Chapter 40

"It's called the left hand rule," I tell him.

His steps slow, and over my shoulder, I watch as he spares the entrance into the maze one last lingering look.

I turn to face ahead, and run my left hand over the neatly trimmed, bristly green hedges towering over us. "It doesn't work for every maze," I go on, "but it should for this one."

"Why's that?" Mason says, and I sense him jogging to catch up.

"Because as far as I know, this is the only way in and out," I explain. "So as long as we keep to the left side, following this wall with each turn, and just… sticking to it… it will lead us to where it ends. The center."

"And if there are other exits?"

I glance over at him, lips thinned. "Then we get lost, and we do this the old fashioned way."

Mason huffs shortly at that, and proceeds to dig his phone out of his pocket. "You remember that one time we got lost in that corn maze when we were kids?"

My throat tightens at the memory. "Yeah," I say softly. "Waylon freaked out so bad, he bolted straight through the stalks, and ended up in the surrounding woods."

We only know this because Izzy followed him, while Mason and I hung back, determined not to cheat.

Mason pulls up the flashlight app on his phone and beams it at the path ahead. "It took us forever."

"Yeah, it did," I whisper, and there's a weird edge to my voice I hope he doesn't notice.

When we'd finally made it out of the maze that day, we'd found Izzy and Waylon with our parents, and Mason's mom. Izzy skipped up to me, and looped her arm through Mason's, dragging him ahead, going on about the cider donuts they were waiting on getting until we got out.

"Hopefully we're a little less spatially challenged now that we're older," I say, and it doesn't escape me how…clinical my voice sounds.

Mason must hear it too, because any lingering humor or wistfulness from recalling that day so long ago, is instantly soaked up by the reminder of why we're out here, doing this.

"Yeah, and we can't very well storm through these if we get lost and panic," Mason says, reaching over, and running my hand over the right wall of green hedges.

"No, we can't. So stick to this side. And don't panic."

If we were the us from yesterday, he'd be laughing, no doubt teasing me for being so serious. It's just a hedge maze after all. Harmless fun. This isn't the Overlook Hotel. There's no ax-wielding maniac chasing us as a blizzard threatens to bury us inside.

But the us now…

Well, neither of us is finding this too funny or exciting.

If anything, it feels like the walls are closing in, and I wonder if it feels the same for him.

Was she scared too?

At the thought, I instinctively hunch up like I could ward off the thoughts—the images playing out in my head, of all the worst case scenarios that could've happened. Mason seems to draw closer, and I wonder if he's having similar thoughts.

The wall abruptly ends, and we make our first of what turn out to be many twisting, sharp left turns.

Around and around we go…until I lose count. Every few feet, one of us calls out to Izzy. Nothing but silence greets us in return.

"Where's your phone?" Mason asks at one point.

I shrug. I have no idea.

He's frowning—I can feel it. And I know what he's wondering—was I planning to come in here alone, without even a way to call for help? Without even a light?

If it wasn't for his phone, we'd have nothing but the stars twinkling overhead to rely on. If the moon's out there somewhere, it's hidden from us.

Along the tops of the hedges, several feet above us, there are what look to be fairy lights strung up. But they're not on, telling me we shouldn't even be in here in the first place.

And yet?—

That's exactly what I was going to do.

Something tells me Mason suspects as much. Perhaps that's why he lets the subject drop. He's here, and he has his phone, so it doesn't really matter anymore what I had planned. Or even why…

"Look," I breathe, snapping out of my thoughts.

Mason follows to where I point, hope momentarily overtaking both of us.

"I think this is it." My steps quicken to a jog to where the narrow path leads to what looks like a fountain, one devoid of any running water.

I hear Mason jogging after me, and when I rock to a sudden stop around the corner, he bumps into me. Frozen, we stare into the expansive garden spread out before us.

Slowly, Mason brushes past me, stepping deeper into the garden, head swinging every which way as he takes everything in.

