrets that keep it currently chained.

Someone just for me.

And these years spent pining for someone I shouldn't will be nothing but a memory. Something to look back on and joke about at family get-togethers, when we're both married and happier than ever.

Izzy teeters on her heels, and I strengthen my hold on her, tugging her toward me before she can go flying backward.

We're still moving, still laughing, inches from each other's faces.

And then a shadow eclipses my periphery, just as someone comes around the corner where the hallway Ts off.

My eyes widen, and I go to halt our steps—say something—but it's too late.

Izzy grunts. Or maybe it's the man. Maybe it's both of them.

It all happens very quickly.

Izzy drops her clutch, and something else hits the floor with a ringing thud, as the two bodies collide.

She whips around, throwing a hand out as if to catch the man, or maybe steady them.

A hand smacks the wall. "Shi—shoot! Sorry."

I catch a shock of white hair, and a gleaming blue eye as I bend down to pick up what they dropped, murmuring, "Sorry 'bout that," under my breath. "Here you go, sir. Sorry about that," I rush out, extending the bronze cane toward him.

You already said that, dumbass.

My cheeks blaze with my embarrassment, even though it was Izzy, technically, who ran into him.

The man takes a step back, and I feel his gaze homing in on me, but mine is locked on the falcon head handle topping his cane. It's gaudy and pretentious as fuck. Something you'd see at a renaissance fair, or even a comic con convention.

I frown, staring into its beady little eyes.

"Thank you, little dove."

At the sound of his voice, my gaze lifts.

He starts to dip his head, but does a double-take, straightening as his shockingly bright blue eyes widen on mine.

I frown, and a familiar sort of restlessness rushes through me, quickening my pulse. Izzy's pink clutch that I forgot I'd picked up, creaks beneath my fingers.

The man stares straight into my eyes, glimmering with…with something.

No.

That's all I can think.

Izzy's suddenly there, gently prying her clutch from my iron-clad grip, peeling each finger away. "Come on," she says, hooking our arms together, and leading me past the creepy man with the creepy cane and the creepy-as-fuck eyes that seem to want to devour me.

At my sister's much-welcome interruption into whatever…trance he had me under, he turns his attention to her just as we pass, and I hang my head, staring hard, blankly at the ground, watching the distance to the doors shrink into nothing.

My sister shoves open the doors before I can get my hands to work, urging me forward, ahead of her.

Outside, a gust of air punches out of me, and it's as if all my senses—including control over my body—return to me. I look around the veranda, not really seeing anything.

What the hell was that?

Rather…who the hell was that?

"JJ?"

My head whips around, eyes finding my sister's.

What the fuck? she mouths with exaggerated enunciation, her eyes wide. And a laugh bursts out of her.

Shaking my head, I clear my throat and say, "That was really weird, right?

It wasn't just me, right? is what I really want to say.

It wouldn't be the first time I found suspicion—danger—in nothing.

She nods, eyes wide. "Totally."

I'm about to ask her if she actually means that, but instead hang my head, feeling my cheeks grow warm as I recall the way that man looked at me. Not in disgust, like so many other men in the past have looked at me. But like the young guy who winked at me earlier—like he liked what he saw.

Except this time, it's far from wanted.

And it has far less to do with his age, and more to do with how it felt—like I need to scrub my skin raw. Just from his gaze alone.

"Hey," she says, and through the blond hair curtaining my face, I catch her moving toward me. She grabs my shoulders, ducks her head to find my gaze. "It's cool," she says, carefree as ever.

It pisses me off, so I glare at her.

She rolls her lips together, and I realize she did that on purpose. To get a reaction out of me.

And she doesn't leave it at that.

Shrugging, she says, "You're gorgeous, J. Get used to it."

I'm gonna kill her.

She laughs in my fury, rolling her eyes when I give her a little shove to quit it. She knows better than anyone how those words make me feel.

Finally conceding, she gives a little sigh, and says, "Was it just me or was that cane really fucking creepy?"

