Chapter 35

I'm sliding

Slipping

Losing

Where are you

Whereareyouwhereareyou

I didnt mean it, I'm sorry. Come back, please come back

"What happened?" a familiar voice rushes out, their tone pulled tight like a whip that somehow manages to cut through the heavy fog pressing in around me.

The world rocks and sways beneath me, and I'm vaguely aware of a scraping—dragging sound. It's not until I land in a heap on something soft that I realize it was my feet shuffling across the floor.

The weight I felt under my arm a moment ago is gone, so I take my newfound freedom and curl up on my side, using my clasped hands as a pillow.

"Field party," a new, deeper voice says.

Waylon…

I vaguely remember seeing his face. Just a flash of an image really.

Furrowed black brows.

Flames dancing in glittering dark eyes.

Stars streaking in a blurred vortex above his head.

The ground was damp. Soft. Cold.

We'd shown up at the party together…

It's Halloween.

There was a bonfire.

I don't remember how we got separated.

I don't remember much of anything.

"Sorry to just, like, drop him on you like this."

"No, no, I'm glad you brought him home." Mom.

He brought me home? Why would he?—

"Did he take anything, or?—"

"No. Not that I saw. He's just…really drunk."

A moment passes, then, "And you?"

"I stopped a while back."

"Waylon…"

Even in my daze, I know that tone. Disappointment. She doesn't believe him.

"I know, I know," he says quickly, his voice cracking. "I just…I needed to get us out of there."

"You should've called someone. Me. Your uncle–"

"Not him."

There's another pause. "Fine, then me. Or-or?—"

"Jeremy?" He scoffs, and it's a bitter sound.

I try to curl myself tighter, but my limbs won't cooperate. My heart pounds sluggishly in my ears, and I wish I'd just pass out again. I don't want to be here. I just want to go back to that dreamless blackness they yanked me out of.

"I didn't want to bother him again," Waylon admits quietly. "He's the last person who should have to deal with this."

"Again? How often has this been happening?"

To that, Waylon says nothing.

A sigh fills the room, and then Mom says, "We'll talk about it in the morning. The three of us, when you both sober up."

A moment later, a hand brushes back my hair, and lips find my temple in a soft kiss. "Love you kid," Mom murmurs.

Footsteps fade, and then it's quiet.

So quiet, that all I can hear is my heart still chugging away, stubborn thing that it is.

Just when I think maybe Waylon left too, and I somehow missed it, he bites out a curse. And I finally manage to crack my eyes open, blinking as the word spins around me. "Way?" I croak no louder than a whisper.

A shadowy figure I assume is him crouches down in front of me, dropping to his knees.

Blinking, I finally pull his face into focus. Hidden mostly in shadow, I can only make out his glassy eyes, and the pale sharpened edges of his face.

"Yeah. I'm here."

Our eyes lock, and stay there.

No more words are spoken.

We just stare at each other.

Waiting…

For what, I don't know.

To wake up from this nightmare?

"You should probably be careful," he says after a moment, and I frown, not sure what he means. Not until his next words register. "You've been…you've been drinking a lot lately."

I scowl. Or at least, I think I do.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm one to talk," he mutters. Something tells me those words weren't for me.

He huffs a harsh, humorless laugh and drops his head, running his fingers through his dark hair. "It's not just every weekend now though."

"It's Halloween," I somehow manage to mutter, my voice slurring.

Another short, caustic sound claws its way up from Waylon's throat. "Yeah, and what's your excuse for last night? Or the night before?"

"Couldn't sleep," I mumble, which isn't exactly true.

It's not so much that I can't sleep… it's that I don't want to. At least when I black out, I can forget for a bit. Manage some semblance of peace. Find solace in the blinding headaches and churning nausea when I wake—a much needed balm to the agony of having to remember all over again.

Waylon is suspiciously silent. Still. His head hangs, gaze locked on his thighs.

"Look," he says after another moment, his words uttered slowly, carefully, "I'll try to cut back if you do, okay?"

When I say nothing to that, he lifts his gaze back to mine, and says, "We need to be strong for her. She'd hate to see us like this. See you like this." He swallows audibly. "You…you just have to hold on, okay?"

Emotion swells my throat.

"They'll find her, and they'll bring her home. We just have to hold on. We can't fall apart."