The orange and white flowers bathed in gray shadows.

The gazebo, white and specter-like, haloed by low-hanging trees.

The cobbled pathways between meticulously shaped hedges.

In the distance, I can just make out the sound of waves crashing along the beach.

Is this what she heard?

Was she here?

Did she even make it this far before….

Before…

Mason and I are both quiet as we start looking around, an unspoken understanding hanging over the garden that we don't leave until we've scoured every inch.

The search parties, the police…

They had to have missed something.

Neither of us will accept anything else.

People don't just…disappear without a trace. Sure, there's the broken heel, and whoever's blood they found near the entrance. But it's not enough. There has to be more. Something they missed.

It has to be why I felt called out here—why I felt such a dire need to retrace her steps.

Maybe she didn't get taken at all, I tell myself.

Maybe she did run away, for whatever reason. Maybe she left a note.

And while, initially, the thought of her doing something so selfish and impulsive and crazy was out of the question—offensive even, for the police to even propose…

Now I can't help but hope that's exactly what happened.

So long as she's okay, I don't fucking care if she decided to… up and start a new life or whatever. One without Mason. Without Waylon. Without our parents. Without me…

I'd be pissed, sure. We'd all be furious.

But she'd be alive. And that's all that matters.

"There's nothing…" Mason says, his thick voice carrying on the balmy breeze.

Pushing up to a stand from where I was crouched by a bed of flowers, I brush the dirt off my hands, and go join Mason.

He's standing in the center of the garden with his head thrown back, hands stuffed in his pockets. Like me, he's wearing jeans, though far less baggier than mine. And whereas I wear an oversized gray t-shirt with a black skull emblem across the front, he's got on an unbuttoned navy and black flannel over a white t-shirt.

Isn't he warm? I think distantly.

But then I realize… I'm cold.

Hugging myself, I sidle up to him, and tip my head back, following his gaze to the stars.

"We'll keep looking," he says quietly, like maybe the words are just for him.

I swallow thickly, and shake my head, whispering "She's not here."

A beat passes.

"Don't say that," he whispers back, his voice trembling.

Despite how quietly he utters them, the words seem to echo across the empty garden.

I slowly drag my gaze from the stars to where Mason's already peering back at me.

A solid beat passes, and then he rips his gaze away, agony and something undefinable rippling over his features.

I hang my head, staring unseeingly at the ground as it hits me suddenly—bowls me over so powerfully, how it doesn't take me to my knees, I don't know. What he has to be thinking… realizing…

What I've been too terrified to even consider…

She's missing. That's all this is.

She's lost, and we'll find her. If not us, the cops.

She's not?—

"They're dead."

Everything in me stills. "What?"

My throat thickens, and I blink rapidly, trying to stave off the flood of panic and nausea that is slowly but surely building inside me.

"The stars. They're dead."

Frowning, I look up, taking in the pale, sharp edges of Mason's profile, and once again I follow his gaze up to the distant lights winking back at us from universe.

"My dad," Mason goes on stiffly. "He told me that once. I used to…I used to talk to them. The stars. Like they were my friends."

Something stutters in my chest.

"I'd ask them for things. Make wishes. Tell them secrets. You know."

My breath hitches. "Mason…"

"And one night, he caught me, asked what I was doing." In my periphery, he's slowly shaking his head side to side. "And he told me… he told me they were just echoes. Light reaching us billions of years after they'd already burned out."

Above us, the stars blur into white streaks, as what he's telling me registers.

He huffs a short, humorless laugh. "So stupid," he mutters, his voice cracking the ever slightest bit.

"How old were you?"

"Uh, five, maybe four."

Jesus.

I turn my head, angling it just enough to make out his profile. His eyes turned up toward the sky gleam, and his throat visibly dips with a hard swallow.

"You haven't talked about him in years," I murmur.

"Haven't really thought about him in years." He sniffs, and hangs his head, pinches the corners of his eyes with his fingers.