Reassured by the fact that she wasn't totally unaffected, I relax a bit and shake my head. "Not as creepy as the man it belongs to." Scrunching my face, I glance past her, worried he might be standing there listening, watching.

There was just…something about him.

Something in his eyes that wasn't quite right.

He's probably just senile.

I frown. But was he even that old?

His hair was white, sure, and he had a cane. But his face…it was smooth. His eyes as clear and blue as a cloudless day.

Sharp.

His gaze was sharp.

Izzy's wiggling her fingers in my face, back to cracking jokes as she slithers up to me. "Oh, JJ, what big, pretty brown eyes you have."

And despite how off-kilter I still feel, her ridiculousness prompts a soft snort to escape before I can help myself.

Shaking my head, I try to take a step back, but she just uses that moment to pounce on me, gripping my shoulders, and pretending to bite at my face.

"Stop," I beg in between peels of broken laughter.

I stretch away, leaning out of her grasp, but she just wraps her arms around me in a crushing hold. "What soft, soft skin you have," she purrs, and I feel her nose rubbing into my neck.

Shaking my head, I hug her to me. "You're so fucking weird."

I feel her smile against my chest, and rest my cheek on top of her head, breathing her in.

Not for the first time, I'm caught off guard by how much taller than her I am now. Freakily enough, she tips her head back and says, "You're so tall now."

I roll my eyes. For the last couple years or so, we've been steadily battling it out, more or less staying around the same height at five seven. Before that though, for years, she had several inches on me.

Finally, I shot up in the last year or so. Especially this past summer.

A late bloomer, Mom said, to which I scowled and stomped away, chased by her tinkling laughter.

Izzy drops her head to my chest once more—ear pressed right over my heart.

Can she hear how fast it's beating?

My still-clammy palms stroke her back, and I inhale and exhale with measured breaths. I know what she's doing—it's what she's always done. So used to living with my anxiety, I don't even notice when it rears its ugly head up most days, not unless I'm having an all-out spiral.

Izzy though…

She's always had a sort of built-in radar for it, sensing when I need her before I even realize I do. Before I realize anything's amiss.

Can't say the reverse ever developed.

Our twin super powers are strictly one way.

Izzy adamantly denies that of course—she's big on believing I've got it too, buried inside me, just out of reach.

"It's there, JJ. I know it is, just like it is for me. You're just…closed off to it."

I try not to feel hurt recalling her words.

I know she didn't mean it to be cruel.

Closed off.

Why would I be closed off to something I want? Obviously, I'd love to be just as free-spirited and open and hopeful as her. To not be a cynic.

I want it…

Badly.

But I want a lot of things, and, well, maybe it's just not meant to be.

Or maybe I just haven't advanced to that level of…peace within myself, to allow another person's feelings and influences to take shape inside me.

Maybe I have to find myself first, before I can find her.

We finally pull away from each other, and my gaze drifts toward the ground, while hers lingers on my face. I can feel heat creeping up my neck, though I'm not sure why. I know, rationally, she can't actually read my thoughts.

She might be able to…sense me, but that's different.

She's not a mind reader. If she was, I imagine things would be a lot different. I have to believe that. If she knew…

You sure she'd choose you?

I shake away the thought, not wanting to risk her catching on to my doubts.

Without saying a word, she turns away, stepping back to join me at my side. I feel more than see her tip her head back. I follow her gaze, taking in the heavy black night.

No stars to wish upon tonight…

Even the moon is hidden.

"We should probably head back inside," I murmur reluctantly.

She nods. "You think that man's still there?"

I shrug, a soft sound escaping me. "Doubt it. By now he's probably found some other lucky dude to perv on." I say it with enough conviction, I almost believe it.

Izzy makes a noise of agreement, further reinforcing it. So much so that I don't even hesitate when we get to the door, and she hangs back, urging me to go on without her.

"I'll join you in a second." She jacks a thumb behind her, and I know what she's going to say before she says it. Maybe I've got a bit of this twin power after all. "I told Mason earlier that I'd call him."

