I have to admit my most favorite time we spend together is when we go stargazing, like right now.

“I don’t know.” I roll over in the bed of his truck and look over at him. He’s lying on his back, languidly grinning at the starry night sky above us, with his arm draped across his forehead.  “Maybe. But what would our future say?”

He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “How about you tell me?”

“Well, we’ll continue doing just this until tomorrow,” I say as I sketch his scruffy cheekbone with my fingertip.

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll go to school and keep going to school until we graduate college.”

He cocks a brow at me. “But what if I don’t want to go to college right away?”

“You do. I know you well enough to know you want a good life, just like me,” I whisper then gently kiss his cheek. “You want to know what I want to do in the next thirty seconds, though.”

His smile turns darker than the night. “I have a couple of ideas.”

“Oh yeah? You think you know me that well?”

He lifts his head up but doesn’t kiss me, instead stopping an inch short. “I think I do.”

“Then what am I thinking right now?” I whisper, my gaze fixed on his eyes no matter how much it wants to drift to his lips.

“That I’m the most amazing person ever,” he teases then seals his mouth to mine, reading my mind perfectly. And that’s how we stay for what feels like hours, searching each other’s mouths under the stars, like we’ve done every Friday night for a couple of months now.

When he finally does come up for air, it’s not to stop or to pressure me to go further, but to tell me something.

“I love you, Avery,” he says, his fingers tangling through my hair as he peers up at me.

My heart ceases in my chest.

He loves me?

Loves me?

Do I love him?

Do I?

I have to, right? Conner is perfect, heading somewhere, and seems to want to bring me with him. He makes me smile when I’m sad. Takes me places I’ve never been before. Makes me happy. Makes everything feel like a dream instead of… life.

“I love you too,” I whisper back.

We start kissing again, only this time it turns into so much more. There’s no exchange of words agreeing to go further. Clothes just come off and our bodies unite.  Everything feels perfect, even when a storm rolls in and thunder starts to boom. We continue making love through the rainstorm, well into the morning. And everything, life—the world—feels…

Surreal.

Like a dream.

If it is, then never let me wake up.

Chapter 7

This feels like a nightmare.

Tristan

I’m lying in bed, high, when I hear the news. At first I wonder if I’ve lost my mind when my mother walks into my room because she’s looking right at me, like she all of a sudden sees me, and there’s no hate in her eyes, only sorrow. Then she opens her mouth and says something. At first I think I’ve heard her wrong. That somehow I’ve forgotten I took a hallucinogenic and what I’m hearing and seeing isn’t real, but a f**king nightmare my high brain is conjuring up.

But she keeps repeating herself until I eventually come to the realization that I’m awake and high and I’m completely hearing her correctly.

“Ryder’s dead,” she says as she sobs, grasping onto the doorframe of my bedroom as if it’s the only thing holding her up.

Ryder’s dead?

Ryder’s dead?

Ryder’s dead?

Suddenly, my general depression about everything seems misplaced. All this time, I was sad about life and now my heart hurts so goddamn badly that I can’t breathe.

“What? How…?” I manage to get two words out as I sit up and stagger to my feet.

“Ryder’s dead!” This time she shouts it with tears streaming out of her eyes as she collapses to the floor on her knees.

I’m not sure what to do. Panic? Cry? Hug her? We haven’t hugged since I was twelve years old, and she’s always seemed pretty content about it. But now she’s not content. She’s breaking on my bedroom floor because Ryder is dead.

My older sister is dead.

Gone.

And I never got to know her.

Not really.

Never got to tell her that I loved her.

Never told her I’m sorry for being the dark cloud in the family.

And now I never will.

I choke on my thoughts as I make my way over to my mother. Then I drop down on my knees in front of her, and after hesitating, I wrap my arms around her.

“I’m so sorry, mom.” Tears sting at my eyes as I say it, realizing that I am sorry.

For everything.

How can this be happening?

How can Ryder be dead when I just saw her a few weeks ago?

How? Why? How?

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she sobs hysterically, trying to push away from me but I pull her closer, not sure what else to do. “I want it to be you!”

It feels like a slap across the face.

A f**king knife in my heart.

I’m bleeding out.

No, I’m not.

I tell myself that I heard her wrong. That I was really hallucinating the entire time like I originally thought. That she’s not here crying in my arms and Ryder isn’t gone. That this is all a goddamn nightmare.

But it’s not.

I know it’s not.

I’m not sure what to do or say, whether to pull away from her or continue to console her when she’s pushing me away. I’m still deciding when my father appears in the hallway behind her, his eyes filled with tears too. And there’s a look of remorse on his face directed at me.

“I’m so sorry,” he utters while he reaches for my mother.

Sorry for what?

For losing my sister?

For my mother wishing it was me that died?

What is it, Dad?

Please tell me.

Help me figure out what I’ve done wrong.

The only answer I get is his silence, leaving me with my own interpretation.

To all of this.

“Yeah, me too,” I choke back at him as he helps my mother to her feet. She doesn’t push him away, instead falling into his embrace. My father gives me one last apologetic look before guiding my mother down the hallway, leaving me alone in my room.

And for the briefest moment, I wish I was the one dead too.

Present Day…

Chapter 8

It’s just a little wound. Nothing a scar won’t fix.

Tristan

So much for avoiding Avery. I didn’t mean to run into her the first morning on the job. I’m not even sure what it is about her that makes me do nice guy stuff. I’m not a nice guy, haven’t been for a while. If Avery knew half the shit I’ve done, she wouldn’t be calling me cute and smiling at me. She’d be running the other way, just like she did when she got that phone call earlier.