I inhale sharply. Then, "Mase?—"

"Come on. I don't wanna be here anymore."

Quickly turning away, he strides with quick, determined steps toward the first exiting pathway he sees, seemingly uncaring which direction he goes.

Biting back a curse, I quickly jog after him.

"This way," I say, pointing toward the path branching off to the left. "Left hand rule, remember?"

His jaw tightens, and he nods, brushing past me without a word, or a single glance. But at least he's not just mindlessly wandering off.

With a long-winded exhale, I follow after him, leaving the stars and the secrets they carry behind us.

Five daysafter Morris drops the news on us, we bury Isobel Montgomery in an empty coffin.

Well, empty except for her favorite stuffed monkey from when she was a kid, a handful of Polaroids—of us growing up, of our family, of her and Mason, of her and her friends…

And a yearbook that her favorite teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, her music teacher, got signed by nearly the entire school, and gave to us at graduation.

The funeral is huge.

Bigger than it should be for an empty casket.

Bigger than it should be for a seventeen-year-old girl who didn't have nearly this many friends.

There's even a news van here, parked just outside the cemetery gates where local police are on standby to ensure they don't get through.

She's forever seventeen.

The reminder that I'm not just minutes older now, but years older, never fails to gut me.

Mason doesn't come to the funeral.

His mom tried to convince him. Gavin tried. Waylon tried. Even my dad tried.

I didn't. I haven't seen him or talked to him since the night Detective Morris stopped by, dropped the bomb on us, and I lost my shit in the driveway.

Not that I've tried to talk to him…

Not that he's reached out either.

And I can't really blame him.

For keeping his distance. For avoiding this…denying it…

For not giving up on her, when the rest of us so clearly have.

Sure about that?

But as quick as that doubt rises, I squash it down, knowing it's pointless.

I don't feel her. I don't feel anything.

And short of a body, we've had all the confirmation we need. A first-hand witness account of her death. The FBI isn't going to continue wasting resources on trying to disprove that, much less scour the planet for what remains of her, if anything.

But Mason refuses to accept it. He refuses to bury an empty casket.

And now that I'm here, staring reality in the face as a mahogany coffin hovers over a six-foot-deep hole in the ground—and there's a priest yammering on about fate and better places, shoveling empty platitudes and irrelevant scriptures into the graves that now reside in each of us…

Well, if I didn't smoke a fat blunt with Waylon and Ivy on the way here, and take twice as much Xanax as my prescription calls for, I'd probably do something stupid and fucked up. Make a scene. Lash out dramatically. Like shove the priest into the hole, or sob and bash my fists on the waste of money that is this empty coffin.

Little does Father whatever-his-name know, these holes inside us can't be filled.

Nothing will ever make this okay, or any easier to swallow.

Not even a body. Even if that's what Mason likes to think he needs.

Whichever way you look at it, it's torture all the same for all of us.

Waylon and I stand side-by-side, staring down at the sealed casket. On his right he has his cousin, Ivy, and on my left I have Phoebe.

At one point, Mason's little sister curls her hand around mine. For some reason, it reminds me to take a breath. Except when I do, I catch a whiff of fresh dirt and flowers, and it just reminds me where we are.

It makes me wonder if Mason's high right now. High like me.

Maybe he's lucky—maybe he's sleeping, rather than torturing himself with things like empty caskets and news trucks and fantasies of beating up priests.

Gavin's not here today, which speaks volumes as to how worried everyone is about Mason.

I try not to think about it.

I'm still too pissed off at him.

Still too numb to be anything but angry with Mason.

Because it's easier to feel that than be worried I'm going to lose him too.

Easier to focus on him than the fact I'm at my sister's fucking funeral.

This isn't right.

This isn't the way things were supposed to be.

A hand appears in front of me, extending a flower.

With my free hand, I pinch the stem between my fingers.

Red roses. The flower she pretended to the world was her favorite.