Sniffing, I manage a short nod. "I'll try," I whisper, knowing that's all I can give him.

Knowing, somehow, it won't be enough. Not until she's safe in my arms once more.

I just need this to get through, and then I'll stop.

Waylon nods back. "Me too."

Something tells me it won't be so easy for him either.

"I'm tired," I tell him. And it's the truth. I'm so, so fucking tired.

The shadowed planes of his face shift as a pained expression passes over his face. "Me too, man. Me too."

"When I wake up, I forget…makes me not wanna wake up at all."

A small, choked noise escapes him. "Same."

"But at least when I'm drunk?—"

"We don't dream," he finished in a whisper.

Our eyes connect once more, and as wrong and selfish as it is, I'm grateful I'm not alone in this. That he's suffering too. No one else gets it, not like we do, no one but?—

"Jeremy,"

"Huh?"

I swallow thickly. "Next time…call Jeremy."

A beat passes, and it's only then that I notice I've closed my eyes, sleep tugging me back under.

"Are you… are you sure? Maybe?—"

"Need to stay together," I mumble. "All for one…"

And with those final words trailing off into nothing, the black heavy oblivion fueled by beers and liquor I knocked back earlier, swallows me up.

And I am gone.

AGE 18, MAY

This is all wrong.

Senior year.

Prom.

Hell, everything.

Students converge toward the center of the gymnasium, navy and white balloons floating and fluttering up between and around the weaving bodies. The high ceilings and pushed back bleachers are strung with streamers made of gauze and woven-in paper stars with twinkling fairy lights, giving the space an ethereal vibe that makes it all the more dreamlike.

Surreal.

The DJ posted against the back wall, mostly hidden by the undulating bodies gathered together, dancing and waving their hands in the air without a single care in the world, spins one song into the next…into the next…into the next.

The music is grating, as is the laughter and smiles and kisses filling the gym. If I had more energy, and maybe a few less fucks to give, I'd do something dramatic, like pull the fire alarm, or hell, take a baseball bat to each of the speakers.

And maybe to some faces.

Like the ones that keep shooting me plastic smiles reeking of pity and nosiness.

But alas, I'm not quite drunk enough for that.

Yet.

Currently, some predictable-ass pop song is playing, singing something or other about dancing and lighting up the night. Students decked out in dresses and tuxes jump and sing along from where they all press together in the middle of the room.

A bitter snarl edges along my mouth as I slouch back against the wall of bleachers and bring the flask Waylon and I snuck in to my lips, wishing the shadows would just finally fucking devour me, and save me from this newest layer of Hell I've descended into.

The thought prompts a memory of a movie I've seen—and by I, I mean we…

Izzy and I.

As Above, So Below.

It's one of the very few horror movies to actually freak me out a bit.

Izzy loved it…made me watch it twice…

Anyway, in the movie, the chick is basically this greedy treasure-seeker, and she more or less cons a bunch of people into venturing with her through the catacombs in Paris, all in search of this mystical stone.

Something to do with alchemy. I don't fucking know.

But to find it, they have to go well past the point of where tourists are permitted.

And surprise, surprise—they get fucking lost.

Or rather, they basically stumble their way into Hell. Literally.

I wasn't paying too close attention—either time—seeing as it was just Izzy and I watching it, on the couch, in her basement, in the dark, under a blanket…

Obviously, I was busying myself with other things.

But I remember enough—like how it was basically built on the idea of Dante's version of the underworld, with all its circles and layers funneling down, down, down, going impossibly deeper…

Until it flipped.

Basically, the only way out was to go through.

The only way back up was down.

And I think of that now—all these little layers of shit I've been wading through since the beginning of this school year—and I wonder just how much deeper I have to go, before I can finally start working my way back up and out.

And that's if there's even an out to begin with.

As above…so below…

In theory, there is a balance to things. The tides are supposed to turn.

It's all I can hang on to these days. That there is an end in sight.

I just fear the end in sight, might not be the one I want…or need. With either Izzy found…dead…or me drowning in this agonized limbo where nothing makes sense anymore and hope is nothing but a carrot dangling cruelly in front of me, just out of reach.

