Chapter 57

I spendmost of Sunday bowing down to the porcelain gods, simultaneously cussing out Ivy's name and vowing never to drink again.

The night before is a blur.

Last thing I remember is watching the bar empty out, as the world spun into nothing, and my face and gut hurting from laughing so much.

What I was laughing at…

Well, that I don't remember.

Next thing I knew, the ground was disappearing out from under me, and I found myself on a soft cloud.

Couch.

That's where I woke up at least.

It was my first time ever being in the guys' apartment, so at first I had no idea where I was, whose living room I'd crashed in. I'd wondered if maybe I somehow ended up at Will's place, or hell, went home with a stranger. Wouldn't be the first time I found myself at some random dude's apartment after a heavy night of drinking, though usually it's not alone on a couch, fully dressed, with my shoes on to boot.

I also don't black out that often. Defeats the whole no sleepover rule I've got going on.

But this is Shiloh. A single, squinted glance out the window behind the couch reminded me as much—where I was, who I was hanging out with the night before, what I was drinking…

Annndddd that's when I ran to the bathroom and the purging begun.

Fortunately, it was early enough that no one else seemed to be awake, and as soon as I felt some semblance of relief and control over my body, I booked it the fuck out of there.

Why it felt imperative I got the hell out, I have no idea. I'd spared one last glance at the rumpled throw blanket and pillow on the couch, and a wave of anxiety had flooded me.

Why? No clue.

But it's also not unusual for me to feel a misplaced or unexplained surge of wariness and regret after a night of drinking. Hell, after a night of socializing, period.

With age, didn't come relief, so much as a later onset of symptoms. I didn't grow out of anxiety…it evolved with me, shifting into something slightly more manageable. If only because I can more easily keep it at bay until I'm alone.

Later that evening, when I finally pry myself out of bed, I plug in my phone. No idea when it died, but I vaguely remember it being at, like, five percent last I checked this morning when I left O'Leary's. By the time I got to my parents' house, I could barely stand up, much less see, from the throbbing in my head and the nausea pushing up my throat, so charging it wasn't really on my mind.

When it turns on, I'm surprised when only two messages come in—neither from who I'm expecting. One is time-stamped from last night, from an unknown number.

SUP brO

I snort as a memory of Will and I calling each other that last night flutters to the surface. It all started because of how much of a dude-bro the guy became when fired up over the game. Apparently he was a jock in high school. College too. And drunk me found that hilarious.

The second message is from earlier today, from Gabe. And it's just a picture of him sticking his tongue out with a margarita in each hand. He's in Miami currently with his family and boyfriend.

Shaking my head, I don't bother responding. Just the sight of a drink makes me wanna hurl.

At least it's not blue.

Hell if I'll ever be able to drink anything blue or fruity or sweet again.

A weird tightness moves through my chest as I pull up my conversation with Mason. The last message is one from him to me a couple days ago, and it's just laughing emojis in response to a YouTube video he'd sent me.

I bring up my calls next, just to confirm I don't have any missed ones from him.

Jaw clenched, I rub my fingers into my sternum, trying to relieve the ache. It…it isn't like him to not check in with me, seeing as I just upped and left without a word, or a text or, hell, a note. This is Mason after all. He's a leech. My leech.

Careful…

When I'm away at school, it's one thing.

But when I'm here…

A bad feeling stirs in my gut at the same time a renewed throbbing makes itself known in my temple as my mind races through last night.

The benefit concert.

He wasn't happy about that when I'd asked, and it's what prompted me to drown myself in more drinks.

But then?—

My eyes fall shut as the phantom sensation of fingers running through my hair surges forward, hitching my breath.

No…why…just no…

Shaking my head, I bury my face in my hands and try to remember what else happened.

Fuck, did I say something?

Do something?

Just as soon as I think it, I remember—he carried me upstairs.

Piggy back style.

My breaths quicken as I remember laughing, squeezing him, feeling so…so fucking giddy, and just wanting more.

Oh God, I…I didn't…I couldn't have…

But when I try to recall what happened when we got upstairs, it's just…

Blank.

A black hole of nothing.

Surely, I passed out.

And as if summoned, another memory pops up, but this one of the scene I left this morning.

The garbage can next to the couch. I didn't register it when I left, but I do now, belatedly.

Frowning, I lift my head, staring at nothing as I try to recall if I threw up last night or not. I don't…think I did. By the amount I hurled up today… I doubt it.

Shit, is he mad I got so drunk?