Because the truth is, Izzy's favorite wasn't a flower at all, but a weed—daisies. And not the kind that are planted intentionally or sold at flower shops, but the kind that invade gardens and grassy fields, and poke through wooded backyards, growing unchecked, imperfect and wild.

The kind of daisies she and I would make flower crowns out of as kids, and wear in our tree house, pretending it was our castle.

Waylon knows this, because he was there.

Mason too.

As we got older though, she was insistent on loving roses. So much so, that clearly even Mom and Dad believed her. I'm not sure why she tried so hard to love something more than she actually did—maybe it had to do with the whole piano thing, and what's expected of her.

Renowned musicians don't typically get wildflowers handed to them after all.

The priest wraps up his spiel, and muffled sobs surround me as we're instructed to file up and say our final goodbyes.

Our row goes last, of course. And in that time, my mind drifts—the softly uttered prayers and farewells coming from where people stop to set their roses on the casket, flitting in one ear, and out the other.

"I can't do this."

Slowly, I pivot my head to stare at Waylon's tight profile. It's then I realize that Phoebe's no longer next to me, but standing in front of the casket with her mom. It's our turn. I didn't even notice she released my hand.

"I can't do this," Waylon whispers again. The rose pinched between his fingers quakes.

"Then don't."

It doesn't even register that the words came from me, not until hazel eyes swivel to mine, reddened and gleaming with a combination of unshed tears, and the lingering effects of the weed we all but devoured in the parking lot before coming down here.

People saw us of course. We didn't bother to try and hide it.

No one said a thing. They never do where we're concerned.

His mouth opens, closes, and then Ivy's there, squeezing his bicep. Her gaze meets looks between us. "It's okay. If you're not ready, it's okay."

She's speaking to him, yet it feels like the words are for both of us.

Waylon looks down at the rose, his brow furrowing.

Sniffing, he nods and lets Ivy take it from him. He quickly turns away, and makes a beeline for the parking lot on the other side of the trees.

Envy grips me, blurring my vision with fresh tears.

But I don't let them fall.

I can feel people watching me, and it's surreal to think how drastically I've changed in such a short amount of time. It makes me bitter, so fucking bitter, to think how stupid and pathetic I used to be, terrified of…of what? What people thought of me? What they were saying?

My sister's gone.

She was ripped from us.

How does any of that compare to this?

"JJ?" I hear Dad say, but it's as if it's coming from very far away.

Waylon's standing just past the tree line, barely visible, arms crossed, glaring down at the grass. Ivy's jogging up to meet him.

I can't do this either, I realize.

I can't say goodbye. Not yet.

She'd never give up on me. What the hell am I doing here?

There's a buzzing in my ears, and a glare in my eye from the cruel, heartless sun beaming down on us.

It hasn't rained in a week, not since that night in my driveway. If that doesn't confirm how apathetic the universe is to our suffering, I don't know what does.

"Jeremy?"

I hear my name, but it's just noise. Just a remnant of a stupid, old forgotten song that has my lip curling with bitterness.

I can imagine what they're all thinking—my parents. Cousins I haven't seen in years. Aunts, uncles…the people from this town who've known us our whole lives, known me.

They're thinking, Jeremy will do as he's told.

Jeremy won't cause a scene.

Jeremy's the quiet, meek twin…the well-behaved twin…the stoic one…

The rose slips from my fingers, landing in the bright green grass speckled with dirt.

I can't do this. I won't. Not yet…not yet…

Please don't make me.

"Jeremy!" a voice calls out, but I'm already gone.

With the sun blaring overhead, and a sky so blue, it could be a picture in a graphic novel, I run toward Waylon—toward a future where limbo awaits, rather than closure. Uncertain and terrifying, but far more appealing than the one I leave with that empty coffin.

These people don't know me.

They don't know a single damn thing.

Waylon spots me, and something like determination sparks in his eye.

