Chapter 62

I wake up in my bed alone, without having any recollection of how I got here.

Groaning, I sit up, and clutch my throbbing head in my hands.

Feels like someone's squeezing it between a bench vise.

There's a rustle of fabric, and a low thud. Cracking my eyes open, I lift my head, peering through slits at the shape that takes form in my bleary vision across the room.

"Shawn?"

He says nothing.

"Why are you…" my voice trails off as memories from last night barrel through me with the force of a goddamn freight train.

Oh fuck.

"I got drunk."

Obviously, the thumping in my head seems to say.

And then it's more memories, slinging at my skull like bullets, and I?—

"Jeremy," I croak, scrambling out of bed. The blood rushes to my head, and the world slants, and I clutch the mattress, squeezing my eyes shut as I ease back down. With my other hand, I grab my skull. "F-fuck, I have to?—"

"He's fine," Shawn cuts in stiffly.

"Where—"

"Will's, I believe."

Will…

Frowning, I shake my head, wincing when a shooting pain streaks between my eyes.

"So what's the plan? A meeting. Back to therapy. What are we doing?"

At his clinical tone, I lower my hand, and lift my head, peering through crusty eyes at Shawn standing there with his arms crossed and a hard, closed off expression on his face, one I haven't seen since we first met.

Hell, if possible, he's even more reserved now.

My heart drops somewhere in my gut. "Shawn…"

He gives a firm shake of his head, cutting me off without words. Telling me he doesn't want to hear it.

"Do you wanna sleep it off some more before you decide, or?—"

"No. I…I wanna go to rehab."

His brows lift slightly at that, the only outward reaction that my words caught him off-guard.

Blinking, I look around the room, trying to keep the memories at bay—fuzzy that they are. But it's no use. They slam into me, utterly cold and ambivalent to my current hungover state, and the anxiety threatening to send me tipping over the edge.

"I'll call Gavin. You start packing."

With that, Shawn leaves the room, and I bury my face in my hands, muffling a groaned, "Fuck."

When he returns a few minutes later, I've managed to get myself upright, and am currently tossing clothes in my duffle bag, paying little attention to what I grab.

"My phone," I croak.

"Over here. I turned it off."

Turning my head, I find him hovering in the doorway, arms crossed once more as he watches me with a look I can't place.

"Way?" I whisper.

"Not here."

Eyes burning, I nod shortly.

"So you remember."

Jaw working, I nod again. "I remember enough," I whisper.

"Way's dad's getting out of prison."

I freeze with a balled up shirt in my hand, hovering over my bag.

"He found out last night, not long after you guys had it out."

My eyes fall shut, and I slump, fingers turning white around the fabric still in my grip. "Fuck, is he okay? Is he?—"

"No. He's not."

This time, I don't even notice the blood rushing to my head when I whirl around, wide eyes finding Shawn. "Wh-what do you mean, where?—"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about that right now. He's with Reggie. He'll be staying with him for a bit."

I stare at Shawn, arms hanging lifelessly at my sides. "I…"

"You both need to focus on yourselves right now."

Blinking, I nod. "Okay. Yeah. You're…you're right." Turning, I stuff the shirt in my bag, and blindly go about grabbing what else I need. Once it's zipped up, I grab my guitar, and lock it up in my case along with my notebooks and sharpies.

Once the lock snicks shut, I finally can no longer help myself from asking, "And Jeremy? Is he…is he okay?"

"I don't know. Like I said?—"

"With Will. Right," I murmur, feeling nauseous all of a sudden, for more reasons than one. A buzzing fills my ears, and a sweat breaks across my icy skin.

I kissed Jeremy.

What the fuck was I thinking?

"You called him by his sister's name, Mase."

And everything in me stills.

Frowning, I slowly lift my gaze to Shawn's. "I… No. No, I'd never do that."

Shawn just stares me.

I'm shaking my head. "No…"

"Yes."

"I don't remember that." My eyes dart around his face, without really seeing anything as my mind replays through everything I do remember. My breaths start coming in faster—louder.

The cemetery.

Then, blink, and I'm in O'Leary's, and Waylon's there.

Blink, and I'm…I'm laying on something soft. Warm. And there's a…a dream, right there, edging along my memory, sharper than ever. Like all it would take is for me to extend my hand and grab it.

So I do. That's what I do.

And she's there—Izzy—just like last time, and she's smiling, and she's turning away from me to disappear into the shadows, and?—

Blink.

"Get up!"

Waylon…yelling at me.

Time speeds up. We're flinging awful words at each other—confessions we've kept to ourselves for years. Glass shatters, and I'm on the floor, and I'm screaming, I'm screaming, I'm sobbing, I'm?—

Blackness.

