Chapter 60

AGE 21, OCTOBER

Rehab. Take two.

"And so you see, the vicious cycle continues," I say dryly, attention honed in on where I pick at a loose thread on the sleeve of my black hoodie. "Are you exhausted of me? Because I am."

And I've never hated myself more, which says a goddamn lot, all things considered these last four years.

My vision blurs until I'm not really seeing anything but the mental replay of everything that led me here.

Cleo, my therapist at New Horizons, sighs from the armchair across from me. "Mason."

Jaw working, I flit my eyes up, meeting her gaze through my lashes.

She tips her head to the side, and offers me a small smile. "Healing isn't linear. You know this."

Chewing my lip ring, I nod. "Yeah, yeah, it's not a destination. It's a journey." There's a mocking sort of bite to my tone, but she ignores it, nodding encouragingly.

"Exactly. It's a state of being, and given that we are not inanimate objects…"

"States come and go," I finish, exhaling harshly. Like happiness…

It's one of the first things we talked about when I did my first stint, and she asked me what I wanted from therapy.

"To be happy. Isn't that the whole point of therapy?" I'd said, more sarcastically than anything. After all, I didn't come to rehab to get happy. I came to get clean and figure out how to function like a human again.

"Some would think so, yes," she'd told me. "Perhaps, that's what we should work on first. Figuring out more realistic goals."

And I remember scoffing. "So what you're saying is I'm a lost cause."

"No, Mason. It's not unreasonable to want to be happy. But accepting that you won't always be happy—that it's just as fleeting as the bad days—is the first step."

"The first step in what?"

"Healing."

Now, in her office once again, two years later, she tells me, "What you've been through…it's a little more complicated than what most experience when they lose a loved one."

Throat thick, all I can do is nod.

She's got that right.

"I just…I feel like I'm failing her, you know?" I say roughly. "Like I'm giving up, because it's…it's easier to give up and move on at this point. I just…" I shake my head, and look down at my hands, brows furrowing. "It guts me to think of her out there, waiting for someone to find her. And here we are just…going about our lives." I shake my head a little harder, still finding it difficult to talk about, even after all this time.

It's as if there's this block in my mind, making it not only unbearable to consider, but hard to put words to. Up until recently, I never really considered why that might be. I just…didn't.

Didn't talk about it.

Didn't think about it.

Hence why I'm here, back in rehab, starting the fuck over. Like lies, truths have a way of catching up to you too.

The center cannot hold. The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like Jeremy, and my mouth dries considerably, my knee starting to bob.

"Just a line from a poem I like. ‘Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.' Basically means that, no matter how hard we try to maintain control and order, chaos will inevitably get its turn. There is no one without the other. Things break and start anew and break again. It's inevitable."

I frown. I can't remember when he told me that. Was it before or after we lost Izzy? Before, surely…right? Why can't I remember?

Shaking my head, I refocus on the conversation at hand.

No, I didn't go off the deep end this time around. I got drunk. Didn't touch a single pill. But by definition, it's a relapse. Two years of sobriety down the drain.

Did I need to admit myself back into inpatient because of one slip-up? Debatable.

I could've upped my meetings.

Could've gone back to seeing Lionel, the outpatient therapist I'd started seeing when I was discharged from rehab the first time. Therapy that I'd dropped a little over six months ago, because I no longer felt like I needed it.

Idiotic of me?

Most certainly.

But the comfort of denial in all its shapes and forms is a tough state to shake. Goes against every fucking instinct inside me.

"And it's honorable, Mason," my therapist goes on, pulling me back to the conversation at hand. "Your loyalty to Izzy."

I huff through my nose. "You make it sound like an obligation."

Her mouth thins, and I feel that familiar sense of indignation rising up—the one that in the past would have me blowing up on whoever tried to talk sense into me, and get me to accept the reality of the situation.

But that was before.

And this is now.

And now, I'm trying to be less of a shit show.

"I have no doubt you love her very much," Cleo says placatingly.

"I do," I say, my voice tight, raw, on the verge of breaking.

"But is that why you're holding on?"

Staring at her, I say nothing.