Guilt swims through me. He's sober. A recovering addict. Hell, he's told me how triggering it can be with Waylon and how out of control he's been in recent months.

But that's different, right? They live together. Waylon's an alcoholic, even if he's only barely come to terms with it. At least, that was the impression I got.

Another memory sparks—Will watching Waylon from across the room, concerned.

"He's not ready to admit it… I think he's struggling more than he's letting on."

More flashes of the two of them. The long looks, the teasing smiles from Will, the flush to Waylon's cheeks before he scowled and walked away…

Flopping onto my back, I stare up at my ceiling.

I didn't imagine that, did I?

A frown burrows between my eyes.

Waylon's not…

He can't be…

No. No fucking way.

I shoot up from the bed so fast, that I'm pretty sure I leave my stomach and my brain on the bed. Wincing, I clutch my head and pace across the room, taking small sips of air.

When my vision rights itself, and the sharp throbbing dissipates once more, I grab my phone and pull up my messages with Mason.

Hey, thanks for letting me crash last night.

My fingers hover over the screen after I hit send.

"He's a bartender," I mutter under my breath. "He deals with drunk people all the time."

Still, I find myself shooting off another message.

Sorry if I was a mess

With a grimace, I watch the screen, waiting for him to open it.

I give it another minute, my heart thumping in time with the throbbing in my temple, before locking it and tossing it on my bed, and heading for the bathroom to shower instead of torturing myself.

He's probably just busy. Working.

But as quick as that thought comes, I remember it's Sunday. The bar's closed.

After my shower, I tie a towel around my waist, not bothering to change first before checking my phone.

A sinking feels forms in my chest, and a buzzing fills my ears.

What did I do? What the fuck did I do?

Because for the first time ever, that I can recall…

He left me on read.

After a nightof tossing and turning until I finally caved and popped an Ambien—something I save for only extreme situations—I sleep well into the morning.

When I come downstairs for lunch, Mom and Dad ask me if everything's okay, and I nod and smile and tell them I just drank a little too much Saturday night, and am still recovering.

Dad just chuckles and shakes his head.

Mom tells me to be careful, and I roll my eyes.

At one point she asks if I brought up the benefit concert to Mason and Waylon. I told them it was likely not going to happen.

I don't miss the way her mouth trembles when she smiles, nods, and says she understands. I know it's because she hates this. She misses them. Waylon especially. She practically raised him from the moment he was born, and it kills her—and Dad—that they failed to protect him. They don't want to push him before he's ready—content to let him call the shots…

But I can't help but wonder these days, if perhaps that was the opposite of how they should've handled it.

And of course there's also the Izzy of it all to consider too.

I can't escape the memories of this house—the ones that come with being around my parents—but Waylon can. He's lucky like that. I don't blame him for wanting distance from all the memories—the reminders.

As for Mason's relationship with my parents…

Well, obviously it all comes down to my sister. Except his distance stems from resentment, rather than a place of grief. In his eyes, they gave up on her.

Not that that's what they did…

Sure about that?

Wincing, I ignore that little voice in my head like I always do, and take my plate to the sink.

They would've never given up if there was still hope. Mason just refuses to accept facts.

That annoying voice pops up again, Hmmm, but what are facts without solid proof?

As always, I'm torn.

I scoot from the table, and head for the hall. Mom's loading the dishwasher, as Dad gathers the trash. Just as I exit the kitchen, he says, "We've gotta run some errands soon. We'll be back later tonight."

Nodding, I leave them to it and head for the stairs, lost in my thoughts.

What else were they supposed to do? What else are any of us supposed to do? Wait around until we die off ourselves for a body that will never be found? Answers that will never come?

As always when my thoughts veer off in this direction, I can't help but wonder if the same could be said if it were Izzy still here instead of me.

Would they have held on longer? Given up sooner?

Who knows?

Would Waylon still avoid this house? My parents?

Doubtful.

Would Mason resent them for trying to move on, for accepting my death so easily?

Maybe. But he'd have Izzy, so…

Would seeing Mason and Waylon hurt my parents as much?

An ache shoots across my chest at that, stopping me in my tracks just outside my room. Because no, no…

I really don't think so.

Even if it did for some time, Izzy would've never let it persist. Not like me, who just…accepted it.

Izzy was the glue, not me.

I'm just the consolation prize.

The spare.

The unprepared understudy.

This role was never for me.

At the thought, a niggle of awareness creeps along the back of my mind—like a forgotten dream, just out of reach.

Frowning, I close my bedroom door behind me, and dig out my phone.