Back in my room, Shawn says, "I think it might be best you keep your distance for a bit. For both your sake's." A phone dings with a notification, and before I can even process his words—process what I've done…

What it means…

You kissed him.

You kissed him, and then you called him by his sister's name.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Shawn says simply, "Gavin's here. Ready?" putting a momentary halt to the berating voice in my head.

No… I'm not ready.

I'm not ready for any of this.

Izzy's dead. She's fucking dead.

I broke my sobriety.

I told Waylon I wished it was him.

I kissed Jeremy, of all fucking people in the world to kiss…

And I called him by his sister's name, not even, what, minutes, hours later? Does it even matter? Kissing him or not doesn't erase how fucked up that is regardless.

At this rate, I'll be lucky if I didn't cost myself two, if not three, of the most important people in my life.

And for what?

A ghost?

"You ready to return tothe land of the living?"

Turning away from the window I've been staring out for who the hell knows how long, I find April standing there with her head tilted and a small, knowing smile teasing her lips.

"Not really," I admit sheepishly. "I forgot how nerve-wracking it is waiting to be picked up on D-Day."

D-Day, what everyone around here calls Discharge Day.

"I just want to skip ahead to when things are normal again." I chuckle, and there's a rusty uncertain quality to it.

April nods, her blue eyes drifting past my shoulder toward the windows stretched out across the wall behind me "Yeah…that would be a nifty little power, huh?"

At her wistful tone, my chest tightens.

April arrived a couple weeks ago—halfway through my thirty-day stay—so she's still got a while to go, seeing as it's also her first time, and she's fresh out of detox hell.

It was a bit of a sucker-punch when I checked myself in this time, only to find I didn't recognize any of the other admits. Why I stupidly thought this was some kind of unchanging bubble I could return to, I have no idea. Save for the doctors, and a couple familiar staff, it's a whole new pond of people.

Not to mention not having Shawn at my side, who I've come to depend on for all things recovery-related more than I even realized in the last two years…

Well, it's been lonely to say the least.

That is, until April arrived.

Not that the other admits haven't been friendly—don't get me wrong. But like last time, most are older than me. Most have had a rougher time of it too. And while I know comparing my struggles to theirs is unfair to myself…it's not something I can easily shake.

But then I met April.

She's a few years older than me, and her vice of choice is alcohol, but we clicked almost immediately, bonding in our shared losses. Not even a year after being married, her husband died in a freak accident on the job, leaving her a single mom to a two-year-old.

Until now, I haven't really had anyone who understood what I've been going through. Not anyone around my age. Not anyone who nearly destroyed their life because of being unable to cope with the grief.

Sure, Will gets it so some degree—he moved back to Shiloh after his boyfriend committed suicide after all.

But he didn't lose his shit like I did, like April did…not in any obvious way that I've seen at least. He moved away to move on. To find himself again. To start over. Seems pretty healthy from where I'm standing.

Hell, it's what Jeremy did.

Or, rather, tried to…

He didn't have to keep coming back.

At the sound of my name being called, I snap out of my quick-to-sour thoughts. One of the staff waves me over from where the lounge opens up into the lobby.

Time to go. I turn and glance out the window, frowning when it's not Mom's SUV I see, but Shawn's Impala.

"Here," I murmur distractedly, digging a Sharpie outta my pocket.

April arches an amused brow when I turn to face her, and I feel my cheeks heat as I gesture for her to lift her arm.

"Maybe…maybe we can get coffee or something when you get out," I whisper, scribbling my number on the inside of her arm. My eyes lift to hers. "As friends."

Her lips twist, sadness shining in her dark brown eyes, and she nods. "I'd like that."

Reaching down for my duffle, I swing it over my shoulder, and we say our goodbyes.

At the front desk, I sign myself out, and gather the few personal effects I turned over when I first arrived, my phone being one of them. Not that I had to give it up, but I didn't want to be tempted. I needed to focus on me while I was here. Can't very well clean up the mess I left behind, if I don't clean up my act first.

Again…

My phone hasn't been turned on since the drive to New Horizons. Shawn was gonna ride with us, but Mom and Phoebe had showed up with Gavin—Shawn had called Mom too, apparently—so Shawn stayed back with my sister.

She was…upset, to say the least. Not because she couldn't come with me. But after what she witnessed a couple years ago—finding me when I overdosed… Well, that kind of thing fucks a kid up.

I have a lot of regrets in life, but that might be the one that takes the cake.

If I could go back and slap my stupid high self, I would. Yes, I wanted to be found. I wanted someone to force me to get help, because I didn't know how to ask for it myself. I was…scared. I didn't trust myself anymore, and I just…

I needed out.

