Chapter 59

He kissed me.

Mason Wyatt fucking kissed me.

He kissed me.

And I kissed him back.

Me…Mason…kissing…

No matter how I spin it, it just doesn't compute.

And the fact that he was hard?

Yeah, nope. No. I can't even think about that without my brain going into a full-blown system error.

Now, in his bedroom, back at his apartment above O'Leary's, I sit on the floor with my back against the side of his bed. Mason's sitting next to me, head hanging, the bottle of vodka loosely clasped in his hand.

"Can I have a sip?" I say blankly, staring straight ahead.

Shawn's here in the room with us. He's standing off to the side, quiet and stoic as ever. He hasn't said much, not since we arrived downstairs and he barked Mason's name in reprimand after the latter stupidly, drunkenly thought to offer Waylon a sip of his vodka.

As Mason hands me the bottle and I take a searing gulp, I can feel Shawn's silent judgment. The brimming accusation. The questions…

What the fuck can I do about it now? I think bitterly, followed closely by, My fault. This is all my fault.

Except it's not—not really. I know this, and Shawn knows too. I didn't force Mason to drink. Him breaking his two-year sobriety is on him and only him.

But remembering what he told me at the cemetery—the things he implied I must've said when I was shitfaced the other night…

Well, it's impossible not to feel some responsibility. And Shawn seems to think the same, making me wonder what I missed in the last forty-eight hours.

Still, drunk or not, how the fuck was I supposed to know what would be the thing to send him off the deep end? I was just speaking my truth…some of it…finally.

An obvious one at that…

Or so I thought.

Grimacing, I take another sip just as Mason decides to lay down, putting his head in my lap. Stiffening, I slowly bring the bottle away from my lips, swallowing. The fiery liquid burns a path down my throat, my chest, settling warmly in my belly.

Our eyes meet—his hooded and bleary.

He reaches for the bottle, taking it back, and luckily, it's depleted enough that he can be careless about the way he holds it, and not have to worry too much about anything spilling, seeing as the cap disappeared somewhere downstairs after he flung it off. Not that he'd probably care at this point.

Bringing it to his lips, he watches me as he takes a sip. How he's still drinking, I have no idea. After he threw up all over the cemetery parking lot, he simply wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, stumbled to a stand and over to where the bottle had rolled against my tire—miraculously having not shattered when I dropped it—and said, "I need Shawn."

That's it.

I tried to tell him to leave the vodka, but when my mouth opened, nothing came out.

I haven't been able to say a single thing since our kiss, save for the mumbled, "Come on, let's get you upstairs," I managed to get out downstairs in the bar before tension could escalate any further.

Between Mason cheerily offering Waylon a drink—a gesture I'm pretty sure would've been met with Will's fist if Waylon didn't stop him—and the instantaneous mood flip that followed, in the form of a bitter laugh and cruel, pointed words—"Must be fucking nice."—and the nosy, watchful stares of every single patron in the bar as all of this unfolded…

It was critical I get Mason out of there. Shawn seemed to agree, and hurried to help me guide him toward the steps. Surprisingly, Mason went without a fight.

I'm vividly aware of Shawn watching us, but I can't find it in me to shove Mason away, despite knowing what it probably looks like.

"Did he take anything?"

At the gruffly spoken sentence, I lift my head, meeting Shawn's tough gaze. I open my mouth to tell him I'm not sure, when Mason beats me to it.

"No. Just drink," he mumbles.

I'm about to repeat what he said, when Shawn says, "I heard him."

Okay then.

Suddenly the door opens, and Waylon appears, freezing in place when he sees our position on the floor. I duck my head, keeping my gaze on Mason's slackened, bleary face.

"You lock up?" Shawn asks.

Mason stares up at the ceiling, eyes glassy and distant. His cheeks are flushed and stained with tears. I don't even know when he started crying. I must've missed it somewhere between sitting down, and him laying across my lap.

I watch fingers that don't even feel like they belong to me brush through his wavy, matted light brown hair. I don't even care at this point what it might look like. I'm too far gone—too broken.

"He's drunk."

