Chapter 41

I'm worried about Mason.

I'm terrified he's going to do something stupid.

I can't lose him too. I won't survive it.

Please come back

If not for me…than do it for him…

Whatever will keep him here

He needs you, not me

AGE 19, AUGUST

As summer winds to a close,a familiar sort of haze clings to not just our house, but the whole town of Shiloh.

It's not unlike the one that welcomed us home from Florida just shy of two years ago, but minus the fanfare. Minus the well-intended reassurances that she'd be found.

This time…

This time the world is mourning, and everyone wants to look away.

Because Izzy is gone.

She's not coming back.

The girl I shared a womb with, who I loved, and even sometimes hated, for my entire life…

Is just…gone.

This is it.

The days of waiting for a phone call are over.

The world keeps on spinning…

Yet why am I still stuck in place?

The blaring sun currently sitting high up in the bright blue sky clearly didn't get the memo that my world is shattered, nor did the little girl giggling with her mom as they walk hand in hand across the crosswalk, just going about their day.

The light turns green almost as soon as they hit the sidewalk, and I immediately floor the gas.

Cranking up the music, I bring the joint to my lips, welcoming the burn crawling down my throat as "No Heaven" by For The Fallen Dreams blares from my speakers, the thumping bass rattling the closed windows.

Dense smoke floods the car with my exhale, burning my eyes, making them water.

Blinking, I narrow my focus on the road ahead.

The light at the next intersection flicks from green to yellow.

Flicking the blinker, I speed up, only to hit the brake at the last possible second as I make a sharp right turn. My tires squeal, skidding across the pavement. The car fishtails, before I quickly right it just before I sideswipe the car waiting at the red light.

They blast their horn, and my hand clenches around the wheel as I take another deep hit of the joint.

The bridge looms up ahead, and I release the steering wheel to lower the windows, allowing the smoke to billow out into the afternoon just as I pass under the arch. Wind rushes through the car with a roar, filling my ears with pressure, before popping when I reach the other side. My tires bump over a couple potholes as I cut a left and floor it up a dirt road disappearing into the woody, flourishing evergreen mountains cradling our town.

My phone starts vibrating from where it's laying facedown on the passenger seat. I reach over, blindly feeling around for the volume button on the side, and I silence it, not bothering to check who it is. It's probably just my mom, wondering where I am. And if not her…

Well, Waylon usually knows better than to try calling me. There's only one person aside from my parents who ignores my hatred of talking on the phone. And if it is him…

It's been almost a whole month since I last spoke or even saw Mason. Not since the day of Izzy's funeral. He hasn't sought me out. And I haven't tried bridging the gap. Every time the impulse struck to check on him, I remembered his ugly words that day. The wrongness to him…to us…to everything. The way I felt when I left that room…

It's just too much.

It's all too fucking much.

Since then, Waylon told me he relapsed not even three days after Gavin flushed his pills. He showed up at a party Waylon just happened to be at in a neighboring town, and before he could get to him, Mason wandered off with a guy named Jonas. A sketchy dude everyone knows deals, and I'm not talking weed.

According to Waylon, if he's not popping painkillers like candy these days, he's drowning himself in whatever alcohol he can find. And when that's not enough for him, he turns to picking fights.

His most recent target: Clay.

From what I heard, the only reason he didn"t get arrested and slapped with assault charges, is because Clay was carrying. Illegally. Waving it around the Hollinger farmhouse like a maniac.

A fucking gun.

Fortunately for everyone, the cops had shown up to break up the party before it escalated and any shots were fired, intentional or accidental.

Clay might be a piece of shit, but he's not stupid. And he's no snitch. He knew if he ratted on Mason for beating the shit out of him that night, he'd be screwed too. So they both fled the scene, bruised and beaten, and that was that.

Again, this is all just what Waylon relayed back to me.

And not knowing what to do with…any of that…

I did nothing.

I shut the fuck down.

What else could I do?

Seeing him hurts.

Watching himself destroy himself hurts even more.

It's unbearable.

So unbearable, that every time I try to muster the courage to text him or go over and talk to him—to try and stop this, fix this…

I freeze up.

I panic.

I end up curled up on the floor, screaming into my knees.

I don't know what to fucking do. And it guts me, so much so that I'm utterly useless.

I either feel everything or I feel nothing. No in between. And both paralyze me.

Waylon, on the other hand…

He hasn't given up.

He's stronger than me, or maybe just better at taking emotional hits than me. Maybe he welcomes it, like I welcome the rush that comes with driving recklessly, speeding down back roads.

Maybe it's easier for him to focus on Mason, than himself.

I don't fucking know.

But unlike me, he still goes over and checks on him. Keeps an eye on him if Sherry's pulling a shift at the hospital, and Gavin can't step away from the bar.

No one leaves Phoebe alone with Mason, not now, not when he can't even be trusted to take care of himself.

"When Izzy comes back, I'll stop."

That"s Mason's reasoning, apparently, according to Waylon when he tried to level with him—explain to him how worried we all were.

Even if by some miracle, Izzy showed up tomorrow…

What?

Everything's peachy again?

He's cured?

And we just go on like these last two years didn't happen?

He's fucking delusional if he thinks anything will ever be the same again, or that he can just quit, just like that. He can't see how gone he is, but the rest of us can. He's well past the point of just coping.

We all are.

We're broken.

Shattered.

Pieces scattered across a frozen alien landscape.

We'll never be the same.

How the fuck did we get here?

Eventually a small, familiar grassy clearing comes up on my right, and I ease my car to a crawl just as one song fades into the next. The opening guitar chords of "Drift" by Forty Foot Echo fill the car, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. Smoke curling up from the charred end of my joint.

Crunchy dirt gives way to cushiony grass as I drive through the field, taking it as deep as I can before I hit the tree line. Way back here, it's all but impossible to spot my car from the road, especially this time of year, when I have the cover of flourishing trees and overgrown bushes boxing me in.

Shifting into park, I let the engine idle and I lower the volume on the music a couple notches.

Puffing to lige another hit from my joint, I reach for my phone in the mess of CD cases, empty Coke bottles, rumpled receipts, and Altoids containers that cover my passenger seat. The floor and backseat don't fare much better. I keep my bedroom somewhat clean, but my car's another fucking story.

Hitting the unlock button, everything in me stills when I see three missed calls from Waylon and one from Phoebe.

No…

Please, God, no.

The joint falls from my lips, and I quickly scramble for it, before tossing it out the window.

The music fades. My stomach is somewhere on the floor. And my face is doing that thing again, where it feels like it's no longer connected to my skull.

Pulse racing, I scramble to hit Call on Waylon's name.

Mason.

Mason, what did you do?

With trembling fingers, I turn the music down to a whisper. Drumming them on the steering wheel, I wait as the line rings.

It's probably nothing.

He's fine.

He has to be.

After what feels like an eternity, though it's probably only seconds, the line clicks.

Waylon says, "Hey."

And at that single, ragged word, my eyes fall shut.

"Where are you?"

Ignoring that, I say "What's going on? Is it Mason? Is he okay?" My words stumble out of me faster than I can keep up with.

Because I know, I just know.

My words are met with silence.

No…

A ringing fills my ears. The car shrinks. Blackness edges along my vision, and I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.

All the anger and apathy and resentment I've nurtured and clung to these last few weeks…

It's just gone.

Disintegrated.

And I am lost.

It's so cold here…