It was poor judgement—risking it with Phoebe there. And now I have to live with that mistake for the rest of my life.

Wincing at the reminder, trying not to let it get to me—realizing I'm more or less starting over, despite only having sort of slipped—I refocus on the present, shoving the thoughts away before they can send me spiraling, and wait for someone to buzz me out.

The sliding glass doors open, and I'm hit by a blast of chilly air. With October coming to an end—Halloween being next week—autumn is in full swing, shriveling up the red and brown and orange leaves still clinging to the trees surrounding the parking lot.

Shawn's idling alongside the curb, cigarette smoke curling out from the cracked windows.

I open the passenger door with a grunted, "Hey."

He gives me a nod, turning slightly to blow out more smoke, before flicking the cigarette butt out the window.

"Thought my mom was picking me up," I say, shoving my duffle between the seats.

Shawn waits for me to get settled and close the door before answering. "I told her I wanted to."

I say nothing to that, just click on my seatbelt.

Shifting gears, he steers the car away from the curb. From the radio, "Fell On Black Days" by Soundgarden is playing, crackling through the old speakers. Neither of us say anything for a while, and I toss my phone between my hands, trying to muster up the courage to turn it on. See what waits for me…

If anything.

Jeremy's face flashes through my head, not for the first time or the tenth…

I've lost count of how many times that I've been invaded by the fuzzy memories that led me back into rehab. Even that night he spent drunk on my couch, a good thirty hours before I flushed my two year sobriety down the drain, is a bit of a blur.

Well, save for that damning hushed, drunken confession of his.

That rings out in my mind clear as day.

I squeeze the phone as his words echo in my head, merging with what happened at the cemetery.

A part of me wishes I blacked that out.

Maybe then I'd be able to justify why I did what I did, when I did, where I did it…

My pulse quickens, my stomach getting all twisted up as more images rise to the surface.

My knee bobs, and I look out the window, staring at nothing, lost in the memories that haunt me. I don't even realize how much time has passed—that we're almost home—until the radio suddenly cuts out.

I look up, frowning when I see that Shawn is pulling into a motel parking lot, just outside Shiloh.

"What are we doing here?"

He parks. A belt clicks in release, and I look over at Shawn just as he turns toward me. He twists the volume control on the radio, silencing the Staind song playing.

"Seeing Way."

I stare at him. My chest tightens, right along with my voice. "I thought he was staying with Reggie?"

While I meant it that I didn't want him to know I was in rehab initially…I figured he'd find out eventually, when he decided to come back to the apartment.

He hasn't been there this whole time?

"His dad got out a few weeks ago," Shawn reveals. "They moved in here, since Reggie was staying at his dad's house." A beat passes. "I haven't seen him since that night." He doesn't have to specify which night. "He's barely left this motel room, except for therapy sessions. Only Ivy and Reggie have seen him. He's… It hasn't been good."

Oh. My throat thickens, and I shake my head, unsure what to even say to that.

"I fucked up. We both fucked up."

I frown, and my heart speeds up even more.

Shawn rolls his lips together, and casts a look through the windshield. "I'm so bad at this."

I whisper, "Something happened that night, didn't it?" I don't specify that I mean after.

"A couple somethings happened that night," he says. Shrugging, he adds, "Let's just say, you're not the only one who lost his shit that night."

My eyes fall closed, and I nod. A part of me wants to ask him to elaborate…

But the part of me fresh out of rehab, and still coming to terms with everything…

Well, is it wrong that I don't want to know?

I've got enough guilt on my plate. It's not like I can go back and erase anything.

All I have is now, and what I choose to do next.

Worry about the breaths that come after, not the ones already wasted.

"Is he okay now? Did—" My voice breaks, failing me. "Did his dad contact him?"

"No. We've been keeping an eye out. So far, he's kept his distance. Reggie's been trying to convince Way to get a restraining order, just to be safe, but you know how he is."

I snort softly at that, and nod.

A moment passes before he says, "Maybe I should have come here sooner. Tried talking to him. Tried…harder in general with him. But…"

Frowning, I follow his gaze to the rundown motel.

"I don't really know how to do this." At his tone, something in my chest sort of just…cracks open. And it hits me?—

"Have you been alone this whole time?"

He shoots me a look. "No."

"Shawn."

"I'm fine."

Of course you are.

And suddenly, it's not Shawn I'm talking to, but Jeremy. And I'm not in a car, but standing in a cemetery parking lot.

"Yeah, you're always fucking fine. What else is new?"

Screwing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the images away.

