Chapter 58

How I got here issimple really.

I drove to the liquor store. Bought a handle of vodka. Drove my ass across town to a place I told myself I'd never go. Plopped my ass down in the cold, damp grass, broke the seal, cheers"ed my dead girlfriend, and took a sip.

It's everything else that surrounds this that is so fucking complicated.

After hanging up on Jeremy, I lift the bottle to my mouth, and take another searing gulp of vodka. My fourth? My fifth? Who fucking knows. I'm drunk. And a lightweight, clearly.

I also didn't eat today. So there's that.

My throat protests as soon as the fiery liquid goes down. My chest squeezes. My stomach clenches. And I welcome the warmth flooding my veins like an old friend.

Could be worse.

That's what I keep telling myself.

Could be fucking worse.

After all, it could be opiates swimming in my system right now.

It's raining again—just a light inconsistent drizzle. It's been on and off all day. My clothes are damp, my bones stiff. And as the sun descends, taking the temperature down with it, I wonder if maybe the worst is yet to come.

I stare at the headstone before me.

Yeah, things could definitely get worse.

Izzy's tombstone is nothing more than a pointless slab of granite with empty platitudes engraved in it.

Beloved daughter.

Beloved sister.

Beloved friend.

Because, you know, who she was to the living is far more important than who she was as her own person.

My vision tilts, blurring, a roar filling my ears as the words before me distort, taking new shape, new meaning…

Beloved son.

Beloved brother.

Beloved friend.

Try as I might these last forty-eight hours, I can't get it out of my head—what Jeremy said, the way he said it…

Like he was so damn certain that that reality would've been easier on us.

And the worst fucking part is that to some degree, he might be right. Waylon would still have his best friend, someone who was a far better friend to him than I ever was. He'd likely still have the people who raised him like their own. He'd mourn Jeremy, but… but it's different, and that's just the way it goes with these things.

But that's where it ends.

"Now would be a really good fucking time for you to come back," I say, or I think I say. I can't really feel my lips. "Last chance."

I try to imagine what she'd look like now if she did reappear. It's the first time I really let myself accept the fact that the girl I knew, no matter if she was dead or alive, is gone all the same.

In my head, she's frozen at seventeen. I suppose we both are.

I look down at my hands, my bruised, swollen, scabbed-over knuckles—blood caked over from where I split them on the bag earlier. I take in the sharp juts of bone and ripples of sinew going up my forearms as I shove up my sleeves.

Except…I didn't freeze.

What would she think if she saw me now?

Swallowing thickly, I grab the bottle and take another sip. I barely feel it going down this time.

My fingers tremble around the neck when I set it down on the grass.

"Would you hate me?" I find myself saying. "S'okay if you do. I kinda hate me too."

I don't elaborate. I don't have to. The Izzy in my head is all-seeing, all-knowing, and the pain mingled with forgiveness shining back at me from the only version I have left fucking guts me.

No…no, she wouldn't hate me. Because if she was here—if there was some alternate reality out there where it was him instead of her—she'd be just as guilt-stricken, and just as desperate to trade places as Jeremy so clearly is.

How did I not see it? I wonder, replaying his words the other night… the way he said them.

But just as quick, the answer comes.

You didn't want to.

Slowly, I shake my head.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, logic tries to point out the futility of what ifs, insisting nothing good comes from this line of thinking. And it would be right…

But it's also too late.

Relieved.

I'm relieved it wasn't Jeremy.

And just like a similar dreary day, I think about how double-edged it is—to feel such stark relief and yet such agony, you wonder what's the point of feeling anything good at all?

So lost in my spiraling thoughts, I don't notice the car pulling up in the near distance. A door opening and slamming registers only after I stiffen at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps.

My lip kicks up in a bitter, resigned smile.

Deep down, I knew calling him was a mistake. I should've called Shawn. Or, hell, Gavin. Why I called Jeremy Montgomery of all fucking people…

I don't know.

I don't even remember making the decision to do it.

I just…

Wanted him.

Needed him.

To make me understand.