A giggle followed by a low, familiar chuckle has me easing out of my thoughts, and sluggishly turning, not surprised to find Waylon all but mauling his date.

I'm nowhere near drunk enough for the bullshit that is prom—at least I don't think; it's hard to tell anymore, unless the room is spinning, or I'm browning out, or waking up with my head throbbing and nothing but a black blur for memories.

It's living that feels sluggish.

Every move I make.

Breath I take.

Every step I trudge through this alien, dreamlike landscape feels like wading through quicksand.

"Hey," Waylon barks, reaching around his date, Lena, to swipe the flask from me. He quickly shoves it into the pocket of his dress pants. "At least try to be sneaky about it."

I just stare at him.

Two teachers chaperoning already saw me with it. And while I did catch them confiscating someone else's…when they saw me with it, they just sort of gawked and gaped like fishes out of water before quickly scurrying off.

The pity rolling off them in waves was enough to make me almost wish they tried to take the flask from me. I've been rearing for a fight—for something…anything to distract me from this unbearable agony and helplessness that eats at me every second of every fucking day.

It has to go somewhere…

It just has to.

My body literally can't take it all.

So I just keep finding new ways to plug up all the holes.

"Mason."

"What?" I mutter, when I realize I'm just standing there, staring at just another ghost from before.

Worry lines etch along Waylon's face, his eyes tight and dark brows furrowed. Darting a quick glance at Lena, he releases her and steps closer to me, pulling me to the side. I yank out of his hold, and spin on him with a glare.

Keeping his voice elevated just enough to be heard over the music and din, but low so his words are only for me, he says, "Are you okay?"

A snort climbs up my throat, and I barely manage to cough it back. "Fine. Just fucking dandy."

"Are you drunk?"

I shrug. Not anywhere near enough.

Out loud, I say, "Was working on it." I make a gimme gesture, and he just scowls.

"You said you weren't drinking tonight."

"Plans change."

"There's barely anything left."

He's lying.

"You just want it for yourself," I say, not bothering to hide my irritation.

His lips press together, eyes gleaming from the soft twinkling lights bathing the gym.

Scoffing, I wave him off and go to turn away to find someone else who's less greedy about his booze, when Waylon's next words chase after me, halting me in place.

"Where's Jeremy?"

Eyes widening, I turn around, meet his gaze and say, "What the fuck do you mean?"

He shrugs, shaking his head. "I figured he was still over here with you."

Again, all I can do is just stare at him.

In my head, I replay through the last however many minutes I spent standing here, lost in my head. How many songs…

Jeremy was right here. Next to me.

How…

How the fuck did I lose him?

My head swings all about, gaze darting all over the edges of the gym. He wouldn't be in the middle with the rest, dancing and laughing with our peers, kissing and swaying with some girl… He just wouldn't.

"Mason!" Waylon calls after me, but I'm already gone.

He doesn't follow, and I can't say I blame him. I'm shit company to be around these days. It doesn't help that being around him is its own brand of torture. Being around…any of them…

Everyone…

But one person most of all.

One person who has me in a fucking chokehold, keeping me from falling into that dark, bottomless pit I've been dangling over for what feels like a century, rather than just eight months.

And yet, for some reason, the particular brand of torture that comes with being near Jeremy Montgomery, is one I welcome willingly. Seeking it out. Craving it like it's just another flask, filled to the brim with liquid fire I can asphyxiate on. Blaze my insides. Burn it all into ash.

It's fucked up on so many levels.

Levels beyond what anyone would be able to comprehend, or accept…

Levels beyond what even I can acknowledge.

But I can't stop.

He's a noose I'd dangle from in strangled, agonized hellfire for eternity.

My dress shoes squeak along the polished floors of the gym, then shift to a dull, but heavy sort of thud when I reach the thin, raggedy-carpeted hallway when I blow through the people blocking the open doorway.

I don't miss the lingering looks and stares that follow, but unlike before, it's just background noise. All of it. The music too.

I clench my fists at my side—palms slick with sweat. My heart's racing, and it's all I can hear now as I shove open the bathroom door, and look inside.

A couple guys at the urinals pivot their heads at my loud intrusion, scowling, but immediately looking away when they see who it is.

The bitterness inside me roils into something even more foul-tasting—something without a name. Letting the door fall shut behind me, I look down the hall in front of me, and then the one stretched out to my left, leading to the doors that would take me into the courtyard.