Her gaze flicks down to her tablet, and she runs her finger over the screen, like she's flipping through pages. Masking a tsking sound, she finally seems to find what she's looking for, and says, "We've talked about your dad in the past."

Despite the unexpected turn in subject, I nod, a hunch as to where this is going already forming.

Sure, last time she veered into this territory, I cut her off before she could spell it out. But again, things are different this time around. I'm more…open, I guess you could say.

"It fucked me up."

Cleo looks up from the tablet, brows rising gently in a rare show of surprise.

My lip ticks up ruefully. "I mean, it doesn't take a psych degree to figure that out. No offense."

"None taken," she murmurs, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully.

Inhaling deeply, I recline back against my chair, tipping my head to stare up at the ceiling as I continue, measuring each word carefully. After all, it's the first time I'm really giving voice to it.

"I've always been terrified of people leaving me," I confide in a soft voice. "For as long as I remember. I'm sure it started with him, but…sometimes it feels like I've just always been this way. Like I was born terrified of being alone." My voice hitches the slightest bit.

I sense more than see Cleo nodding, silently encouraging me to keep going.

So I swallow—hard—and do just that.

"For nearly a year after he left, I…I was convinced I'd lose my mom too, all because I remembered hearing him tell her she couldn't live without him. She told me that wasn't true, but it…" I shake my head slightly. "It made no difference. It messed with me.

"I mean, sure, I went to school. Hung out with my friends, stayed over at their houses… I went about my days like I always did. I didn't want to…worry my mom, I think. I didn't want anyone to know how scared I was. I wanted to be tough, just like…just like Dad always wanted. And I… I was a kid. It was…easy, in a way to just keep going, when I needed to, despite it all."

Clasping my hands together, I sit a little straighter and lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. My brows knit, and the room around me grows hazy as the words continue tumbling out of me, memories teasing along the edges of my awareness.

"But I remember some nights, how I'd just lie awake for…hours, and imagine the worst. Not just losing my Mom, but losing Gavin and Linda, losing my friends… Then when Phoebe came along, losing her…" I frown. "For years I'd hoped my dad would come back into my life. Now I just wish he was dead." My chin trembles, voice cracking.

I hang my head with a sniff, half-expecting Cleo to interrupt me at that, but when seconds pass without a word, I keep going.

"Anyway, it became this sort of…compulsion, I guess you'd call it." My voice grows stronger. Succinct. "A ritual. Before bed. To…visualize it. It was like… if I could prepare enough to lose the people I love, it won't hurt as much when it actually does happen. Or, I don't know, maybe if I imagined it hard enough, I'd somehow jinx it—prevent it from ever happening at all."

Cleo still says nothing, and rather than bite back more words like I would in the past, I force myself to keep going, giving voice to things I've never told anyone before. Not any other time in therapy. Not to anyone. No one knows just how messed up in the head I am except for?—

"Jeremy," I find myself blurting in a whisper. The floor blurs. And in the deep recesses of my mind, I hear rain pinging against windows. I see stars overlooking a dark garden in the middle of a maze. I feel arms wrapped around me tight, warm breaths on my neck.

A chair creaks, but my gaze remains unfocused.

"He's the only one I think who knows about this. He had really bad anxiety growing up. Like, debilitating at times. He couldn't…pretend and go about his days like I could. He just couldn't. And I remember…I remember thinking, He gets it." A short disbelieving laugh escapes me. "And when he'd look at me sometimes, I think he saw it in me. This fear that I've lived with. When no one else did." The corner of my mouth twitches, creeping up. "As if he could sense that it wasn't just him being tortured by this…this thing in both our heads. Even if it took us years to really…talk about it, and even then, it just…it went unspoken…"

My voice fades as a memory rises to the surface, one from when we were nine years old. Jeremy had just gotten home from the hospital, where he'd had to spend a night in the ER for observation after having developed an ulcer from all the stress his body was under. The bullying, his anxiety…

It burned a literal hole in his stomach.

When I'd read that in the library…

I'd never been so scared.

Not since Mom's fender bender…

"JJ!" Izzy exclaims when she races into his room. Just before she can jump on his bed, Mr. Montgomery catches her by the shoulder, reminding her to take it easy.