To make this go away.

Something.

"What did you do?" My eyes fall shut at the sound of his pained voice. "What the fuck did you do, Mason?"

Sniffing, I bring the bottle to my lips, and take a long, bolstering gulp.

There's a sharp intake of air cutting through the cemetery, and faster than I can blink he's there, grabbing the bottle from me.

"Hey!" I shout as he side-steps out of my reach. Spearing him with a glare, I stumble to a stand. "Give that back."

Amber eyes bulge at me with more fire than I've ever seen, tendons straining against the smooth, pale column of his neck. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Oooh, he's pissed.

A quiet, rusty chuckle leaves me, and hell if it doesn't make him look all the more furious.

But there's something else there too—something that registers through my drunken haze. A wariness that pinches the corners of his eyes and flattens his mouth as his gaze keeps darting between me and the headstone just off to the side of me.

"Mason…" he says slowly. "What are you doing here?"

I spread my arms. "What does it look like?"

His gaze reddens, and he shakes his head. "I don't…"

"Don't what? You don't visit her either?" I bark out a laugh, and it's ugly and raw, cracking into the rain-strung cemetery. I tip my head back, roughly scrubbing my hands down my face. "Fuckkkkk!" I half-shout, half-groan into my palms.

God, no wonder he wishes it was him instead.

He's had to watch me fall apart over and over and over again…

Fall apart over her…

Not just me, but his parents too. Waylon…

Repeatedly, we've thrown our grief in his face, not realizing what it would do to him. This is Jeremy for fuck's sake. The boy who, for as long as I've known him, has always felt like something was wrong with him. The boy who once told me how he feels like a burden. The boy who's always fought so hard to melt into the background, so no one would spare him too much attention.

"Mason?" he says nervously.

Dropping my hands, I stare at the boy I've known practically all my life, and I wonder how I could've been so selfish, so stupid.

"Did I…"

When words fail him, I wait.

His lashes flutter as he drops his gaze. "Did I do something the other night?" He winces. "Say something?" He shakes his head, but still won't look at me. "Because if I did…whatever it was…I was drunk out of my mind. I don't even remember. It wasn't—I wasn't?—"

"You told me you wished it was you."

He goes eerily still.

"You said you were sorry, that we'd all've been better off if it was you instead of her."

Blinking, he finally lifts his head, and be it the alcohol swimming in my veins, or all these little realizations and epiphanies barreling into me with one punch after another—hell, probably all of it—but I…

I can't help but notice just how…fuck, how gorgeous he is.

Not that he hasn't always been pretty. It's why his life was hell growing up. Too pretty for a boy. Too soft. Too fucking gentle and kind…

This is just the first time it's really fucking hitting me, that he's not just beautiful…

But that I find him beautiful.

You're drunk, a voice reminds me, and I shake my head at it.

No, no, I've always found him beautiful.

Before me, Jeremy's brows knit—a couple shades darker, warmer, than his silvery-white hair. "That's it?" he says. "That's…that's all I said? That I wished it was me?"

I stare at him.

That's it?

That's all???

He expels an unsteady breath, frowning even deeper. He gives a little shake of his head. "Mason…"

"Did you mean it?"

He stills.

His eyes dart between mine, like he's looking for something.

"Did you fucking mean it?" I ask more forcefully this time.

His mouth opens and closes as he fumbles for words that won't come. But it's no matter. He doesn't need words. The answer in written all over his face, clear as fucking day, leaving no room for argument, confirming he did in fact mean it.

"Right," I mutter.

"Mase—"

Scoffing, I shake my head, and step toward him. "Gimme that." I rip the bottle out of his slackened grip, and whirl away, unscrewing the cap, and bringing it to my lips.

I feel him watching me, his gaze burning a hole through my head. But I ignore it, and instead turn my focus down to the headstone burning a different kind of hole through me.

"I don't…I don't understand," he says quietly.

"Of course you don't," I mutter, lifting the bottle to my lips.

I'm such a fucking idiot.