At Waylon's statement, I find myself saying, "I found him at the cemetery." I don't take my eyes off Mason's face. He doesn't even react to my words. He's in my arms, and yet he's never felt so far away—so out of reach. I continue to stroke his hair. "He was already well on his way to drunk when I got there."

I should've stopped him.

Should've chucked the bottle across the cemetery when I had the chance.

Maybe then he wouldn't have kissed me.

I'm vaguely aware of a sharp intake of air. Then?—

"Why?"

Swallowing thickly, I open my mouth to respond, only to realize I don't really know. I mean… Mason told me, but it still doesn't make sense. I still feel like I'm missing something.

"Did you mean it?"

"I didn't even let myself consider the possibility until you brought it up the other night."

My forehead bunches, a sick feeling rising up my chest.

"Did they find something?" Waylon forces out, his voice ragged.

There's footsteps, but I can't tell if they're moving away, or drawing close. I can't find it in me to care either way.

"Way," Shawn says. More rustling. Quickening breaths. Then, Shawn says, "That's not it."

It takes me a second to understand.

Waylon thought they finally found her body.

There's a sigh of relief, and a tendril of bitterness wiggles its way up my throat, tasting like bile. I hate that I wish it sometimes—that we had a body. If we just had answers from the start—closure—so much trauma could've been prevented.

Sure, we would've grieved.

It would've been horrible.

But at least we'd be free to go on with our lives. It's no matter what someone claims to have seen—some part of us will always wonder. Always doubt. On a good day, I can shove it down. Go about my day.

On a bad day…like today…there's no keeping the festering guilt and helplessness from making itself known.

It doesn't escape me that my bad days all have one common denominator:

The boy who currently has his head in my lap.

How will I ever move on if he keeps me chained here?

How will I ever have a chance of feeling whole again, if I'm forever torn between hope and acceptance?

Can I even be whole again?

Footsteps approach, and this time I lift my head, my burning gaze slowly dragging up to lock on Waylon's bright hazel eyes.

I don't miss the pain that flares there—the burning familiarity.

He sees her in me too.

Lowering to a crouch, he gently pries the bottle of vodka from Mason's slack grip. I tense, waiting for an explosion. But it never comes. Mason doesn't so much as blink, or twitch.

"Mason," Waylon murmurs, setting the bottle to the side.

Finally, movement—a sign of life.

But it's the last thing I'm expecting.

Mason reaches up between us, brushing his fingertips over my jaw in a cool, featherlight touch. And I just stare, frozen, eyes wide and locked on Waylon's equally round gaze.

A palpable tension falls over the room, so thick, it's a wonder I can even see through it. It's then that I vaguely register Will hovering in the doorway. Watching us. Everyone's…

Watching.

Waiting.

Holding their breath.

I slowly, slowly, lower my gaze.

Gone is that glassy vacancy from moments before, and in its place is a world of agony and desperation peering right into me, through a thick veil of tears that make his eyes look hauntingly beautiful. Ethereal.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, voice breaking.

My breath catches.

Eyes creasing, like he's in actual, physical pain, he curls his fingers around my jaw, wrist visibly shaking with the effort.

"Please don't fucking leave me, Iz."

I flinch back. My body reacting before I even have time to process what he said.

The pain is so sharp and unexpected—brutal and unforgiving—that I actually glance down between us to make sure there's not the hilt of a knife sticking out of my chest.

Bile races up my throat, and a roar fills my ears, drowning everything else out. I stare dead ahead, not seeing anything.

Don't leave me, Iz.

My lips tingle.

A phantom pressure.

My gut churns, and my mouth waters sickeningly.

I'm vaguely aware of Waylon barking Mason's name, telling him to get out…

Shouting it.

Suddenly, Mason's being yanked from my lap. I didn't even realize my arms had fallen lifelessly to my sides. Through a veil of unshed tears, the scene before me plays out, as if I'm watching it through a rain-smeared window.

"W-Way?" Mason says, as if just noticing his best friend is in the room. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there's a tug of something—an awareness. But it fizzles into the background, there and gone as quickly as it made itself known.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Mason's seated in front of me, with his back to me, head hanging.

Then—

"She's gone."

I blink.

"She's gone, she's gone…"

Mason's on his knees, careening forward. Waylon manages to catch him, hold him steady.