I would've felt it if I got a message, or if someone called…

Yet I still find myself checking, my stomach clenching when I see I've got nothing.

It's been over twenty-four hours.

What the fuck did I do?

Because I had to have done something…

Said something.

Something big and bad.

I'm the one who ghosts, who shuts people out. Not Mason. Especially not with me. Never once in our lives, even on the rare occasion we did fight or bicker about something, did he ever disappear like this.

I mean, sure there was that time after the whole spin the bottle debacle. But that was…different.

I swallow thickly, shoving away the memory and the anxiety that comes with it—the nerves that mingle with whatever's got Mason ignoring me—and bring up Spotify on my phone. Forgoing my earbuds, I grab the bulky headphones I keep on my nightstand and tug them over my ears as I cross the room to my desk.

I'd ended up switching my major and minor prior to the beginning of the fall semester. Based on where I was at with my business degree, and the free electives I amounted to over the last couple years, it was the perfect time to change gears.

I'd taken my midterms a week early so I could come home to help my parents with the benefit—at least, that's the excuse I gave my professors. Really, I was just feeling homesick.

Shocking, right?

Now, though…now I kind of wish I just stayed on campus. Helped my parents from afar, instead of coming back here for two whole weeks.

Figuring I'd get a head start on the big final project for my illustration class, which will make up seventy-five percent of our grade, I pull out my sketchbook that I primarily use for plotting and outlining and drafting up concepts these days, and flip to the scene where I last left off.

Turning on my Wacom One—the digital drawing pad I'd saved up for all summer, and combined with financial aid, was finally able to purchase right before the semester started—I pull up a blank page, and get working on the next block in my comic.

Pearl Jam thumps in my ears, and I mouth along as I get lost in the scene playing out in my head, watching my fingers bring it to life on the drawing pad.

Going from pencil and paper to digital was tricky at first. I'd taken a couple Digital Art courses over the years—both formally, and online—but it still took a bit to get the hang of the interface, and get my brain accustomed to how easy it is to undo mistakes.

Drawing has never felt so clean, and while I appreciate the hell out of it now, that momentary loss of…control, or whatever you want to call it…took some getting used to.

Like always when I get momentum going, time loses all meaning.

Songs play on by, as minutes give way to hours.

I'm vaguely aware of the sky darkening outside, shadows dancing over my room, my skin.

When I look up, the window is streaked with rain.

I reach over and flip on my desk lamp.

Twisting my hand around, I flex my fingers, bringing life back to them. Then I crack my neck, and wiggle around, not having realized how stiff I got from being hunched over for so long.

I'm just about to finish shading, and call it a day, when the music cuts out abruptly.

Frowning, I glance over to where it rests face down on the desk, and scoop it up.

Mason.

He's calling.

I suck in a breath.

That's a good sign, right?

Habit has me staring at the screen as it rings and rings. I hate talking on the phone. He knows this. Yet he continues to do it, because he knows once in a while I actually will answer, rather than just text him and tell him I can't talk. Or wait for him to call a second or third time.

That isn't what happens this time.

Shoving down my headphones so they hang around my neck, I hit Answer and bring the phone to my ear.

"Hey."

A rustling noise greets me.

I frown, and say, "Mason?"

Did he butt dial?

More rustling, and a sort of…whooshing sound, telling me he's outside.

Then—

"That's not fair."

I blink. "What?"

"What you said. Not fair."

My heart pounds, and my lips fumble as I struggle for words.

"Wrong…so fucking wrong…"

My eyes widen as he continues to mumble things about being wrong and not fair and lies and curses…and none of it is making sense.

I look around, wide-eyed. "Mason, where are you?"

"Fine…doing just fine…then you. You…"

My throat swells, tears burning the back of my eyes.

What did I do, what did I do, what did I do…

That's all I can think.

"…moaning and…" Whatever else he says after that is lost to me.

Blood rushes to my ears in a roar.

His words aren't slurring…not yet…but I know, I know.

He relapsed.

"Mason," I say tightly. "Where are you?" The phone creaks in my grip.

He chuckles, and it's the hollowest, saddest fucking sound I've ever heard.

My jaw quivers, and I remove the headphones from around my neck, tossing them on the desk as I stand up.

"Mason, just tell me where you are."

The phone quiets, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe he hung up on me. I'm just about to check, when he speaks.

And with two simple words, spat with so much vehemence—so much heartache—I know, I just know…things are about to go from bad to worse.

"The cemetery."