I hover on the threshold, watching as Izzy nods and slowly approaches the bed, standing up on my toes when she blocks my view of him.

My heart's beating real fast in my ears, and I feel myself growing impatient, but still, I can't bring myself to join her by the bed.

Mr. Montgomery gives me a small smile, and gestures for me to let him pass. Leaving just me and Izzy and the too-quiet lump in the bed.

He's always quiet, a voice reminds me.

I frown. Not this quiet…

Mom's outside, talking to Mrs. Montgomery. They said we have five minutes with him, because he has to rest. And I wish I asked for five minutes each, because I suddenly don't wanna share it with Izzy. She lives here. She can see him whenever she wants. I can't.

I clench my teeth together, forcing the stupid angry tears back.

This is all Clay and Ethan's fault. They made everyone hate Jeremy, and for what? He didn't do anything wrong. He just wanted to be left alone. It's not fair, and remembering makes me want to fight them all over again.

They made him sick…

"Yeah, we're grounded, but it's okay," I hear Izzy say. She steps to the side, and finally, I see him.

Brown eyes drift across the room, finding me. He blinks, and tugs the comforter higher up, hiding the lower half of his face.

"Hey," I say, taking a step into the room.

I think he mumbles a hi back, but it's muffled.

Izzy swings her head around, long, frizzy brown hair flying. She gives me a smile and says, "See, I told you he'll be okay."

She did…

She did tell me.

And seeing him now, awake, and clearly fine…

I suddenly feel like I'm gonna throw up. My chest hurts. My fingers feel all buzzy, and I can't tell if I wanna cry or curl into a ball or run away.

There's a sniff, then whispering. Jeremy…Izzy's blocking him again as he says something to her.

"Juice? Yeah," she chirps, and whirls away. "Be right back." She blows past me, there and gone faster than I can blink.

And suddenly it's just Jeremy and me.

He sits up, the blanket falling around him. "Are you…are you okay? You look like you're gonna throw up."

Lips clamped together, I shake my head. Three steps separate me and the bed. "M'fine."

Jeremy's face is pale, and his blond hair is all knotty, curling around his ears. He's frowning, his brown eyes darting around my face, like he's not sure he believes me.

I don't think ulcers are contagious, so I don't know what this is.

But there's an itchy feeling inside me, kind of like what I felt when Dad left us. Like when Mom got in her car acceident a couple years ago.

"I—" I gasp, and it hurts. I clench and release my fists, looking around the room. "You-you're okay?"

His frown deepens, and he says, "Yeah. I'll be fine."

I nod jerkily. "That's…that's good. Does it hurt?"

He looks down at the bed, and it's a long moment before he says, "A little. They gave me medicine, so it's not as bad as it was. Are you?—"

I go to speak, but I'm cut off by Mom calling up from downstairs. "Mason? It's time to go."

Slumping, I blow out a breath, and yell out, "Be right there."

Footsteps thud up the stairs, telling me Izzy's coming back.

"Um, I'll see you next week," I tell Jeremy quickly. "Feel better."

I go to turn, but pause, and say, "If it hurts again, you'll go back to the hospital, right? Just in case."

Jeremy searches my eyes, lips twisting, brows furrowing. I can't make sense of the emotion in his eyes, but whatever it is seems to soften a second later, and he nods. "Yeah."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

A throat clears,drawing me back to the present.

"Sorry," I murmur. Shaking my head, I sit up a little straighter, and grip the arms of the chair. Fuck, I haven't thought about that in years. "Um, where was I?"

"You were telling me about Jeremy, and how you two bonded in your shared struggles."

Nodding, I say, "Right. Yeah."

Other memories poke at my awareness.

Calling Jeremy after Dad showed up again out of the blue when I was twelve, dropping off Phoebe on our doorstep, and driving off without even saying hi to me. The way he talked me down from what apparently was a panic attack…

Because he knew. He's always known.

Then it's a crowded storage corridor in a hospital when we're seventeen, and he's telling me to hold my breath. Count to five.

"Feel the burn. Feel it all… And let it go."

And then I'm nineteen, and I'm the one in the hospital, after having just survived an overdose, and once again Jeremy's there, teaching me how to breathe all over again.