"Are you seriously gonna tell me you haven't thought the same?" he rushes out so unexpectantly, I freeze, the lip of the bottle paused against my waiting mouth.

"That you didn't wish it was me instead?" His voice trembles, but grows stronger, louder as he continues, "That you didn't think it?—"

I whip around so fast, he flinches back. "No. No, I fucking didn't."

His eyes widen, and he gulps.

I take a step forward, and he takes several back.

"I didn't even let myself consider the possibility until you brought it up the other night," I practically shout, flinging the hand holding the bottle out. My voice slurs. The vodka sloshes.

Biting back a curse, I quickly refasten the cap before it spills everywhere, or I drop it.

Neither of us say anything for a long moment.

A gust blows through, smacking raindrops that now feel like icy needles across my face. Jeremy hunches his shoulders, hugging himself through a full-bodied shiver.

"It's o-okay if you did," he says carefully. "It's…normal. And I underst?—"

Eyes closing, my head jerks side to side, effectively cutting him off. "Such an idiot," I mutter under my breath, and shoulder past him.

"Excuse me?" he calls out.

"Not you," I grit out, stomping my way toward the parking lot, the bottle of vodka sloshing at my side.

He jogs after me. "Where are you going?"

"You're freezing, and it's starting to sleet."

"I'm f-fine."

I whirl on him, seething. "Yeah, you're always fucking fine. What else is new?"

His eyes widen, mouth parting.

I look all over his face and scoff, waving him off. "I take it back. You're an idiot too."

He scowls. "Hey!"

I spread my arms, rocking back a step. Gravel crunches under my boot. We've reached the lot. "Just calling it like it is." I bring the bottle to my chest, and go to uncap it, but before I can, he darts forward, ripping it from my hands once more, clutching it to his chest instead.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I bore my eyes into his, colliding with his fury,. His nostrils flare, his jaw tenses. The world around him shivers in slashes of gray.

"You're being a dick," he says tightly.

"Yeah?" I fling my hand in the direction of his chest. "Well, newsflash, so are you."

"Me?" He looks around. "How am I being a dick? You're the one who?—"

"And here everyone thought Izzy was the bullheaded one," I mutter.

"—decided to summon me here and take out your—" His face bunches. "Wait, what? I'm not?—"

"Not what? Stubborn?" I bark out a laugh, nodding. "Right. And I'm not an addict who's fallen off the wagon. And Izzy's still alive. And you're the one who's dead, and everything is just fucking perfect."

He stares at me, brows furrowing.

I drop my gaze to the ground, shaking my head. "Fuck. What am I doing?"

"Mason…" He swallows with an audible click.

Scrubbing my hands down my face, I mutter into my skin, "Stupid, so, so stupid."

"I don't know what's going on, but let me just take you home. Get Shawn, and?—"

I can't say what comes over me. If someone asks me tomorrow or next week, or hell, years from now, how it happened, I'd tell them I don't know. Idon't fucking know.

One second, we're standing here, with three steps separating us.

And the next, I'm all in his space, and his face is clutched in my hands.

And he's soft, so soft. But sharp too. Angular.

Boy, boy, boy.

Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy.

Wide, startled eyes stare back at me, and I'm vaguely aware of his arms falling at his sides, the bottle slipping from his grip. "What?—"

I yank his face to me?—

"Shut up. Just. Shut. Up."

—and crush my mouth to his, smothering his gasp.

He tenses.

I tense.

And everything just…stops.

Time ceases.

The sleet pinging off the car and prickling our skin disappears.

The thoughts that were racing across my skull only seconds ago—too fast for me to make sense of—misfire all at once, falling away like stars. Leaving only one last remaining thought—a single word—no, a name.

Jeremy.

Fingers flex into my arms, digging with bruising pressure, not unlike the way our lips remained fastened and frozen against each other.

Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy.

What is this, what is this, what?—

My eyes fly open at the same time I release him with a gasp.

His lips, plush and pink, slacken with his own hitched gust of air.

His eyes are frozen wide—a sea of rippling amber. Something tells me he hasn't even so much as blinked since I grabbed him.