"She's really fucking gone," I hear uttered, croaked. And my vision tilts.

There's a hitch of breath, followed by Waylon whispering, "She's gone."

No.

Nononononono.

I'm vaguely aware of my body curling into itself, like I could somehow ward off what's coming—what's happening.

"I wish it was you."

"Me too."

I'm not even sure who says what. It doesn't matter. It's all the same.

And it's all wrong.

"I wish it was me more." Mason.

"Sometimes I wish it was you too," Waylon admits quietly.

"How did we get here?" Mason sobs.

"I don't know, man."

"How did this happen?"

"I don't know."

"H-how do you do it?"

"I don't know." This time, Waylon's voice is small—smaller than I've ever heard it.

There's a thud, and my daze clears just enough for me to watch as Mason collapses forward, sobbing into the floorboards.

It's muffled. Choked back. Like he's trying to contain a scream.

His fists pound on the floor, and then, faster than I can blink, he's got the bottle of vodka back in his hand, and he's whipping it. I can't tell if it's meant for the wall, or for Waylon's face. If it wasn't for Will yanking Waylon out of the line of fire, it could've been very, very bad.

The bottle smashes against the floor, sending shards of glass and vodka spraying.

Mason's back is to me—his body convulsing, as if he's literally bursting out of his own skin. I can just make out fingers clawing at his neck, his scalp…tugging at his hair.

And he still doesn't scream.

He falls forward, mindless of the broken glass as he punches the ground.

Waylon climbs to an unsteady stand, stepping back, all but stumbling into Will. Though he doesn't seem to notice. That, or the hand now clutching his waist.

Waylon's scrubbing his hands down his face. He's visibly trembling—his shoulders shaking. Just behind him, I catch Will tugging at his shirt, trying to turn him around. He only has eyes for Waylon, his concern a tangible, undeniable thing.

I find myself lumbering to a stand. "Waylon?"

At the sound of his name, he lifts his head, eyes wildly darting around, before settling on me.

His face is pale. Lips bleached of all color.

He looks like he's going to be sick.

Curled up between us, Mason's wheezing into the floor as he struggles to catch his breath.

Waylon snorts.

And then he starts laughing.

My eyes widen, and in the corner of my eye, Shawn's pushing away from the wall, drawing toward the center of the room. As if was waiting for some kind of signal. He's been so quiet during all of this, I honestly forgot he was here.

"I'm sorry," Waylon chokes out, laughter still bubbling from his throat. He shakes his head, eyes red, a watery smile stretched across his now-flushed face.

"I just…I can't…."

And something sort of just…plummets inside me, all the way down to my feet. Plunging me into a familiar icy numbness, one I haven't felt so starkly in years.

Shawn crouches down next to Mason. He murmurs something I can't make out, and then he lifts his head. "Jeremy."

I frown, not sure what he could even want from me.

What the fuck could I possibly do to make any of this better?

Go back in time and trade places.

"Get him out of here."

At first, I think Shawn's talking to me, but then I see he's looking at Will. All it serves to do is make Waylon laugh even harder.

My gut churns, and I lift my shoulders by my ears, lowering my gaze to where Mason now cries softly into the floor. I'm vaguely aware of Will dragging Waylon into the hall, his laughter fading right along with their footsteps.

When the door to downstairs slams shut a moment later, the silence left in their wake is deafening. Cruel, even.

"Jeremy."

Shawn says my name again, and my gaze finds his. I half expect to find anger and blame there, but instead all I find is sadness. Sympathy, even. Pity…

I decide I'd take his usual hard aloofness any day.

"Are you?—"

"J-Jeremy," a voice chokes out, stealing what little air was left in the room.

I go rigid.

Mason starts to lift his head, and I find myself shaking mine before I quickly turn for the door, muttering, "I'm gonna, uh, get something to clean this up."

A high-pitched whining sound fills my ears, warring with the sluggish roar of my heart, slowly drowning out the anguished sounds that spills from Mason's crumpled form on the floor.

Out in the hall, I reach behind me, fumble around for the knob, and gently close Mason's bedroom door..

The silence out here is even heavier—unbearably so—reminding me of a pressure cooker about to blow.