From here, through the glass, I can see shadows moving about in front of the lights strung up over the trees. They decorated out there too.

Teeth gritted, I shake my head, cast off that path, and head straight instead.

Another set of doors greets me at the end.

It's dark this way. Quiet.

Letting impulse carry me, I shove open the doors, looking around for a familiar golden head of hair. Brick siding stretches out on either side of me, and before me. The smell of garbage wafts from the dumpsters tucked into the back of this little alcove.

At the mouth of the narrow opening, a single spotlight fans across the glittering pavement. I find myself walking toward it, fingers playing mindlessly with the ring on my middle finger.

My shield.

Well, Jeremy's technically.

Something about that fact soothes me more than if it were my own.

The door eases shut behind me with a faint squeal. It'll probably lock, but I can't find it in me to care. From here, I can just walk back around to the front anyway.

Music filters from the open windows, growing louder as I edge my way around the school. Muscle memory has my brain filing the song away—"Teenage Dirtbag" by Wheatus.

In the distance, across from where the gymnasium is, separated only by this narrow utility road, is a swing set, half-buried in shadows, half-glittering under the fairy lights the school had put out this way too.

My steps slow, right along with my heart, when I spot the figure sitting slumped in one of the swings, dress shoes kicking at the mulch, blond hair gleaming.

I look around, but there's no one out here.

Just him.

He doesn't immediately notice me, and I take the moment to just…take him in, relief rushing through my veins, now that I found him and can see he's okay.

Seeing as Clay dropped out not long after Ethan got expelled last year, neither are here tonight. No one else really gives Jeremy problems, not anymore, not these days, when he gets more pity than I do. They just…avoid him.

Makes it easy for him to slip by unnoticed.

Just like he managed to slip past you.

Wincing at the reminder, I rub my fingers just under the base of my throat, where a painful sort of knot has formed.

Be better.

My shoes crunch along the chunks of concrete that have broken off on the steps leading up to the swings, and at that, his head snaps up, tension drawing his body tight.

"Just me," I say, holding up a hand, at the same time he relaxes.

"Hey," he mumbles, and yet out here, with nothing but the music playing faintly from the windows behind me, his voice carries easily.

"You left."

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "Surprised you noticed."

I rear back at that, and he grimaces, looking away. Something tells me he didn't mean to say that. I'm glad he did though. It's the least I deserve.

"Yeah… sorry about that."

"It's whatever. I didn't mean it like…" He waves a hand. "It's not like you're my—" He drops his head, grumbling what I imagine are curses under his breath. "I don't need a fucking babysitter."

Sucking my lip between my teeth, I debate my next words. "Well, clearly I do."

He snaps his gaze to me, and I shrug, lips twisted with a small, rueful smile.

He huffs a not-quite laugh, but it's something. And for a moment, it feels just like how it used to be, with humor alighting his eyes, humor I feel reflected in my chest, easing up some of that tension eating away with it.

And then I remember.

Without any prompting.

Because how could I forget?

How could either of us ever forget?

It hits him at just about the same time it hits me, and both of our barely-there smiles fade.

Clearing my throat, I stuff my hands in my pockets and look around. In the corner of my eye, Jeremy's started toeing at the mulch again, pale fingers squeezed around the chains.

"Why'd you leave?" I find myself asking, still looking anywhere but directly at him.

He shrugs. "Because coming here was fucking stupid."

"Yeah…"

"I don't just mean—" He quickly cuts himself off, and I frown.

Blowing out a sharp breath, he finally says in a more careful, measured, tight voice, "I don't belong here. I feel like I…"

"Like you what?"

"Like because she couldn't be here, I had to take her place."

Everything in me stills, and a weird sort of pressure fills my ears.

"Sorry," he mutters.

I go to say, Don't be, but he keeps going before I can manage to scrape out the word.

"It's just being in this school again, walking these halls…I don't fucking belong here, and everyone knows it. She should be here. With you. With Waylon. With her friends." He's shaking his head, and when I'm finally able to drag my gaze to his face, something sort of bottoms out inside me at the unchecked pain rippling across his face.

It's been eight months, and other than flickers here and there, sometimes I feel like he's as much a ghost as is the girl who haunts us both.