Right. Of course.

"And that can't wait 'til later?" I say before I can help myself.

She shrugs, and bats her eyes at me in that way she's always done. "I miss him."

All thoughts of creepy men and canes forgotten, I roll my eyes to cover up the twinge in my chest. Me too, I think. And that's the problem. "Be quick," I tell her. "Or I'll have to pull out the big guns and tell everyone you've got the runs."

Her mouth drops open in a gasp. "You'd never!"

I wouldn't, but it would be funny…

"Try me," I toss back.

She smirks, shaking her head, brown strands of hair catching and twirling on the breeze coming from the distant ocean. If I listen hard enough, I can just make out the waves crashing along the beach.

"Love you, brother," she says.

"Love you too, sister."

And turning on my heel, I shove open the glass doors, leaving my other half on the veranda under a black, starless sky.

Music and chattercoming from the ballroom drift out into the hallway, following me as I make a last second detour into the men's room to piss.

The row of urinals is empty—the entire bathroom seems to be—much to my relief.

Inhaling deeply, I unzip and aim at the white basin.

My thoughts drift, once more returning to that man with the cane. I frown, but quickly shake off the feelings rearing up. Away from what happened, and away from Izzy, it's all too easy to walk it back, dismantling what happened into nothing, just like years of therapy taught me.

She was just doing what she does best, I tell myself, regarding my sister. She was stooping to my level, to make me feel less alone.

We're in a packed convention center in South Palm Beach. What's the worst that could happen?

Still, after I finish up and wash my hands, I pull out my phone and text Mason.

Tell Izzy she's needed back inside

I don't even question why I go to him, rather than her directly. I just know she's more likely to listen to him. And that's assuming they're still talking on the phone, and she hasn't already come back inside. It's been five minutes, if that.

Once it shows that it's been read, I don't bother waiting for a response. I lock my phone and go to pocket it, just as the bathroom door creaks open. The orchestral music coming from the ballroom spikes, before diminishing once more.

Stepping to the side, a flash of white catches my eye in the mirror just before I can turn around.

No fucking way.

Dropping my gaze, I quickly busy myself with fiddling with my tie, and get ready to high-tail it out of there as soon as my path is clear, when soft, uneven footsteps interspersed with the dull, uneven clacking of a cane come to a sudden stop in the middle of the room.

"Well, if it isn't a little dove flown astray."

My gaze snaps up, instantly getting snatched up by those freakishly bright blue eyes. Keeping my face angled down, I watch through my lashes and the golden hair curling around my face as his smile curves up.

He tilts his head, his white hair gleaming under the too-bright lights.

"Excuse me," I murmur, and go to step around him, when he throws his cane out, extending it, blocking my path.

I stare at the gaudy thing, blinking rapidly.

A buzzing fills my ears as memories of being trapped by Ethan and his minions—cornered—surge forward, my pulse ratcheting up. My hands grow clammy and tingly. All indicators of an oncoming panic attack.

But this isn't elementary school.

This isn't a deserted high school hallway.

This isn't just some mean ass bully—a kid.

"You didn't perform," the man says softly, his voice curious, almost like that of a child, and yet there's a melodic sort of sophistication to everything else about him that can't be denied.

I give a little shake of my head, staring ahead at the corner of the room where the door remains sealed. In my pocket, my phone vibrates with an incoming message.

Mason.

Wetting my lips, I tell the man politely, "No, I don't play." Perhaps if I just entertain his desire for…small talk or whatever this is, he'll let me go.

Is he even keeping you here?

I frown at the thought.

What the hell could he possibly do? He's old—ish—and frail, given the cane and limp and all, and there are dozens of people standing just across the hall.

And yet…

I remain trapped, caught in his web.

"Ah. Pity that." He sighs, dragging the cane back to his side. I missed earlier, somehow—the black gloves he wears. He squeezes the bronzed falcon head topper, resting his weight on it. "I can't either."