I'm not Jeremy the Coward anymore.

I'm Jeremy the Wicked.

And if hope shall be my downfall…

Then fall I will.

Ivy dropsus off at the Wyatts'.

She doesn't stay, nor do we expect her to.

There's a luncheon happening at Chickie's diner, and seeing as Gavin's truck is still here—indicating he's taking his babysitting duties seriously—I assume Sherry and Phoebe will stop over there first, before coming home.

Inside, it's quiet, save for the quiet, muffled sounds of a television filtering from the living room.

At the sound of the door closing behind us, a gruff voice calls out, "Sher, that you?"

Waylon and I exchange a quiet look, before he steps into view of the living room. I follow.

When Gavin sees us, he pushes off the couch to a stand, eyes wide.

"We couldn't do it," Waylon says without preamble.

Gavin doesn't ask him to clarify. His furrowed gaze darts between us, and I register belatedly how red his eyes are.

He nods solemnly. "He's not in a good place today." His dark gaze finds mine. "But I reckon you're not either."

Clenching my teeth, I say nothing.

From inside the pocket of my dress pants, my phone vibrates for the umpteenth time.

Sorry, Dad. Busy.

Gavin blows out a breath, running his hand over his beard. "Just, uh, be prepared. I flushed the rest of his pills down the toilet yesterday, so he's not at his best right now."

With that, he strides past us, and by the sound of his fading footsteps, he's heading toward the kitchen in the back of the house.

"Great," Waylon says flatly. He cuts me a wary look, and I just shake my head and turn for the stairs.

It's like a tomb upstairs, the floorboards creaking under our footfalls the only sound to be heard.

Waylon knocks on Mason's door. "Mase? It's me."

It doesn't escape me that he says me not us.

But before I can dwell too deeply on that, Waylon turns the knob, clearly not about to wait for a response, and hesitantly pushes the door open.

"Shit."

Frowning, I nudge him inside and out of my way, fear for the worst momentarily gripping me, scattering all semblance of rational thought.

What I actually find… well, it's not much better.

Scattered across the floor are pieces of Mason's Yamaha keyboard. Wires and keys that were flung off. Bits of plastic. Like he didn't just drop it or throw it. He bashed the hell out of it. Intentionally.

Eyes wide, I follow the carnage over to the bed, where a blank-eyed Mason stares at me from where he's sprawled out on his stomach, sheets rumpled at the foot of the bed. In nothing but gym shorts, there's no denying now how much weight he's lost.

Where normally I'd be panicking at the sight of seeing him half-naked—willing my body not to react—right now I'm cataloging him for completely different and unexpected reasons.

His hair is a shade darker than normal, and damp looking. Greasy.

And by the stale, musty sort of stench in the room, I can't help but wonder when's the last time he left this room, or hell, opened a window.

Did he look this bad last time I saw him?

Either I was too blind to it, until I had some distance, or he somehow swan-dove to rock bottom in only a matter of days.

"Jesus, man," Waylon croaks, and I think I have my answer.

That or Mason was a lot better about hiding it before. From all of us.

"You look like shit."

Mason blinks at him. "And you two look like assholes."

I flinch.

His lip curls, and he pushes himself up to rest on his forearm. "What? You just had to rub it in my fucking face that you just came from a funeral?" He waves at our outfits. "Get that shit off you."

Waylon scoffs.

"Fine," I snap, and start ripping off my tie. "You want it off? I'll take it off."

I have no idea what I'm saying, or where this surge of anger comes from. But suddenly the desperation to be out of these stupid dress clothes is about as strong as my wrath with Mason is right now. Wrath with him for being rightly pissed about what we're wearing.

"What are you doing?"

I sneer at Mason, and fumble with undoing my belt. "What does it look like? I'm getting out of these stupid clothes."

His eyes widen, nostrils flaring. Waylon is suspiciously quiet next to me.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" I say, undoing my fly, and tugging my shirt out.