My chest feels funny as I make my way to the kitchen. Tight, but also not. With each step that takes me away from the scene in the bedroom, I feel less and less a part of my body. And I keep having to swallow and blink like if I don't, I'll just…fade away. Disappear within myself.

So cold…

I'm so cold.

On autopilot, I grab the roll of paper towel, removing it from its stand. My gaze homes in on my fingers—long and pale in the shadows, there's no mistaking their tremor.

Yet it feels like I'm looking at someone else.

I hold the roll to me and look around the strange, yet vaguely familiar kitchen…the attached living room…

Remembering how it was only a couple days ago when I woke up on the couch, head pounding, memory fuzzy.

"You told me you wished it was you."

Clamping down on my molars, I shake my head, blinking rapidly now.

"I didn't even let myself consider the possibility until you brought it up the other night!"

Everything that happened tonight rushes forth at once, his voice—his words—echoing, replaying on a vicious, relentless loop.

My lips tingle, and pain shoots through my chest.

"Stupid, so stupid…"

"Shut up."

A pained, choked noise bursts out of me, and I clutch the edge of the counter, only distantly aware of the roll of paper towel falling to the floor. My vision blurs, hot tears welling up in my eyes as I grip the counter so tight, I feel it dig grooves into my palms as I sink to my haunches.

Eyes squeezed shut, I press my face into the cabinet, just as I feel the first tear squeeze out, streaking down my face.

My chest is on fire.

My stomach roils.

I only had a few sips of vodka, yet there's an ocean sloshing in my gut, bringing a rush of bile to my throat.

He kissed me.

Mason kissed me.

Another repressed sob punches out of me, muffled only my sealed lips. It claws up from my chest so forcefully, I half expect it to scrape my throat bloody with the effort to keep it inside.

I can't…I can't…

I thought…

Hope. It's a vicious fucking thing.

Like love—like death—all it does is take and take and take.

We're put on this earth for no other purpose than to be ravaged.

I'm shaking my head, unable to force away the images, the sensations….the phantom memory of his lips pressed fiercely to mine. The way he held my face, and clawed at my scalp. The way he rubbed up against me.

My arm comes around my face, and I'm burying my mouth and nose in the crook of my elbow, trying not to fucking scream.

"Don't leave me."

Fingers clumsily skating down my cheek.

Soft hair clutched in my hands.

The heart in my chest, thumping, thumping, racing…slowing…

"Please don't fucking leave me, Iz."

…Cracking.

Right down the fucking middle.

A fatal hit if there ever was one. There's no coming back from this.

No coming back from the boy I love kissing me, then calling me by my dead sister's name. No coming back from finally, stupidly thinking maybe—just fucking maybe—there was a chance.

That I was an option for Mason.

He was hard…

I shake my head, and squeeze my eyes shut, muffling my anguished scream into my skin, as the numbness—that icy numbness I've been clinging to for years, the one that would settle over me when I needed it most, like my very own shield…

It shatters, wholly and completely, leaving me exposed down to the bone.

Because I realize now, that this is worse. So much worse.

"She's gone."

No…

"She's really fucking gone."

I fall back on my ass, and curl my hands into fists, pressing them so hard against the my cheeks, my jaw, my mouth, I taste iron.

Downstairs, music kicks on—loud and angry.

Waylon…

"I wish it was you."

And I'm rocking, shaking my head, screaming through my teeth.

Why, God, why wasn't it me?

In this moment, I realize I've never hated Mason more.

For prolonging this.

For making me hang onto hope for years.

For lying to him so much, and for so long, that I actually started to believe it. That she was out there.

I fucking hate him.

And for the first time ever…

For one sharp, swift beat that will forever be a black spot on my shattered heart…

I don't wish it was me who got taken instead of Izzy.

I wish it was him.

Because then I'd have my sister back. We'd be together.

I'd have Izzy, and I wouldn't know what it's like to kiss someone I'll never have. I wouldn't be on the kitchen floor of an apartment I have no place being in, feeling like the reality of her absence finally hitting—catching up with me—is literally going to kill me.

I can't do this. I can't survive this.

Without her, I've been half a person.

And now without him too, I'll be lucky if there's even a sliver of me left.