“I’m not.”

“You’re not fine?” he asks slowly. There’s this tone to his voice. Low, concerned. It makes me shiver. “Go see if you can catch them.”

“What?”

“No. Not you. I was talking to Kellin.” There’s a scratchy sound, his phone pressed against his chest. His next words echo deeply, garbled and scruffy. “Tell them we’re going back.” A pause. Another scratching sound. “Hope?”

“Mm-hm?”

“We’ll be there in a few minutes. Did you take anything? Drink anything else?”

“No. I’m not fucked up.” And then I laugh. Because I am so fucked up. I am the most fucked up person in the world.

“I think something’s wrong with her. Hurry up. Hope?”

“Yeah, there is something wrong with me.” I laugh again as tears fill my eyes. Pathetic. A sob rips at my throat and I choke on it. “There is something so incredibly wrong with me, Mason. You don’t want any part of this. Of me. You can’t.” And I hit the end button. I stare at it until my vision blurs. The end button. Yeah, that sums it up nicely. I just hit the end button on Mason Patel.

Pushing myself up, I flush the toilet. I place the razor gingerly back where it belongs. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I put a pair of pajamas on and then I drop onto my bed, willing my eyes to dry.

I don’t cry.

I didn’t cry when the police officer showed up at the door and I knew something was wrong. I didn’t cry when he informed me my mom had died. Didn’t cry when he made me pack a bag and took me to CPS.

I didn’t even cry at her funeral.

I never cried when she left me. When the boyfriends looked at me. When the asshole touched me.

So why am I crying right now?

What the hell is wrong with me?

I press my ear buds into place and turn my iPod up loudly. Something fast. Something angry. Something to numb me so I don’t go back into that bathroom. I can’t with Mason on his way.

I close my eyes. Squeeze them tightly.

My mom was crazy. One minute, she was this fun, caring mom. She would be happy. Smiling. Laughing. She would want to be with me. We would play games. Stupid games. Who could finish their breakfast the quickest? Who could take the most steps? Freeze dance. Hide and scream. Those times were good.

Then in the next moment, she would snap. Screaming. Throwing things. Everything was my fault. Get evicted for not paying the rent because she drank the money away. That was my fault. Boyfriend left her after spending one night in bed. That was my fault. Stretch marks. My fault. Car won’t start. Ran out of smokes. Bad breath. Communicable disease. Poverty. World hunger. All. My. Fault.

And then there were the drugs. The alcohol. The men. My mom was addicted to them all. So much so, they were her first—no, her only—priority.

There was a time where my mom was pretty. I would look at her and I would think she was a princess. Her hair was thick and shiny. Her eyes bright. Even her skin was radiant.

Do you know what happens to someone’s body when it’s ravished by addiction? It changes. So slowly, it’s not noticeable until it’s too late.

Toward the end, her hair was dull and thin, showing signs of graying. Her eyes sunk into her skull, dark bags engulfing them. Her skin yellowed and sagged. She was this useless, scrawny, brittle thing that I didn’t—couldn’t—recognize.

My mom was bitter. Lonely. Sad.

There are times, I look in the mirror, and I see her. I. See. Her.

And the realization strikes again. I am her daughter. Mental disease is often hereditary. Often comes on quickly. Often as a person gets older. Let’s face it, I cut myself. I am not a stable person. I walk a tight rope, fifty feet in the air, without a net, over sharp rocks, every single day of my life.

Pushing Mason away is like charity or something. The right thing to do. It’s the noble thing to do. I’m saving him. From me.

Chapter 17

Mason

The party’s still going pretty strong when we get back to the house. We leave Chase and Kellin in the yard and I follow Guy into the house. He takes the stairs two at a time up to Hope’s room. He seems worried, which makes me worried.

Without knocking, Guy opens the door. Hope is lying on her bed, arm draped over her eyes, iPod on her stomach. I just stand there, watching like some bystander as Guy crawls onto the bed. She doesn’t acknowledge him until he wraps his arms around her. When his face presses against hers, she drops her arm and turns into him. He whispers in her ear and her hands knot into fists, pulling on the sleeves of his shirt, clinging to him. She needs his comfort.

I don’t know what I’m witnessing, but I feel like I’m intruding. As if I’m creeping on some personal moment. I take a step back and Guy puts his index finger up, gesturing for me to hold on. So I wait with my hands in my pockets, trying not to watch them sprawled out on the bed. And I try not to be jealous. It’s not like I think something’s going on between them. But he has an obvious connection that I wish I had with her.

Guy puts the finger up again, this time signaling me over to him. He rolls out from Hope’s embrace and guides me until I am filling his spot.

Hope’s arms grip my waist, her nails cutting into my skin, but I barely notice it as she pushes her head into my neck. The room goes dark and I register the click as the door closes. I kiss the top of her head, my hands trailing up and down her back as I wait for her to say something.

She doesn’t.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask. My voice sounds loud in the quiet blackness. I feel the movement of her head as she shakes it in answer. No. She doesn’t feel better.

“Are you still sick? Are you going to throw up again?”