Our gazes meet and he dips his chin, a wistful sort of look passing over his eyes and tilting up his mouth.

"The body is capable of such marvel. A temple to be worshiped, truly. And yet it can also betray us." He lifts his free hand, tracing a gloved finger over his temple. "Betray our minds, and all that we'd have ourselves do in this short, limited life if we could."

Unease combined with something else—some emotion or familiarity I can't quite pinpoint—crawls its spindly fingers up my spine, raising the little hairs off my neck.

He tilts his head, eyes drifting all around my face. "It's quite…disheartening is it not? To be a prisoner inside one's body."

My lip quivers, but I quickly bite down on the inside of my cheek to hide it. Shrugging, I say, "Y-yeah, I guess."

He glances down, and smiles to himself, like he's pleased. "But you're not. You didn't let that stop you."

My brow pulls in, and he nods to my hand.

"You've found a different medium to appease the beast."

Everything in me stills, save for my gaze that flicks down, following his. And there, on the side of my hand, there are the ever-present smudges of graphite.

He watches me with an eerie sort of knowingness and intensity that I can't bring myself to tear away from.

"Where one door leads to nowhere, another opens up to endless possibility."

I swallow with an audible click. "Did you…find another door?"

He smiles, pleased. I'm not sure where the question came from, or what gave me the balls to ask, or why I'm…playing right into his hands.

"I did," he says with a nod. "Most know me as a sort of…collector. But my true passion…" His blue eyes twinkle. "Well, that lies within conducting."

"Conducting?"

His mouth twitches, and I catch that look again from earlier—that sharp sort of…wrongness. A darkness winking in and out that has my unease returning.

He brings a gloved hand up, turning it this way and that, eyes trailing the soft supple material clinging to his skin. "Hands are not the only things capable of marvels." His eyes flash to mine, ensnaring me. "Sometimes it's all about putting all the pieces together, and taking a backseat to watch it unfold. To create something bigger than ourselves."

He takes a step forward, and I take one back.

My heart gallops in my chest, and there's a vice around my throat, slowly tightening and sealing off my airway.

"Tell me, malen'kiy golub', do you want to fly?"

My eyes widen, and I stumble back a step.

Just then, the door opens, letting in a gust of music, right along with the breath of relief that rushes out of me.

"Sir."

The white-haired man turns his head, a flicker of irritation creasing his features.

The bald man dressed in all black propping the door open, cuts an unreadable glance my way. And then he says something—a string of what sounds like Russian perhaps leaving his barely moving lips.

"I see," the man with the white hair and cane murmurs. He hums, and turns to cast me an unreadable look. He seems almost…disappointed. He says something, and this time I don't know what language it is. Latin maybe?

My eyes round and I dart looks between him and the man at the door.

A bodyguard?

Who is this guy?

"Well," the white-haired man says. "It would seem that business is calling me away."

Relief blooms brightly in my chest, expanding my chest.

"You have a lovely night, little dove," he says, and I nod, murmuring, "You too."

Humor alights his eye, and he goes to turn away, but pauses.

"And remember, for as much as the physical world tries to keep us chained…" He steps toward me once more, and lifts a hand, coasting a gloved finger down my temple.

I hold myself utterly and completely still.

"In here, we are limitless." His gaze bores into me, and I'm helpless to look away. "And we always find ways to…satisfy what we cannot have." His hand drops, finger skating over my clenched, trembling fist, right over where I've got pencil smudges stained in my skin.

Chills spread like wildfire across my skin, bringing a full-bodied shudder to my limbs before I can stop it.

He smiles knowingly, pulling away, taking a step back. Then another. Then another.

"Take care, little one," he murmurs, and turns away, following his bodyguard or whatever out into the hall, and taking all the air out of the room with it.

"Jeremy?"Mom says, worry sharpening her tone when I reach them. "Where's your sister?"

I look around, not really seeing anything, but feeling like everyone sees me. "She's c-coming. She was outside, talking to M-Mason."

