I don’t know if this is still him testing me, to see how far I’ll go, how many speeches I’ll make. I don’t have anything left, though. This was all I had. And the fact that it might not be enough, that Andrew will still hate me, resent me—it feels so unbelievably unfair. Yet when I think of what he went through, it doesn’t seem my punishment is harsh enough.

My feet are shaky on the ground as I step from his car, and I walk around the back because I can’t bare the thought of him seeing me pass in front of him. I’m afraid I might fall. My face feels red, and the only thing I can think about is how I’m going to get the courage to ask my father why he lied to me, why Mom lied. My legs are tingling with energy, and I feel like I do when I dream—when my limbs want to run, but somehow they just can’t.

One foot in front of the next, I watch the ground before me, not realizing that Andrew hasn’t pulled away. I don’t look back, and I don’t see him coming, but his hand soon glides up my back, startling me. I gasp as I turn quickly, dropping my purse at my feet, my phone sliding from it, my lipstick rolling down the walkway into the dead grass, my medicine rolling next to it. I move on instinct to pick everything up, but Andrew’s hands find my face quickly, his thumbs on my cheeks, his palms cupping my face. Soon his forehead is on mine, and he’s breathing hard.

“Andrew,” I whisper, my hands clutching the sides of his shirt. My eyes flutter closed as our heads rest together. He licks his lips once, grimacing from pain, his bruises still apparent and his wounds still fresh. His mouth opens in a hard breath.

“It was always you,” he says, his body shuddering as he rocks us side to side, his thumbs tracing my cheeks softly until one finds my lips. I let out a sharp breath at his touch, as the pad of his thumb slides over my bottom lip. Surely he can feel it shaking. My entire body is pulsing, the sound of my heartbeat loud in my ears, filling my head, drowning all reason. “It was worth it…for you.”

His head tilts up just enough that his lips graze mine, our touch almost a tickle as his bottom lip passes over mine, his breath slow against me as his forehead rests heavy. “Emma,” he breathes, his whisper against my mouth. “So long…I wanted…I waited.”

My eyes flutter open then drift closed again, something awakening in me from his touch. My body rushes with heat as he steps in closer to me, his hold on me firmer, his breathing more steady.

Years begin to dissolve, and my heartbeat feels strong and steady.

Then music begins to play at my feet. It’s Lindsey’s ringtone—alarms sounding off, calling off mistakes, stopping accidents. This is my chance to stop hurting people, to not make things worse. I step back and Andrew’s grip tightens, his body feeling panicked. We both look down and see her name.

I kneel down, and Andrew steps back a pace, his hands falling to his sides, his eyes wide.

I hold my ringing phone in my hand, then look up at him, his sad eyes saying everything that’s in mine.

“Hey,” I answer the phone, never breaking my gaze at Andrew, who keeps his eyes on mine as well.

“Hey, I’m at the library. I need to finish up a research project, but I’m starving. Wanted to see if you wanted to grab lunch before our lab?” Lindsey’s voice is in one world, and I’m in another. Those worlds are so far apart, and one will destroy the other if I let them collide.

“Sure,” I say. My eyes stay on Andrew’s, my hands wishing they could touch him again, but my head knows they can’t. The dull ache starts to creep in slowly. “I’ll meet you at the library in half an hour.”

Lindsey and I say goodbye, and I push my phone into my purse quickly, no longer able to look up and see Andrew’s face. I reach for my lipstick, but before I can grab the rest of my things, he kneels down and takes my pills into his hands. My initial instinct is to grab them back, but my fingers recoil before I do. A few seconds pass, and I know he’s reading the long name, wondering what it’s for. Eventually he passes the bottle to me, and I stuff it into my purse before zipping it closed.

“Thanks,” I say without looking at him. I won’t give any hint that that bottle is anything significant, even though when I finally stand and meet his stare, I know the question is just perched on his lips. He doesn’t ask it though.

This is one secret I’m not ready to share today. There are too many things, and Andrew’s heart has been broken enough without having to add the weight of my story—of what he missed while he was busy being tortured at Lake Crest—to his heavy load of things to bear.