Later. Worry about all that later. One thing at a time.

Something tells me fixing shit with Jeremy is going to be a lot more complicated than fixing shit with Waylon.

A throat clears softly, and I open my eyes, lower my hand. Shawn's massaging his stubbled jaw with his fingers. "I just…I wanted to wait until we could do this together. Seems only right."

Throat thick, I nod.

My gaze searches his drawn features, and it occurs to me just how far he's not only come, but how far their friendship has.

Shawn and Waylon…there's always been tension between them. Reluctance, resistance…however you want to describe it.

Sometimes I did wonder if perhaps they only put up with each other because of me. I know how Waylon is—how he's always been—so it never really fazed me.

Shawn though…he's tougher to read.

Whereas I wear my heart on my sleeve, and Waylon hides his behind glares and sneers, Shawn keeps his chained up behind an adamantium-enforced wall.

I love the man like a brother, and deep down, I know he returns that sentiment right back, in his own way.

Hell, some would say our friendship is borderline unhealthy. Codependent. A recipe for disaster.

Though which relationships of mine aren't at this point…

But it's different with Shawn. We're both addicts. Recovering addicts. We're both always seeking something to fill the void left by abandoning our vices—his heroin, mine pills…but, really, we'll take any kind of substance to dull the sharp bite of living.

And yet, despite how much we've come to rely on one another since meeting, basically using each other as excuses not to use—see how well that fucking worked out?—not even I have managed to break through that final barrier when it comes to him. Not beyond the bare minimum.

No one has, as far as I know. At least not since he was a kid, maybe, and even then, who really knows? It's not like he talks about it much—his past—if at all.

What I do know is the system is shit, and he was a victim of it, and if he had a good life before it was ripped away from him…

Well, he especially doesn't talk about that.

He'll talk about his years living on the streets, abusing drugs, absolutely.

He'll talk vaguely about being tossed around from one shitty home to the next growing up, until he finally ran away at seventeen, sure.

And that's it.

Over the two years we've known each other, I've managed to draw some conclusions about what he's been through—kind of hard not to, when you live with the guy and spend nearly 24/7 with each other. You pick up on things.

Like the fact authority figures make him uncomfortable.

Like the fact he can barely stomach even the simplest of touches, and yet he's starved for it.

Like the fact he has a hair-trigger when it comes to any semblance of non-consent in others, whatever it be, even if it's something as simple as Phoebe hemming and hawing about trimming her ridiculously long hair.

"If you don't want to chop off the dead ends, fuckin' leave them."

"But Mom?—"

"It's your hair. No one else's. Grow it down to your feet if you want."

Shawn doesn't reveal anything willingly, but it doesn't take a genius to figure him out once you pay him enough attention. Hell, I'd even go so far as to say he wants someone to pay attention. To understand him, and respect his boundaries without having to make a big deal about it.

"You care about him."

Shawn glances down, his jaw tightening. "He's a little shit."

My lip twitches at that, memories of a time where I thought the same flickering through my head. "And yet he worms his way in."

He nods stiffly. "I read him wrong. Really wrong. I just…"

"Wanted to believe he was okay," I whisper, understanding washing over me. Huffing a quiet, humorless laugh, I glance down at the phone I roll between my hands, and shake my head. "That he had it under control. That he wasn't like us."

It takes him a bit to say, "That, and I didn't want to push."

Nodding, I let those words roll around my head. "Better excuse than mine."

"Still the same result."

True that.

A moment passes, before Shawn goes on, "I know you just got out of rehab, and?—"

I shake my head. "No. I'm done burying my head in the sand. I'm not making the same mistakes I did that landed me in this mess. I'm doing things differently this time."

He says nothing to that, and I know what he's really waiting for. What they've all been waiting for.

Blowing out a breath, I tell him, "I know Izzy's…gone. Dead. She's not coming back. And I know admitting that isn't much, but?—"

"It's a good fucking start."

At his roughly spoken words, our gazes meet, and while his dark eyes are hard as always, if I'm not mistaken I do catch a hint of something akin to pride, and maybe sympathy too.

"I'm ready to move forward," I tell him, infusing as much sincerity as I can in my voice.

His mouth thins and he nods. "I believe you." A beat passes. "But you also know I'm not the one who really needs to hear this. And they might not be as easy to convince."

They. He means Waylon and Jeremy.

"I know," I say. "Just like I know, that even if they do eventually believe me, it won't make up for everything I've put them through over the years. What I put them through that night…what I said, what I did…" My voice trails off, and I avert my gaze, willing away the memories.

I can feel Shawn watching me expectantly, like he's waiting for me to elaborate, to tell him what happened—why I decided to upend my life after two years of living comfortably in my denial.