After our encounter the first day, I warn myself to stay away and the following morning I even try to run the urge to get to know her out of me. But Avery appeared so distraught when she left that afternoon that I wonder if it has something to do with Conner. That thought weighed heavily on my mind, more so than drugs and I decide that the next morning that I’ll talk to Avery, because I need to know if she’s okay—have needed to know for three months now.

But when I arrive at the worksite, my nerves reveal that there might be more to it than just checking up on her. Because I’m so damn nervous that it’s starting to show to outside observers.

“Why do you look so squiggly?” Nova studies me as she picks up a bag of nails from off the ground near the front section of the house where construction has started.

Music is playing from the stereo of a truck, and the sounds of drills and saws fill the air. It’s ridiculously hot and the sun is relentlessly beaming down on us. I’m so hot I’m sweating even with my shirt off and just a pair of cargo shorts and boots on.

“Is it because of the job thing I was talking about this morning?” Nova asks. “Because if it is, I didn’t mean anything bad by it, Tristan. I just think it’d be good if we all had jobs.”

She’s right. We all should have jobs. But I’m qualified for nothing except dealing drugs, which makes getting hired a problem. She, on the other hand, walked straight into a camera store and was hired for an evening shift. On top of that, she has a tiny bit of funding for the documentary she’s making about her journey of helping people out. Then Wilson, the foreman and mentor to Quinton, helped Quinton find a job working in construction during evening hours.

“No, that’s not what’s bothering me. I’ll find a job like I said I would.” I search the dirt for a bag of nails that I left around here yesterday. “And what kind of word is squiggly anyway?”

“The kind of word to describe someone who seems nervous and fidgety,” Nova explains, putting the nails into a pouch on her tool belt.

“I’m not nervous.” I find the bag of nails near the corner of the foundation. “Just looking for these.” I feign a smile as I reach into the bag, scoop out a handful of nails and then dump them into a pocket on my tool belt. “You know, we should really start driving your car here with how hot it is,” I say in an attempt to divert the subject.

“You know, I can tell when you’re trying to change the subject, right?” She narrows her eyes at me as she puts her hands on her hips. “And when you’re lying. But the question is why?”

“I’m not avoiding or lying. Nor am I squiggly, fidgeting, or nervous.” I undo the buckle of my tool belt and loosen it a smidgeon.

“You do seem a little out of it,” Quinton agrees as he strolls up to us with a to-go cup of coffee in his hand. “You barely talked at all on our way here.”

“You barely ever talk,” I argue defensively. “And neither do I.” I nod my head toward Nova. “This one here on the other hand…”

Nova’s lips part in shock, then she swats my shoulder, eliciting a laugh from Quinton and me. “I’m not that chatty. It just seems that way because you two can barely carry on a two second conversation.”

“The quiet can be peaceful sometimes,” I tell her, and Quinton nods in agreement as he swallows a sip of his coffee.

“Whatever.” Nova starts to walk off to where Wilson is gathering the workers, but Quinton snags her elbow with his free hand and lures her back to him.

“You know I love it when you talk,” he says softly in her ear, pulling her closer until her back’s pressed against him. “Love the sound of your voice, love the…”

I leave before I can hear the rest. I’ve always heard that people get less sappy and lovey-dovey the longer they’ve been together, but Nova and Quinton seem to be getting worse with each passing day and I’m beginning to get really sick of it. Or jealous. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I check in with Wilson before I begin cutting boards with the table saw like I was instructed to do. My attention is half there though. The other half is on the driveway, waiting for Avery’s Jeep to pull up. Usually when I spend more than five minutes thinking about a woman, it’s to f**k her. The only exception to this is Nova, and I never did sleep with her.

But now Avery has taken that place.

Part of me wants to sleep with Avery and see if it’ll clear my head, but then again I already know her better than any other woman I’ve hooked up with, so I’m unsure how well that would work. Besides she seems very adamant about her no guy rule, so getting her to break it for me is probably impossible. And I’m not even sure if I want her to break it. Avery isn’t like the usual type of woman I sleep with. She’s not a druggie or a whore. She’s not looking to get a fix. Not looking to kill time. Not looking for anything really, at least in the guy department. It was kind of the same way with Nova and f**k, maybe that’s why I developed a thing for them both. Maybe I want more. But, like things proved with Nova, wanting more doesn’t mean I’ll necessarily get it.

It’s not until I spot Avery’s Jeep pulling up that I realize just how big of a problem having her around is going to be. Because I get excited when I see her car and the feeling heightens when she gets out it. I can’t take my eyes off her as she closes the door and glances around the property as if searching for something. I’m kind of hidden out of her sight, but I can see her perfectly and get a full view of the cut-off shorts she’s wearing along with a tank top that’s just low enough in the back that I can see part of that damn tattoo I desperately want to see.

God, what I’d give to understand the meaning behind it.

“Dude, you’re bleeding all over the boards.” Quinton’s voice yanks me from my obsessive thoughts of Avery.

He’s standing on the other side of the table saw, staring down at my hand. I track his gaze and see blood covering the entire side of my hand and dribbling onto the board I’m holding.

“Fuck.” I drop the board and rotate my hand over, examining the deep gash. “I don’t even know how the f**k that happened.”

“I think you scraped it on a nail,” Quinton says, rounding the table saw.

I wipe my hand on the side of my cargo shorts then wince from the sting. “Yeah, but I didn’t even feel it.”

“That’s because you were too busy staring.” His implying gaze travels toward the driveway to Avery’s Jeep.

“No, I wasn’t,” I lie as I stare at the blood bubbling from the cut on the side of my hand.

Quinton elevates his brows as he picks up a board. “Whatever you say.”