My eyes grow hot, my throat thickening with emotion. "He's always been there," I somehow manage to say, my voice restrained.

Cleo considers me for a long moment. "We've talked about this in the past…your reliance on him, since losing Izzy."

Reliance…

I suppose that's a nicer way of saying codependent as fuck.

I nod, and sniff. Clearing my throat, I refocus on Cleo across from me. "Transference."

The act of redirecting feelings toward one person onto someone else. We've discussed this before.

"Yes. Except…" There's something to her tone…

And I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

Her brows knit as she slouches a bit in her chair, and tilts her head to the side, considering me. "I was under the impression you two only became as close as you are now after losing Izzy."

I frown. Did she really think that?

Mentally, I run through past sessions, going back to my first time here at New Horizons. I talked about Jeremy. I know I did. But…

"Girlfriend's brother."

That's what he got reduced to. Not by me, but by Cleo. By Dr. Simmons. By the outpatient therapist I was seeing.

And I corrected them. I did. I'd tell them he's not just that, he's my friend.

Did they just assume we only became good friends after Izzy?

"You've never told me any of this until now."

I blink. Oh.

"We've been friends since we were kids," I tell her. "Best friends. Waylon and Izzy…they were my best friends too, but they were always really close, especially before Izzy and I started dating—like really dating, and not just kids calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend."

I rub my thumbs roughly over my knuckles. I'd never admitted any of this out loud before. "It wasn't like I was jealous or worried or anything. It was always platonic between those two. I guess I just…I wanted to be cool enough to be their friends, so I'd…I kept certain parts of me hidden from them. Right from the start. I wanted them to like me."

"And Jeremy?"

Shrugging, I say, "It was different. Separate."

"Separate?" Cleo frowns. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know, it just…felt apart from everything and everyone else." My hands grow clammy and I curl them into fists on my knees. "Not that we didn't try to include him. He just preferred to keep to himself. He was always a bit of a loner. Shy. Izzy was the complete opposite, and…and I loved that about her, I did. It was…infectious. But sometimes…"

More memories fly through my head. All the times I'd find myself closing Jeremy's door behind me, flopping onto his bed…

The rush of…relief that would go through me.

Like I could finally shrug off a mask, and just lay there, stare up at the stars and planets stuck to his ceiling, without feeling like I needed to be doing something. Saying something. Being something…

I swallow thickly. "Sometimes…" I whisper. "Sometimes I just felt like I had more in common with him. Like I could be the real me with him." My neck prickles. My heart pumps faster. "I really liked comic books as a kid. I mean, I guess I still do, though I don't really read them anymore. There's a lot of things I used to like that I got away from after Izzy…died."

"Except music."

"Except music." I pause. "But that took a while to get back. It's less of a…passion, and more of a need at this point."

Cleo hums. "Makes sense. It's your outlet."

I nod, lick my lips, and say, "Yeah." A beat passes, then. "Jeremy just… He always seems to get me in a way that…that she didn't." I shake my head, brows furrowing. "In a way no one else did." My knees bobs furiously, and my hands are balled up so tight, I feel my nails digging into my skin.

"And sometimes I feel like…like it went both ways. His sister included. She could be—she was pushy at times with him. And not in a good way. It was like…like she thought she knew what was best for him." I wince and quickly shake my head. "That sounds bad. She wasn't like…cruel, or malicious, or?—"

"She loved him. Deeply. That's what it sounds like to me."

Throat tight, I nod. A hitched gasp bursts out of me. "She did." My eyes well with tears. "She loved him so much." Sniffing, I shake my head, feeling the first tear streak down my cheek. I roughly wipe it away. "It fucking kills me when I try to imagine what he must be going through. I can't even…I don't know how he's?—"

"Mason," Cleo murmurs.

"I know, I know. This is about me." I rub my sleeve over my face, soaking up the wetness.

"Yeah, well, that was before."

I frown. "Before what?"

Her mouth tips up in a gentle smile. "Before you told me any of this."

My frown only deepens.

"I thought you two had simply bonded in the shared grief and trauma over losing someone you both cared deeply about," she explains in that clinical, matter-of-fact tone of hers. "Loss will either drive a wedge between those who are closest, or it'll bring people closer together than ever before."

