It was back to us. Ryan and me. The ghosts had gone again.

“I didn’t know.”

He shrugged and went back to watching his hand. He traced it up and down the inside of my leg. “He died before basketball season that year. Some told me I didn’t have to participate, if it might be too much for me, but I wanted to. All the others who kept quiet, I knew they were relieved. They wanted me to play. They didn’t care about Derek, but it was him and me. We were co-captains on the JV team. I played varsity too, but I don’t know . . .”

His eyes met mine. The anguish was back. He whispered, “All I did right away was play ball. It was like I was half-trying to forget him, and half-trying to kill myself. You know?”

I nodded. My heart was in my throat. “Yes.”

“But everyone wanted something from me. They wanted me to win. They wanted me to keep going, get faster, learn more drills, learn more tricks. The coaches. The teachers. My friends. My parents—it was all of them. I never got a fucking break. All they wanted was to fucking win. All I wanted was to fucking die.”

“Ryan,” I whispered, moving back to him. I hurt, but this time, the pain wasn’t mine. It was his. I put my hand where his had been, right in the middle of his chest. I felt his heart pounding. It was so fast, almost skipping a beat before going even faster to try to make up for it.

I wanted to say something to calm him, slow his heartbeat, but there were no words.

There was only grief and the silence that accompanied it.

He bent and took my hand, kissing it and holding it tightly. “I gave everything that year, and I was empty after it. I had nothing when the season ended.”

“That was when you stopped caring.”

“Yeah.” He squeezed my hand, resting it against his chest. His other hand went to my hipbone and burrowed under my jeans, his thumb rubbing over my skin. “Kirk and I, we didn’t give a damn. Drugs. Drinking. Fights. Fucking.” He grimaced. “None of it worked.” His hand started up my back, sliding under my shirt. “It took a year and a half, but all of that went away.” He stopped, his hand right next to my ribcage. He held me in a gentle embrace, as if I were a delicate treasure. “I get what you feel. I get you talking to Willow. I get you sitting in a dark and empty hallway. I get you leaving the bed to cry in your guest bathroom. I get it. You don’t think I do sometimes, but I do.”

“Ryan.” Tears slid down my face. I reached up, cupping his cheek. “I . . .”

I wanted to say it.

I was feeling it. I was feeling more than just that word, but . . . the words wouldn’t form.

His eyes flickered, shuddering a second, and then the agony was gone. He had closed up, returned to being the old Ryan again, and my heart sank because I realized this had been him the whole time.

He had been shut down this whole time too.

“Don’t.” I leaned forward, catching his face with my hands. I moved so close, my eyes jumping back and forth between his, my lips almost touching his. “Don’t do that. Not to me.”

“Don’t what?”

But he knew. He so knew, and I shook my head.

“Don’t shut me out. I’m not them.”

His eyes shut again, resting a second, and his chest rose as he took in a deep breath. Then they opened, and I was seeing the real him. He just opened up for me again.

“There.” I raised my hands, cupping the sides of his temples, right next to his eyes. My forehead rested against his. “There you are.”

More pieces fit together.

Both his hands went to my hips, and he gripped me, just holding me in place.

And then, because it was the right time and a gate had shattered inside me, I said, “I love you, and I love you for loving me.”

His eyes closed again, as did mine, and we stayed there, just holding each other.

My first warning should’ve been Erin.

She was standing on the curb in front of Stephanie Witts’ house when we pulled in. Peach was next to her, and Tom right behind her, but for some reason, their welcoming party didn’t sound the alarms in my head.

It might’ve been the feeling I was basking in at that moment—telling Ryan I loved him and genuinely feeling it, not feeling all the other baggage inside that had kept pushing it down so I couldn’t say it. It felt like a weight off my shoulders.

Or maybe it was because I had a strong feeling I couldn’t hold up my promise not to have sex with Ryan again. Though, it wouldn’t be sex. It’d be making love.