Not that she even is a ghost.

She's still alive.

She has to be. Jeremy would know if she wasn't. I would know.

She's fucking alive out there, somewhere, clinging to the memories of us and home, just as desperately as we cling to her and the hope that she'll be returned to us.

Still…despite Jeremy's insistence she's alive, sometimes I do wonder.

I doubt.

He wouldn't lie to me…right?

Except he would, wouldn't he? When it comes to this…

Groaning, he slaps his hands to his face, and scrubs roughly. He says something I can't make out, and I find myself drawing nearer.

Despite what he said a moment ago, I feel like there's something else going on here. Something else eating him, that isn't just the absolute absurdity that is going to prom while his sister—my girlfriend—is missing, and-and going through God fucking knows what.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

My teeth begin to chatter, and it has nothing to do with the slight breeze blowing through. It's late May, and been getting warmer by the day, but the nights are still pretty chilly. Not that I even really noticed until now.

Jeremy hunches his shoulders, and I find myself asking, "Are you cold? We should go back inside." I go to turn away, and start heading back, already making plans to find Waylon and wrestle the flask from him if I have to—and that's if he didn't drink it all already—when from inside the gym, the music quiets, and the DJ, his voice clear as day, announces it's time to grab hold of our dates and slow things down.

The swing squeaks and chains rattle from behind me. There's a soft gust of air—a short, scornful huff. "Great."

The song that starts playing is one I immediately recognize, as soon as the gentle, rhythmic guitar intro echoes out into the night. "Hear You Me" by Jimmy Eat World.

A quiet, bitter laugh trails from behind me. "I shouldn't be here."

Turning, I find Jeremy staring down at his lap, knuckles white around the chains, and a chill works down my spine. "What do you mean?

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know what's fucking wrong with me tonight." He stands up suddenly, pushing away from the swing he was sitting on with such force, it goes flying out behind him, the chains getting all twisted together.

His chest rises and falls heavily, visible even under his suit jacket. Pacing, he grabs the ends of his hair hanging over his face in a familiar, anxious gesture.

"This is so stupid."

"Jer, what?—"

He whirls toward me. "God, there's so much worse shit going on, and here I am having a pity party because I will never have that," he says roughly, flinging a hand in the direction of the gym. "I will never…never have that, but Izzy could have. She should be here. With you, and?—"

I'm shaking my head, but I don't know why. Just that he's wrong. He's wrong.

"I'm gay."

The words are quiet—paper thin—and yet they crawl out of him with so much force and agony, that I feel those two syllables sink like rocks from my throat to gut. Every other word uttered from his mouth just breaks off, dispersing into nothing, leaving just those two words.

"I'm gay, and it means nothing. They were all right about me, and none of it means anything now."

Eyes burning, all I can do is stand here, frozen, staring at him.

And he stares right back, his amber eyes searing right through me. Like he's daring me to tell him he's wrong, or, fuck, hurt him for it.

They were all right about me.

From the gym windows, a guy's voice fills the night, singing about not knowing anyone in town, and having a place to go, and not saying thank you because he thought he'd have more time…

Jeremy's gaze drops, and he takes a step back, then another, wrapping his arms around himself, visibly trying to make himself smaller. "I'm gay," he whispers, again, and there's a thread of disbelief there, that wasn't before. Shaking his head, he says again, "I'm gay."

A sharp inhale spears through me when it hits me that this isn't just him coming out for the first time…

But I'm willing to bet it's the first time he said the words for himself.

Took ownership of them.

The music starts to pick up, and with everything he said running through my head—mostly nonsensically now, save for those two words—and the gut-punching feeling inside me…

I say, "Come here."

He lifts his head, brows knitted with visible confusion. His eyes dart to my extended hand, and he frowns deeper.

"Come on. We're gonna dance."

His lips part, and he blinks up at me.

I shake my hand, and he's shaking his head.

"No."

I arch a brow. "No?" I look around and say, "Why the fuck not? You're here. I'm here. No one else is. And it's fucking prom."

He gapes at me, bewilderment and something else—something I can't name—peering back from the achingly haunted amber depths of his eyes.

But I don't look away.

Especially when I say, "You should have all the same things they do in there. Now get the fuck over here, before I drag your ass inside to do this instead."

