Chapter 63

"Let me see."

Will doesn't seem to even hear me. Clearing my throat, I slowly, gently nudge his face back, turning him so the overhead light hits his neck.

We're at his apartment, in his bathroom.

I barely even remember driving us over here.

His breath hitches sharply with his inhale, and my eyes flash to his, before dropping back to the blood-smeared fingerprints blooming around his neck. A couple are starting to yellow with bruises.

Fuck.

I still don't quite know what happened. One second I was picking myself up from the kitchen floor, desperately trying to compose myself before someone saw me losing my shit, and the next, Waylon was bursting through the door, blood dripping from his hand all over the floor, with Will fast on his heels.

I hung back, of course. I had no idea what was happening.

But then Ivy joined me, her eyes wide with worry as she looked between me and the direction of Waylon's room. Before she could tell me what was going on, we heard a muffled shout—a sob. Followed quickly by a thud.

And faster than I can blink, Ivy was down the hall. A door opened, and then Shawn was there too, rushing up behind Ivy, with me right behind him—all of us crowding into the bathroom to find Waylon literally choking Will out in his bathroom.

"It wasn't him," Will says now. Our gazes meet, and something sinks in my chest at the tears reddening his glassy blue eyes. He pulls away, and with trembling fingers, feels around his neck—glancing off the bruises left by Waylon.

"Will…"

Head hanging, he whispers, "It wasn't me."

I frown.

"Wasn't me."

Eyes burning, I force a hard swallow. "I know." And I do. I saw the look on Waylon's face—the stark cold terror, veiled thinly behind his rage. The way he crumpled when he realized what he'd done…

He'd hurt Will.

If I had any doubts before tonight that there was something going on between them, I don't anymore. Not after that. God, the look in Waylon's eyes…

The pain in Will's voice as he told him over and over again that he loved him, and that it was okay…

Now, Will's breaths quicken, growing sharper.

"Come on," I say, encouraging him to follow me out into the living room. But he just shakes his head.

And then he crouches on the tile.

And he buries his face in his hands and just…

He just cries.

I don't know what to do, what to say, to make any of this better.

So I plop down on my ass, and just…watch him as he falls apart, waiting for my own tears to come, except they never do.

I just feel empty.

Numb.

Drained.

My sister's dead. She's really fucking gone.

Mason's lost to me, once and for all. There's no coming back from this.

Waylon's…I don't even fucking know what Waylon is, but it's a mess.

Will's splitting at the seams.

And I just feel…

Nothing?

Everything?

It's like I'm right back where I started, four years ago—caught up in some vicious cycle I thought I had finally escaped—and I'm just…

Done.

A bell ringsout when I push through the entrance to Chickie's diner, announcing my arrival.

I fight the urge to cringe and duck my head, and instead busy myself with fixing my hair.

Not that it needs any fixing.

It's a Wednesday night, but a quick peek over the divider shows it's packed, thanks to the crowd of familiar faces gathered in the back corner among a sea of balloons and what look to be rocket ships and planets tied around streamers strung up over the windows and light fixtures.

Space party.

Of all themes for Shawn's birthday party this year, Phoebe went with space.

Why I'm here, for a party to celebrate a guy I'm pretty sure hates me, I have no idea.

Okaayyyy, so he probably doesn't hate me.

But I still feel like he blames me for Mason's little bender last month.

As he should…

Grinding my teeth at the thought, I shake my head, immediately taking shears to that thread. I've worked my damn ass off this last month to deconstruct every last remaining stitch my mind created that night. That weekend. The last four years…

I was a casualty.

I've been a casualty.

A scapegoat. An excuse. A crutch.

Nothing more.

And with that reminder, I steel myself, and round the corner, and start making my way across the diner.

From the speakers surrounding the old, '50s-style diner, "In The Still of the Night" is playing, mingling with the hum of chatter and clang of dishware.

I'm running my fingers through my hair—again—when my gaze catches on the birthday boy himself. There's something on Shawn's face…something phallic looking, that sparks in the light.

My lip twitches. What the?—

Just then, a body cuts into my line of sight, and my steps falter, my smile dimming.

Wide, pale blues gaze back at me, a stinging contrast to the last time I saw those eyes, slitted and bleary, peering up at me with desperation as he cupped my face. Called me by my sister's name. Begged me—her—not to go.

My heart pounds, this time not with nerves, but anger. It's the only feeling I seem to experience these days, outside my usual apathy and anxiety.

For a long moment we both just stand there, silently staring at one another. The song's still playing, and people are still talking and laughing. The world keeps spinning, and yet mine has fully stopped.

His lips part, and his eyes grow glassy with each passing second.

I don't know what to make of it—the look on his face right now. And better yet, I don't want to make anything of it.