I lift my fingers to my buttons, when he suddenly jumps out of bed, shouting, "Just stop!"

I freeze.

My gaze snaps to his, and I'm seething.

He's pale as shit, and it's then that I notice how much he trembles. His entire body seems to be quaking with chills. Except it's stupid-hot in here, and there's now a flush to his cheeks.

"Stop," he whispers, a hand held out in a sort of plea I can't make sense of.

Jaw working, I release the buttons on my shirt, and spread my hands as if to say, There. Happy?

His throat bobs with a swallow, and I can't keep my gaze from tracking its descent. Nor can I keep my gaze from wandering down his smooth bare chest, down to where his ribs ripple on either side with his heavy breaths.

I shake my head. "Mason…"

"Get out."

My head snaps up.

Next to me, Waylon says, "Mason." While my voice was filled with sadness, his is filled with warning.

"Get the fuck out," Mason snarls. "Both of you, just get out."

Heat creeps up my neck, my cheeks… My eyes burn, and it's suddenly hard to swallow.

The look in his eyes—the anger…the devastation…

On one hand, I think I understand.

On the other, I don't understand at all.

Because buried under all that fury and grief, there's something else—something bordering on fear, the desperate kind, like how I imagine a cornered animal would look.

And I don't get it.

I don't get where any of his newfound hatred of me is coming from.

But that's what it is, isn't it?

Hate.

I saw it that night in the kitchen. I saw it and I slapped him. I didn't even know I was going to do it until it already happened, and all I remember thinking in that moment was, Come back. Please come back. Don't leave me too.

Because this Mason? The one glaring back at me from red, bleary eyes.

I don't know him.

He's a stranger.

One warped by drugs and agony.

"For fuck's sake, Mase," Waylon spits. "He buried his sister today. Don't be a dick."

A stillness falls over the room at his outburst—at those damning words, laid out raw—and my eyes widen.

A beat passes, and then all hell breaks loose as Mason roars and makes to pounce on Waylon.

Only he's clearly more unsteady than I thought—weaker too—because Waylon easily side-steps the punch swinging his way. And Mason's fist sails right through the drywall, wood and dust and paint chips exploding across the floor.

He falls to a knee, shoulders caved around his greasy head.

I can count each individual knob of his curved spine pushing against his ashen, sweat-slicked skin.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, and then Gavin's there, taking in the scene.

Waylon mutters, "Fuck this," and leaves the room.

Eyes burning, all I can do is watch as Mason falls back on his ass, and buries his head in his hands. He's shaking all over, harder now, and he's rocking, mumbling under his breath.

It's not until Gavin kneels down next to him, that he lifts his head, and I can see the twisted, hateful version of him warring with the boy I once knew.

"Please, Gavin," he chokes out. "Just one more. Please, please, it'll be the last time."

Gavin's features are hard, unflinching, as he shakes his head. "No more, Mase."

Anger rips across Mason's face, but before it can consume him, he snaps his gaze my way, eyes widening like he just remembered I'm here.

"You…you have your meds on you, right? For emergencies. Th-this is an emergency, isn't it?" His watery pale blue eyes plead with me, and everything in me grinds to a halt as what he's asking for register.

Gavin cuts me a long, resigned look, and he shakes his head.

"P-please, Jeremy. Jer, JJ, please. I can't breathe."

I don't even realize I've started walking backward, until my ass hits his dresser.

"Jeremy, give me a fucking Xanax!" he shouts.

"No," I whisper.

His eyes widen, swirling with hurt and betrayal.

The world slants on its axis as I recall wondering why my prescription seemed lower than it should've been in recent months. I never counted my pills. Mom used to when I was younger, but now I keep them in my nightstand, or take them with me when I figure I might need them.

It's been a stressful year. I didn't…I just assumed I lost track…

Hell, I worried I was taking too many, even though I've always been careful. If I doubled up, it was only when I needed it, for days like today, when if it wasn't for the Xanax, I'm not sure I wouldn't have ended up with a razor blade on my bathroom floor.