Next to his head, my hands hover in the air, clawing at where I'd just been holding him. His hands do the same near my arms.

"Wh-what—" he says.

All I can do is shake my head, and gape at him.

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

Slowly, slowly, I bring my trembling fingers to my lips. They still tingle.

Jeremy blinks rapidly, pressing his hands to his chest, like he's trying to slow his heart. "Mason?" he says, staring into me with so much confusion, so much fear, so much…

Want.

So, so much want.

And I just?—

I can't.

I can't stop this.

His mouth opens, hands reaching out at the same time I rush him. Like two stars thrown on a collision course, racing at warp speed across the galaxy, we crash into each other in a white-hot explosion that rattles the universe. Shaking me to my core.

Lips fusing.

Fingers clutching.

Turning him, I walk him back, pinning him roughly against the car with a dull, ringing thud, plastering my body to his. He grunts, and I take the opportunity to sweep my tongue between his lips, seeking out his.

His.

I'm kissing a boy.

He's all smooth, flat planes, and sharpened edges, leaving no fucking doubt whatsoever as to the fact it's a guy I hold in my arms. Jeremy…

Blunt nails dig into my shoulders, and teeth pin my lip. It's a messy, sloppy, desperate kind of kiss. One that tastes of vodka and rainwater and those cinnamon mints he loves so fucking much.

The heels of my palms dig into his jaw, guiding him where I want him as I devour his mouth like a man possessed. Licking and sucking at lips I didn't know how badly I craved until this very moment. How I went so long without this…

I'll never know.

My brain clouds over with the sensations bowling me over.

I'm spinning and spinning…

Falling and falling…

And then he rips his mouth from mine. "Wait!" he gasps.

My head drops to the spot between his neck and shoulder. Chest heaving, I breathe against his chilly, damp skin, inhaling his cinnamon and earthy scent.

"We-we're outside," he chatters.

Eyes squeezing shut, I find myself thrusting forward, grinding my body against his like I could actually fuse us together. He groans, shuddering, and that's when I feel it. Lodged right up against my hip.

I still.

His breaths are shaky and uneven. His pulse beating rapid-fire against my frozen lips.

He's hard for me.

And before I can help myself, I rub up against it, realizing…

Oh fuck, I'm hard too.

Hands claw at my back, fingers flexing. "Mason…"

I hang my head, chin to chest, staring at the thin, barely existent space between us, imagining what our dicks look like like this, straining against our jeans, seeking each other out.

What would it feel like bare?

"We…we can't do this here," he barely manages to choke out, and I tense.

Lifting my head, I meet his hooded gaze, and it doesn't escape me how fucking wrecked he looks right now. Black lashes coated with the rain that comes down harder and colder now. Cheeks damp and flushed. Lips red and swollen.

Me. I did that.

His throat bobs, jaw tensing with his gulp.

And again, he says, "We can't do this here." This time, he whispers it. And I trace each word from his kiss-swollen mouth.

We can't do this here.

We can't do this…

Here.

And then it hits me.

I turn to stone, tensing everywhere. My gaze flings to his, my eyes widening.

Here. The cemetery.

Izzy.

Oh God, what did I do?

His face hardens, eyes darker than they were moments ago, now burning with agony. And I'm shaking my head, begging him without words to fix this…make it go away…make me forget…

But it's too late.

I already remember.

Izzy…

And there's no forgetting.

No taking what just happened back.

Stumbling back a couple steps, I don't take my unblinking gaze off his, my mouth opening and closing as I struggle to speak. To breathe.

Jeremy's jaw quivers, his nose flaring. The lips that were so red and full a moment ago are now flattened into a bloodless line.

I shake my head. "What…"

He pushes off the car—the car I just fucking pinned him to as I kissed him. Him. Jeremy. My girlfriend's brother of all fucking people in the universe.

Dead girlfriend's brother.

My eyes screw shut just as I throw out a hand, halting his approach. "Don't."

"Mase—"

Turning away from him, I make it two steps before dropping to my knees, and throwing up everything in my stomach.