It was all that kept me going.

And then it wasn't.

Mom had asked me the morning after everything went down, on the drive to New Horizons, and all I said was, "It just hit me."

A half-truth if there ever was one.

"It's all kind of a blur," I whisper now, hoping Shawn just lets me leave it at that. "One second everything was fine… manageable…and the next it just…wasn't."

Again, memories surge forward. Not just flashes of images, but of sensations too.

Soft lips

Soft hair.

Soft skin.

Hard jaw.

Hard chest.

Hard—

I clear my throat, and sit up a little straighter, tensing, when the seatbelt pulls tight, reminding me I'm still buckled. "And now we're here. And we're gonna fix shit with Waylon because he needs us. More than I think he'll ever admit, and that is on me for not seeing it. Not trying harder."

I unclick my belt, and turn my gaze toward Shawn. "You can care about him, you know. You should. Because he cares about you too."

His brow furrows.

"Trust me. I've known him since I was a kid, and when I tell you that you're important to him, I mean it." I pause, ensuring he hears me when I tell him, "It's okay to trust him, to let him in a bit. I wouldn't tell you that if I didn't mean it. If I didn't trust in him completely. And I should've told you this the second I introduced you to him."

His face tightens at that, and he looks down. "It wasn't up to you to make us friends. We're adults."

"Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to give a little nudge. I didn't vouch for him like I should have. Or explain why he was the way he was."

"I know why he's like this," Shawn utters quietly, surprising me. "I know exactly why he's like this." His gaze darts between mine, dark and wary. "And that's why I have a hard time trusting him."

I frown.

"In case you missed it, you're not the only one with abandonment issues here. You're also not the only one with self-destructive tendencies." Scowling, he shakes his head and looks away, his gaze growing far-off. "At least with you, you're looking for someone to throw you a life preserver. But Way… he's just looking for a happy accident."

Eyes burning, I shake my head, frowning, not understanding.

"Will told me some shit while you were gone."

I frown. "Will?"

He nods.

And then he proceeds to tell me about Waylon's spiral into rock bottom a couple months ago. How he ended up at Bootlegger's…

Heroin. He fucking shot up with heroin.

Shawn goes on to tell me about Waylon's PTSD diagnosis. How he's been in therapy for weeks now, before he even got the news about his dad's parole. How he'd quit drinking, only to relapse weeks later, hours after I did.

He tells me that several years ago, Waylon ended up on the bridge with his dad's hand gun. How he pulled the trigger, but the safety was on.

And I want to throw up.

I had no idea.

No fucking idea.

But I should have, and that's what kills me.

Covering my face, I squeeze my eyes shut until I see stars.

All these years, I was terrified it'd be Jeremy. Despite his insistences. Despite his promises…

When in fact, it was the guy with the perpetual smirk and deep-seated dimples and devil may care attitude who was hanging on by an actual thread I should've been paying closer attention to.

Fuck, Izzy. I'm so sorry. I told you I'd take care of him…and I failed.

I failed them both…

"He doesn't know I know about that," Shawn says quietly.

Sniffing, I nod. I lower my hands, and rub them on my thighs, and say, "Okay. Okay."

I open the door just as Shawn kills the engine.

Blood is roaring in my ears as I follow Shawn to their room. He tells me Reggie's at the garage, so it's just Waylon inside.

He doesn't answer after the first couple knocks, but Shawn assures me he's in there. So I resort to an old, secret knock we had as kids, when we used to play in the treehouse at the Montgomerys.

One second passes.

Another.

Then, finally, the door cracks open.

All I see are reddened, tired hazel eyes peeking out from under a mop of black hair, and a caustic smile that has his too-hollow cheeks sinking with two deep divots.

"Mason Wyatt, as I live and breathe."

His voice cracks the ever-slightest bit, and the next thing I know I'm throwing my arms around him in a crushing hug, squeezing him to me like I've never squeezed him to me before.

And he's tense—because of course he's tense. We don't hug. I'm not sure that we've hugged a single day in our lives.

In his ear, I'm saying, "You're okay," because…he is. Right now he is, even though, unbeknownst to me, he almost wasn't.

And "I'm sorry," because I am…

I'm so, so sorry.

I almost lost him too…

Fuck.

And I know things are far from perfect, but right now, in this second, as he pats me awkwardly on the back, and I feel Shawn hovering behind me watching us, I can believe that it'll be okay. We'll be okay. Everything will be okay.

Because I'm gonna be better.

For him. For Shawn.

For Mom, Phoebe…

For me…

I'll be better.

And then hopefully I can be better for Jeremy too.