“I’m not sick.” She sighs and moves her head to my chest. Her finger traces a pattern on my stomach. “I threw up because...” Her body shakes as she inhales a jerky breath. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.” I swallow hard. My throat is tight, resisting the movement. My hand stops on her back and I squeeze her, willing her to go on.

“I’m not good for you. I have so much baggage, so many skeletons in my closet, so many issues, I need a storage unit for all the overflow. I’m fucked up. And if you hang around me too long, I’ll fuck you up too.”

It’s probably a terrible thing to do, but I laugh. “Everybody is fucked up. I’m already fucked up. I promise you that.”

Her head moves again, shaking out a denial. “No, you’re not. You’re so great. You’re sweet and funny. And good. You’re happy and I’ll take that away from you.”

I close my eyes and replay her words. “I am happy. Now. But I wasn’t. I mean—” I take a deep breath and blow it out. “I wasn’t depressed or anything, but I wasn’t happy. We haven’t known each other very long, but I like being with you. I wish I could be with you all the time. I’m happy when I am.”

I can hear music playing outside. Another southern rock song. Something old. Hope is quiet. Maybe listening to the song. Her fingers move under my shirt, tracing her pattern on my skin. My stomach twitches at her touch. It feels so good. I could stay like this for the rest of my life.

“I puked because I got scared again. I’m not scared of you. I don’t think you’re going to hurt me.” She shakes her head and growls out a frustrated noise. “No. I’m petrified you’ll hurt me. Not physically.” Her voice drops to a whisper. I’ve noticed she does this when something is serious. Something she doesn’t really want to say or admit. I lift my head, straining to hear her. I don’t want to miss anything she says.

“I’m afraid that if I let myself feel the way I do about you, ugh, I’m so afraid you’ll realize what I am, and you’ll walk away. And it’ll hurt me.”

“What are you?” I hold my breath, waiting.

“Broken,” she murmurs.

I do not have a hero complex. I have always been attracted to strong, independent women. I like a girl who has her shit together. No strings. Simple. Confident. But the way she nearly sighed the word “broken”—as if it was her sole identifier, as if it’s branded on her somehow, as if admitting this has cost her dearly, shamed her—just killed me a little bit. I want to save her. I want to be her hero. I want to make her see she is so much more than her damaged past.

“I can’t walk away from you. I tried. I can’t do it. Even as I was trying, I knew it was stupid. I already knew I wasn’t really going anywhere. God, Hope. I care about you. I don’t want to walk away.” I coil my fingers in between her braids and twists, holding her head to my chest. “I’m broken, too. I think...” I lick my lips and press them into her hair. “I think we can fix each other.”

“How are you broken?” she asks, her voice small.

“My dad.” I swallow my words, nearly gagging on them and try again. “My dad died almost six years ago. Mom’s never been the same. She can’t stay in one place for too long, so we move at least once a year. Sometimes more. It’s like she’s always running and dragging me and Kellin with her.” I start pulling clips from Hope’s hair as I talk. I need to keep my hands busy or I’m afraid I might actually cry.

“I don’t get close to people. I make friends, school friends, Mom’s work friends. Nobody that means anything. After the first few times I had to leave them behind, I figured there wasn’t much point. But I know how to smile, make conversation. I learned pretty quickly. When you switch schools as much as I do, always being the new kid, you pick it up. Girls are easy. I flirt with them. Hook up. We move and I never see them again. I’m...kind of a male whore. When I’m with a girl, it helps me not feel anything real.” I laugh, but I know it’s not funny. It’s messed up. And I hate confessing this to Hope, but I want her to see. I want her to know I’m damaged, just like her. She doesn’t comment on it, though, and I don’t know what that means.

“How did he die?” Her fingers move higher, drawing across my heart and it’s getting harder to breathe. The clips are gone from her hair, so I start loosening her braids.

“He got jumped by some guys. He and his friend were having dinner at this diner down the street from where we lived, back in Illinois. Right down the road. So close to home. It should’ve been safe. He went there all the time. These drunk guys at another table were giving the busboy a hard time. Talking shit to him, calling him a fag. The kid tried to ignore them. One of the guys walked up to the kid and got in his face, calling him stupid, retarded, a list of shit because he wouldn’t acknowledge their simplemindedness. He pushed the kid and my dad had enough. He stepped in; told the guy to back off while his friend got the manager. The guys were told to leave and they left. That should have been the end of it. My dad paid his bill and left not long after.” I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with enough air to finish. It’s been so long since I’ve talked about this.

“They were waiting on him. Followed him as he started walking home. Two guys grabbed him. One of the guys had a crowbar. He hit my dad in the head, Dad went down, unconscious, but that didn’t stop them. That guy hit him twelve times before my dad’s friend realized what was happening.”

Hope’s hand flattens against my heart and I force another breath. “He was dead before the ambulance made it there. We were all home. I remember hearing the sirens, but I didn’t know. I had no idea. I feel like I should have felt it somehow. It’s been a long time, but I miss him every day. He was a good dad. A good person in general.”

I don’t get the usual generic sympathy statement from Hope. I guess because she’s been through it. She’s lost a parent. In a way, two. She sweeps a kiss over my chin. “What was his favorite band?”