My heart pounds as I stare at her. "Does it matter? That I didn't mention all that before."

"I don't know, Mason. You tell me."

My throat swells even more—my swallow going down forcefully, heavily. In my head, fuzzy flashes of what happened in the cemetery a few weeks ago flicker to life, and my gut roils. My chest tightens. I can feel my pulse speeding up, and my mouth drying.

I didn't tell Cleo about that.

Haven't told a goddamn soul.

I kissed Jeremy…

I kissed Jeremy in a goddamn cemetery, drunk off my ass, in direct line of sight of his sister's—my girlfriend's—grave.

Talk about fucked up.

Not to mention anyone could've seen us. What would people say if they saw me kissing Izzy's brother of all people?

When I open my mouth to tell this to Cleo though, something stops me.

"I don't know," I tell her carefully instead. And it's the truth. I don't know shit about anything these days.

She hums thoughtfully.

"What?"

"It's just curious is all. I can tell things are definitely different this time around. You've come a long way. The Mason I met two years ago wouldn't have even entertained this conversation, much less volunteer all that you did."

My mouth ticks up at that. "Yeah, well. A lot's changed in two years."

"I can see that."

A long beat passes before I say, "I knew hanging onto her—keeping the hope alive that Izzy would one day come back—was…well, not unhealthy, seeing as I don't know if I'd still be alive if I didn't come to terms with it on my own time. I knew what the cost of that was…for me."

Cleo nods. We've discussed this already. On numerous occasions since being back in rehab.

Pinching my lip ring between my fingers, I consider my next words. "I just…I didn't realize it was keeping Waylon and Jeremy from moving on too. Or rather, I wouldn't let myself see it. We haven't talked since that night, obviously, so, I mean, I'm just assuming things. But…I guess, in a way, it's like…I can see things more clearly now. The way everyone's been more or less walking on eggshells for me these last few years." A short rusty laugh bursts out of me. "Talk about self-absorbed."

Cleo's mouth thins with a smile. Then, "In my experience, the hardest things we'll have to do in life, often require a bit of selfishness. Be it healing from trauma, getting sober, accepting the loss of someone…"

I nod, acknowledging that.

"It doesn't mean you aren't accountable for any harm you might've done during that time. But two things can be true at once. It doesn't negate how far you've come, just because your journey wasn't without its hiccups and setbacks. You own your mistakes. You accept the consequences of those mistakes. But you also give yourself grace, and take pride in the person you've become, and the person you're still becoming."

Throat tight, all I can do is nod some more.

"Because, Mason, from where I'm sitting…" she goes on, smiling, "you have come so far since the last time you were here. Even in just these last three weeks, I've seen more growth from you than I did your entire stay last time you were here. And I know it didn't come without sacrifice to get to this point. In someone else's story here, you might very well be the villain, and that's okay."

Sniffing, I suck in my cheeks. My knee bobs. I give another short nod, acknowledging this.

"It's okay," she continues, "because in your story? In yours, you're still here. You made it. And you're fighting like hell to be better. You've got your entire life to be the hero in someone else's story. Don't waste what could be, because you couldn't be that version for everyone."

Wrapping my arms around myself, I lean forward slightly, and say thickly, "You'd think with…with how terrified I am of people leaving me, I'd do everything in my power to keep them. To be good enough, I mean. I don't understand how I even got to this point. I've always just wanted to be good. To make people happy. To make them stay." My voice cracks. Memories of that day so long ago, when Dad drove off, play in my head.

I'll be better.

I won't give up.

He'll come back.

"Pain…fear…" Cleo says. "They make people do desperate things." A beat passes. "Not to mention, our brains have a tendency to…overcompensate when the pressure gets to be too much. Leads us to behave in contradicting ways."

At that, I still, and my gaze lifts to hers.

She gives me a small, knowing smile, but says nothing more on that. "We're just about done for today, but I want to ask you one more thing before I let you leave."

I nod. "Sure."

"Why did Jeremy's…admission…affect you so much?" Cleo asks.

His admission…

What led me here.

"I wish it was me."