How long has this been going on? Is that the real reason why he started sneaking over into my room at night? How many has he taken from me?

"I don't have any on me," I hear myself say. And the thing is…it's not even a lie.

"Bullshit," Mason spits. "You need them. Of course they're on you."

At his words—the way he says them—an ugly feeling rises—hurt twisted up with resentment.

He's not wrong… I do need them.

But he's also not right. I'm stronger than ever these days. If you could call apathy strength, that is.

"I took what I needed," I say flatly. "And I left the rest at home."

"You're lying." He's shaking his head. "You're always lying to me anymore."

At that, I flinch inward like he actually punched me.

It's the same words he said to me that night I found out my sister died.

Allegedly, a voice automatically supplies.

Shaking my head, I tug at the ends of my hair.

"Jeremy, I think it'd be best if you leave," Gavin says not unkindly. His sad eyes meet mine, brimming with apologies.

"Yeah, leave," Mason says. "Everyone fucking leaves." He laughs, and it's a rusty, cruel sound, fitting for the strange, broken boy sitting before me, the one I don't recognize.

Sucking in my cheek, I nod. Again, my phone vibrates inside my pocket.

"Right," I murmur, and go to turn, but pause.

Turning, I take Mason's state in one last time—searing it to my memory. The pale, clammy skin. The ribs and bones poking out where they didn't before. The greasy hair. The shivers.

"You know, Mason," I say.

He lifts his head, glassy light-blue eyes meeting mine.

"She was my sister."

Remorse flickers back at me at those four words.

And I see it—see him.

The scared, lost little boy still in there. The boy terrified of losing those closest to him. The boy now verging on manhood who's clung to me all these months, finding comfort in something neither of us could explain. The boy who held me in the rain only a week ago, so tight, like his arms were the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.

And he's pleading with me. Pleading for me to put him out of his misery. Pleading with me to forgive him. Pleading with me to make it all stop.

And it's that Mason—the real Mason who is my best friend, and the boy I've loved for what feels like my whole life; the Mason who is my protector, my hero… the Mason who currently needs me to save him…

It's that Mason I am utterly helpless to deny.

And it terrifies me. The lengths I'd go to preserve that version.

But then his face hardens, his eyes go cold, and the villain side of him takes over, spewing spitefully, "Yeah, well, she was the love of my life."

And just like that, I remember.

I can't fix this. Nothing short of bringing her back, will ever fix any of this. And God have I tried, bartering myself up to any god or devil that might be listening—anything to switch places with her.

But the truth is, she's gone.

This is it.

I can't fill this emptiness in either of us, any better than a stuffed animal or Polaroid could fill an empty coffin. I can't soothe our shared, and yet polarizing pain any better than a prayer in an ancient book can.

Sure, I can tell him to hold his breath and count to five.

I can hug him like he hugged me last week—I can hold him and lie and tell him I still feel her.

But what would it change?

What good has it done?

Look at him.

He'll exhale a little easier the next time around, but it'll all be the same shit after. He'll still be quaking with withdrawal. He'll still be jonesing for the next temporary fix. He'll still be bone-thin and he'll still resent me when the dust settles and it really fucking hits him that Izzy's never coming back; that I'm just this constant reminder of what he once had.

Just as it hits me now:

The Mason I knew and loved…

He's not coming back either.

He's been washed away by vodka and Vicodin and this grief he's content to let ruin his life and everyone around him.

So with nothing left to say, I turn away, welcoming the familiar icy numb cast that creeps over my skin, covering every inch. And I leave what's left of my shredded heart with a boy who has no clue just how fucking much I'd kill to bring Izzy back.

For him.

For me.

I'd sacrifice myself in a heartbeat to turn back the clock, and take her place.

"She's the love of my life."

Yeah, well, you're mine, Mason.

So fuck us both I guess.