She says something, but I don't hear her. The world's shrinking around me.

I can't breathe.

Tugging at the collar of my shirt, I say in a quiet, stuttered rush, "I-I think I'm gonna go upstairs. I don't feel good."

It was nothing.

What happened in the bathroom was nothing.

And yet, why do I feel like I somehow just…barely crawled away with my life?

No. You're being ridiculous. Dramatic.

My stomach roils.

I know this feeling.

I've lived this how many times now?

Rationally, I know I'm just having a panic attack. That there's no real threat, and never was. It's just my…my stupid brain, and the way it twists things into threats—into worst-case scenarios.

"Okay, okay," Mom says, hovering her hand over my back, knowing I don't like to be touched when I get like this. "I'll?—"

"I'll take him," Dad says. "You stay here with Izzy."

"Y-you d-don't?—"

"Come on," he says gently, sidling up next to me, as close as he can without actually touching me. The warmth of him is reassuring—knowing he's there, ready to shove anyone back who gets close.

Whether or not the gazes and laughter and whispers following me are real or just a figment of my imagination—a physical manifestation of my anxiety—I don't dare to check. I'd rather live with the tiny, miniscule hope than confirm my worst fears. Easier to talk myself down.

Out in the hall, it's only slightly easier to breathe.

Dad leads me toward the lobby, and we catch the elevator just before it closes.

"Did something happen?" he asks. It's just us inside, and I'm finally able to release a breath.

I shake my head, shoulders bunched to my ears. Through my lashes, I watch the numbers lighting up above the mirrored doors, taking care to avoid looking at myself as I wait impatiently for us to reach our floor.

"Just…a lot today," I murmur vaguely, my voice hitching.

Not a total lie…

I briefly debate telling him about the run-in with that man, but as soon as I consider it, I quickly squash it down as the whole thing replays in my head, making me feel more and more ridiculous by the second.

He was just a crazy old man.

Lonely too, maybe.

And sure, he looked at me like…like…he liked what he saw, but he didn't do anything.

Are you sure he wouldn't have though, if you weren't interrupted?

I shake away the thought.

No, I'm just looking for something that's not there. Like I always do.

The elevator dings a second before the mirrored doors slide open.

Our room is only two doors down, and Dad swipes us in, gesturing for me to enter first. It's a suite, with two separate bedrooms—a king in the one to the right, and two doubles in the other to my left, just past the bathroom.

I clear my throat, and it's all wet and crackly in that way it gets after struggling to catch my breath for however many minutes it's been since I all but ran out of the bathroom.

"You can go back down," I tell Dad, slipping off my suit jacket. I don't have to look to see there's wet spots around my pits and lower back from where sweat's soaked through. I fight a shiver, wrapping my arms around myself.

A pill bottle appears and I look up at Dad.

It's funny to think how differently he sees mental health now. I get why he was reluctant when I was just a child, but I'm glad he sees now how much it helps me.

"Thanks," I murmur, taking it from him.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I nod. "I'm gonna shower and draw for a bit. I'll be fine."

"Okay." He searches my face with a frown. He checks the time on his watch, nodding. "Just a couple more hours tops, I'd imagine."

Grabbing a water from the minifridge, I murmur, "Okay."

"Text or call if you need me."

"I will."

Footsteps retreat, and a moment later I hear the heavy gasp and thud of the hotel door opening and closing, locking behind him. My eyes fall shut, and I hang my head, giving up all pretenses.

My parents know better now than to hover when my anxiety acts up. It just makes it worse—takes me longer to talk myself down, because I'm too busy worrying about them.

I can tell it's not always easy, leaving me to suffer on my own. But we've been through enough panic attacks and therapy over the years for even them to catch on to how much quicker I can snap out of it when they give me space, and I can focus on me and only me.

I pop a Xanax, washing it down with nearly half the bottle of water, before stripping down and grabbing a quick shower. I've been taking meds long enough that they don't just knock me on my ass, but as I'm drying off, I can feel my muscles unlocking, and my head growing comfortably fuzzy.