His jaw drops, and I arch a pointed brow, telling him without words I mean it.

"But I'm…a guy. And I'm gay. You're not, you're?—"

I scowl. "If they see us, they see us. What the hell are they gonna do?"

His eyes are big and wide on mine.

Rather than wait for him to argue some more, I invade his space, grab his wrists and throw his arms around my neck.

He sucks in a sharp breath, one that is quickly squashed by a scowl. It carries no heat though. If anything he seems amused.

"I'm not a girl," he drawls, and moves his arms, jostling mine where they need to be in the process. Making it so like we're hugging instead.

I roll my eyes, stepping right up against him. "Didn't realize there were genders to how one dances."

He snorts slightly at that, his hands coming around my back.

I don't miss the slight hitch in his breath, or faint tremor in his fingers, or the pink in his cheeks just before he ducks his head.

We're chest to chest, hands splayed across each other's backs, and we start swaying slowly, kind of awkwardly, and way out of rhythm to the song still playing.

But I don't care.

And he doesn't even seem to notice, too busy being all tensed up and staring at our awkwardly shifting dress shoes.

"C'mere," I rasp, and place a hand on the back of his head, guiding it to my shoulder.

My chest expands at the same time his does. His cheek rests against my shoulder, and even through my suit jacket and dress shirt, I can feel the hot puffs of uneven breaths skating down my upper arm.

He's all lean, barely-there muscle, and flat planes, and sharp edges against me.

It's unfamiliar, and not—holding him to me like this.

Except we're not horizontal this time.

And I'm awake. We're both awake.

And I'm sober. Mostly. Sober just enough that every little stab of agony in my chest can be felt acutely, and without mercy.

I ache and I ache, and yet, when I turn my head just so, silky golden blond hair flutters up against my nose with my inhale, settling me some. Reorienting my senses—my entire being—grounding me to this moment, and this moment only.

"You will have this," I find myself saying quietly, my voice thick. "Of course you will have this."

Jeremy says nothing, but his arms tighten, so I know he's listening.

"And you won't have to hide anymore. Not from this town, not from yourself…not from anyone. Whether that's here, or…or…"

"Mason…" he murmurs when I can't get the words out. He turns his face, pressing his nose into my neck.

I suck in a breath, and he stiffens. My arms instinctively tighten on him before he can panic and bolt. "It's okay," I tell him thickly. Wetting my lips, I say, "Izzy's gonna come home, and-and everything will be okay. We'll go off to college. You to California, and us to New York, just as we planned."

His lashes flutter over my skin, feather-light, and a chill skates down my spine.

My next words are spoken so softly, I can barely make them out over the thundering of my heart. "Everything will go back to the way it was, but it'll be better this time. Better because we…we know now, what it's like to lose it all. We'll never take things for granted again. We're gonna chase our dreams. We're gonna be brave. Nothing will hold us back from living the life we want."

I swallow hard. Hard enough, he has to hear it—feel it. "You're gonna go to art school where you'll make lots of friends and meet lots of boys. You'll go to parties and on dates, and…and have everything you should've had in high school."

Letting my eyes fall shut, I lose myself to the familiar cinnamon and earthy notes that I've come to associate with him. Especially these last eight brutal months. I breathe it in, willing it to ease the growing tightness in my chest.

"And then someday, there will be this guy, and he's gonna come along and-and push all the right buttons. You're gonna fight it. Be stubborn as always. But fuck, he's gonna fall so hard. And you're gonna fall so hard right back, because…because he won't give up. He'll never rest until you let him in."

A sniffle reaches my ears, and if I'm not imagining things, he burrows deeper against my chest, like he's again trying to make himself small…but this time, small within my arms.

"This boy—this man… he's gonna treat you the way you deserve, better than you think you deserve. He's gonna give you the world even when you insist you don't want it. Because as low maintenance as you try to be…" I say roughly, a low chuckle threading my words, "you're not."

A startled laugh croaks out of him, scraping hotly over my neck

"And you shouldn't be. You should have ridiculous standards and expectations, and settle for nothing less than everything."