"Is he not entitled to his own grief? Is he not allowed to confide and vent about what he's going through?"

Frowning, I say, "That's not why I…"

She arches an expected brow when my voice fails me.

"He doesn't think his life matters as much as hers," I say slowly, carefully. "That's where that came from. The…the belief he holds, that somehow his life is worth less. That-that we would've had it easier had it been him instead of his sister."

"Well, wouldn't you have?"

I stare at her, blood rushing to my ears. After everything I admitted before, why would she?—

"Izzy was your girlfriend."

Was…

"Yeah," I croak, my pulse quickening. "But she's his sister."

Cleo shakes his head. "Let's forget that for just a moment. We're not here to compare. Remember?"

I nod.

"We're only talking about his pain, in regards to how it impacts you." She gestures at me. "Her loss clearly devastated you. And Jeremy's your friend, is he not? And not just because of who you were dating and who his sister was."

"Right," I whisper.

"I can't imagine watching a dear friend hurting is easy. Especially when there's no easy way of fixing it. It's not like Jeremy could actually switch places, right? That's not how it works."

Throat thick, I nod. I don't even want to think about that possibility…that-that choice…

"Combined with the fact that he's hurting too…well, it's completely valid to want to be the martyr in this kind of situation. Not only would trading places with her release him from his pain, but it would release you from yours."

"But it wouldn't," I say harshly.

Cleo's brows rise. "No?"

I scowl. "Of course not. That's…that's the problem here. He's under the…delusion, that my life would've been better off had it been him instead of her, and?—"

"Wouldn't it?"

My mouth slams closed, and my gaze snaps to hers.

"Given how insistent you've been that she's still out there…how heartbroken you've been for years…" She shrugs. "Can you blame him, or anyone for that matter, for assuming something like that?"

My heart slams against my ribs, and I give a little shake of my head, though I'm not really sure what I'm responding to. Or if I just…don't want to hear this.

She holds up a hand. "You don't have to answer. This isn't about making choices on dilemmas that will never come to pass. It's about accepting that things aren't always black and white. I'm not trying to be cruel here. I just want you to…to think about it, about all that we talked about today. Everything you revealed."

And then it hits me.

"You think I overcompensated," I whisper, as something seems to just…crumble in my head. A sickening feeling twists my gut.

She lifts a shoulder. "I can't tell you that."

"I loved Izzy. I thought…I thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives. I didn't even…" Question it. My words trail off before I can finish the thought.

And a voice in my head pipes up, quiet, and foreign after having been silenced for years.

But you did…

You did start to question it.

My eyes burn, and my jaw starts to tremble.

"I know you did," Cleo assures me. "I have no doubt in my mind that you felt that way."

Teeth clenched together, I nod. "We were young."

"You were. Doesn't mean you weren't capable of having big feelings like that. Of not having hopes and dreams for your future." A beat passes, before she says gently, "But I do have to wonder now, given all we've talked about, and what you shared… I asked you earlier, if it's your love for Izzy that has kept you hanging on all this time…" She trails off meaningfully. "Or is it something else?"

A good minute passes before I respond, knowing this time, she is looking for one.

"I'm not sure anymore," I admit softly. Truthfully.

The guilt that follows is swift and sharp, slicing through me. But I'm expecting it, so rather than let it break me down like it would in the past anytime an inkling of a doubt crept in…

I just let it eviscerate me.

Let it burn. Feel it all. And let it go.

Cleo nods, and gives me a reassuring smile. "And that's perfectly okay. Because guess what, Mason?"

"What?"

"Two things can be true at once," she says, mirroring her earlier statement as if she was leading up to this all along. "The real question here is, not whether or not you love Izzy. I know you do. You know you do."

I nod stiffly.

Love. Not past tense this time.

"What I'm curious to know, is if you've been holding onto her for this long, this desperately, because of your love for her and nothing else… Then why the second her brother mentioned trading places, did all of that resistance inside you crumble?"

Everything in me stills at her words.

Pushing to a stand, she looks down at me. "Two things canbe true at once, Mason. But something will always come along and tip the scales eventually."

A meaningful pause settles over the room, and then she drops her final question on me like a bomb.

"What tipped yours?"