When I go to rumple up my suit and throw it in my mesh linen bag, I remember my phone. Pulling it out, I see two messages waiting for me—both from Mason.

Grabbing my sketchbook and pencil, I climb into bed, and scoot up against the headboard before opening the texts.

Mase Face

Aye aye captain she's heading in now

The second one was sent only minutes ago.

They just dropped the trailer for the new Spider-Man!!!!

"Oh shit," I murmur, closing my messages, and pulling up YouTube to find it.

After I watch it, I return to my messages and thumb a response.

Looks badass! I can't wait.

Seconds pass, once it's delivered, with it still remaining unread. The time reads 9:24, and it's a Saturday night, so I'm not surprised if he's away from his phone, especially now that he's caught up with Izzy. I lock it, and toss it aside. Reaching for the remote, I turn on the flat screen across from the bed, and find some mindless movie to put on in the background.

I could get my headphones, but for whatever reason I'm not really feeling it right now.

Despite the Xanax working through my system, I feel restless still—like that feeling you get when you've forgotten something, but can't remember anything about what it is that you've forgotten.

Flipping open my sketchbook, I find my most recent work in progress—just a silly little concept drawing of a comic strip I had in mind. A rough outline of a figure with his back to me, cape billowing behind him, greets me, backdropped by a shadowy city skyline. Above, in a text bubble, I plan to write something witty—something sarcastic but charming the hero would say looking upon the city he protects…

Still working out what that might be. But the idea's there, somewhere. Just have to root it out.

A few minutes later, I feel a vibration against my leg, and I pause in my shading. Bringing the pencil to my mouth, I pin it between my teeth, and grab my phone.

Me too! We'll def have to go

I smile around the pencil, but just as quick as my elation comes, do I remember the decision I made earlier.

Spitting out the pencil, I lean my head back, staring up at the ceiling.

Either he's not looking for a response, or just assumes it's a done deal, because another text comes in before I can figure out what to say back.

So hows the party? steal any fancy champagne?

Lol no…i dipped out early

Dont blame you

A long moment passes before I respond.

Hbu? Wyd tonight?

Three dots appear, disappear, and then reappear.

Only it's not a text that comes in, but a blurry picture. Lifting my phone, I squint at what looks to be a bonfire blazing. There are shadowy figures in front of it, and I'm pretty sure one of them is Waylon.

Ah.

Babysitting?

HA HA. funny.

We go back and forth a bit more—he tells me he's only had a couple beers; isn't really feeling like walking home again, seeing as Waylon's really bad at remembering he's DD when it's his turn.

My eyes start to feel heavy, along with my body. I lower the volume on the TV, flick off the lamp on the end table, and move my art supplies to the other side of the bed so I can dive under the covers.

On my side, cheek pressed to my pillow, I tell him I'm gonna crash.

Aight, tty 2morrow.

Night

The time now reads 10:20. I've been texting Mason for almost a whole hour.

Groaning, I lock my phone, shoving it under the pillow.

"This needs to stop," I mutter into the empty room.

Save for the blue flickers coming from the television, and the red light on the smoke detector up in the corner, it's dark.

Sniffing, I pull the covers all the way up to my neck, and close my eyes.

Drowsiness from the meds has my thoughts slowing, and untangling into nonsense faster than normal. But beneath the fuzziness, that curl of antsiness persists, chipping away at me.

Dreams nip at my consciousness, luring me into oblivion with flashes of color—Spider-Man swinging from rooftop to rooftop…

Little do I know as I fall into oblivion that those movie plans will never come to fruition.

That I'll never even watch it, because it'll forever be tainted by this night.

That tonight was the last normal, somewhat peaceful night I'd have for years and years to come…

They say when tragedy strikes, you remember every little surrounding detail.

What you were doing.

What you were eating.

What you said last.

What you were watching.

And the detail that will stand out to me most of all…

Is how I went to sleep smiling.