The mood sobers once more, and my voice grows even quieter, so quiet, it's no more than a whisper. "And he's gonna be the luckiest man in the world, whoever he is. Because…you don't let people in easily. You don't love freely. So to have that…" I swallow. "To have that…"

Jeremy pulls back just enough to crane his head back, and meet my gaze.

And there's…there's something there. Something important. It shines back from rippling pools of amber, stealing whatever I was trying to say, stealing my damn breath.

"Mase…" he murmurs, his forehead creasing.

"You're gonna be happy," I say near-soundlessly, boring my gaze into his. His face blurs, and I'm vaguely aware of my jaw trembling, and the wetness streaking down my cheek. "You're gonna be so happy. And you hold on tight to that, okay? Don't let go. For anything."

His face bunches and he nods.

"Life's too short, 'kay?" I say roughly, my voice breaking.

Another nod, and then he's burying his face back in my neck, and holding me tight.

"It'll be okay," he chokes out in a whisper. Now, he's comforting me. Reassuring me. "It'll all be okay."

And I have to believe him.

Because the alternative…

"Thanks for dancing with me," he says after a moment.

"Right back at you."

He holds me a little tighter. "I'm sorry prom wasn't what you expected"

An unbearable tightness constricts my throat, and I'm unable to do anything but nod.

The song trickles off, fading into another slow song, one I instantly recognize from being overplayed on the radio years ago.

Jeremy groans, trying and failing to stifle a chuckle, and it instantly lightens the moment.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad," I rasp teasingly.

"It is. This song is so lame."

Swallowing back a laugh, I drag my gaze up to the star-smattered sky. "Yeah, little bit."

"And it romanticizes cheating," he grumbles, which draws another stifled laugh from me, his quiet outrage making it easier to ignore the way my chest tightens at his words.

"And the shit you listen to romanticizes death," I toss back, before I can think better of it.

Our swaying slows almost indecipherably.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"S'okay. You're not wrong."

"I think…I think it helps," I whisper. "Making sense of the ugly by finding the beauty in it. I mean, what else do we do with it, you know? How do we make room for it otherwise?"

Jeremy says nothing to that, but I can practically hear the thoughts—memories—filling up his head, taking him far from here, to another time. Another time where he'd be drawing or pouring over some poetry book, while I chewed on my pen staring at a blank page in my journal.

So many words in my heads—thoughts and feelings—but none of it felt…right.

No, it didn't feel good enough, I silently amend, seeing it for what it really was now.

I was a fucking coward.

An itch scratches at my brain, one I haven't felt in months, and when I close my eyes, I can almost hear that distant melody from so long ago—the song in my head I could never get out.

Spinning, spinning…

But then it's a flash of Izzy I see, and it's no longer my song, but our song. The one we manipulated until it was something else completely. And in my head, she's seated at the piano that now collects dust in her parents' basement, head thrown back, brown hair spilling down her back.

She's laughing at the heavens, and I'm watching her with my heart in my throat.

We were so happy.

So naive.

So unprepared for what was to come.

Now, outside the school, Jeremy shifts in my arms, and my hold on him tightens instinctively once more. Don't leave me, don't go. My eyes open, and the images in my head shatter into a sea of stars.

The song plays on, and no more words are spoken.

Either he heard my silent plea, or perhaps he too is afraid of what we'll return to when we finally let go.

So we sway and we sway, spinning slowly in place to the music filling the night, as one song gives to another and another, mindless of the fact of what's playing.

I let myself get lost in the warmth of his body, only slightly smaller than mine, making me wonder if I'd lost that much weight, or if he's just gotten bigger.

Sometimes he feels bigger. His presence. His being. My awareness of him…

Like it's this immeasurable entity just hovering on the edges of my subconscious. Pulling at me gently, with just enough pressure to slowly have me sinking back, back, back…

Deeper, and deeper, and deeper—a gravity I can't escape.

Perhaps that's why I hang on so tight, despite knowing how wrong it is. Unhealthy… Depending on him as desperately as I do. Clinging to him like he's all that's keeping me from falling into oblivion. Despite how much it eviscerates me when I do.

Perhaps that is why I continue to burn and burn for him. Because in these brief moments of reprieve, like now, where just for a second, the noose loosens, the flames retreat just enough for the smoke to clear, and gravity no longer feels like a curse but a relief…

I can remember what it's like to breathe freely again.