You're just a casualty.

He doesn't actually see you.

I'm just the closest thing he's got to her.

Every muscle in me tenses at the much-needed reminder, prompting me to stand a little taller, and jut out my chin, hardening myself to his intrusive, almost pleading gaze.

"JJ," he whispers, his voice breaking.

My jaw ticks. Asshole. "Don't call me that."

He starts to smile, but then seems to realize I'm actually being serious this time.

Not that I haven't always been serious when telling him to not call me that, but I guess somewhere along the way, probably around the time I started calling him Mase Face as payback, it stopped feeling like a call back to when I was a kid when people just took it upon themselves to call me something I never agreed to…

And it started feeling like an inside joke between us. Mason and me. Our thing.

After all, he never hated Mase Face like I once hated JJ. It's always made him smile. Maybe that's why JJ started making me smile too. Because he only called me that when he was teasing me, and not in a bad way, but like…like I was in on the joke, rather than the butt of it.

"Can we talk?" he says, his face pulled tight. "Please."

Sucking in my cheeks, I glance past him, and meet Waylon's furrowed gaze as he watches us.

I haven't seen him since last weekend, when Ivy and I tricked Will and Waylon into finally reuniting after weeks of radio silence. The three of them came down to Allentown to stay with me for the night, and we went to one of my favorite night clubs for the monthly Pride night. Which just so happened to fall on Halloween weekend.

It wasn't just Will's first time seeing Waylon since the night he and Mason decided to go two-for-two with the fucking mental breakdowns, but Waylon's first time at a gay bar.

At least, as far as I'm aware, it was his first time, seeing as up until a month ago, I was certain Waylon was straight.

Seeing as he's here now, back in Shiloh, celebrating Shawn's birthday—and no longer holed up in the motel he's been living out of with Reggie, avoiding everyone—I take it things are looking up. That Mason and him talked. Mended fences or whatever.

It reminds me of our own mending of fences of sorts—Waylon's and mine—outside Tink's, the bar we took him to the other night.

I remember now all that he confided to me…how shitty he felt, how sorry he was…

Then what I told him, after realizing what had led to the rift between us, the one I've always felt, but never knew the origins of.

It's so obvious now, that I kind of want to beat myself up for not seeing it years ago. Especially knowing all that I know now, thanks to a heavy night of margheritas with Will at my apartment a few weeks ago.

Waylon's…

Gay? Bi? Queer?

Whichever. Doesn't really matter.

It's just fucking wild to me that all this time, he was suffering too, in his own way. Makes me sad he didn't think he could tell me, when he knew what I was going through as a kid.

But maybe that's partially why he couldn't tell me.

Fuck, how he saw me get treated probably played a big role in why it scared him so fucking much, to the point of years of denial, not to mention all that he's put Will through back when they were kids, and then again more recently. Combine that with his piece-of-shit sperm donor, who never did such a great job at hiding his disgust of me…

Yeah, I can't say I blame him for keeping it to himself. For fighting it. At least he was able to—did a damn good job of it too. That or my gaydar is wonky. Not like I had much practice with it.

Regardless, I meant what I said to him in that parking lot—all I saw that night in the bathroom was a terrified little boy fighting for his life. I can't unsee it now. I was that boy. I fucking get it. We do fucked up shit when we're scared. We push people away. We lash out. We let the hate fester and rot us from the inside out until we no longer can contain it, and we snap.

But I also meant everything I told him after that:

"It's up to you to climb your way out of this. We can reach down to help, but it's up to you to grab our hands and let us pull you up…"

"Effort fucking matters, Way. It matters more than anything else."

And standing here now, in this diner, staring at Mason, watching as he waits with bated breath for me to either continue icing him out as I have been, ever since he got out of rehab…

Or give him a chance to explain… to apologize…in person, and not just via unanswered texts and voice notes and voicemails…

Well, I can't say that I feel like I owe it to him to hear him out.

I don't.

I don't owe him shit.

But…

He was drunk. I can't discount that. Drunk and finally accepting Izzy was well and truly gone. As shitty as what he did to me was, I can take a step back and at least acknowledge he was in a really dark place.

It doesn't excuse anything. Hell no.

But I could at least hear him out…see how he wants to spin this.

If anything, it'll be the final nudge I need to slap a lock on the box that is Mason Wyatt, and finally shelve it for good.

So with that in mind, after what seems like an eternity rolling all of this through my head, but is in reality only seconds, I finally give Mason a stiff nod. "Fine."

Turning on my heel, I don't wait for a response. I just head back the way I came, trusting he'll follow.

Trusting he'll burn what's left of our friendship to the ground once and for all.

I don't see how this can play out any other way.