“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled.

His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t used it in hours.

He still wasn’t looking at me. His eyes stayed locked on the wall, like he couldn’t bring himself to meet my gaze.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, quietly, his voice wrecked, he said, “I didn’t forget.”

Something in my chest cracked.

I pressed my lips together, my throat thick with something I couldn’t swallow.“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Blake exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his temples like he wanted to claw something out of his own skull. “I didn’t know…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to be the person you want me to be. I don’t know how to want you and still be the son they deserve.”

The son they deserve.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab his face, make him look at me, make him understand that I didn’t care about any of that.

“Blake, you’re allowed to be happy.”

He finally looked at me. And the second he did, I knew he was breaking. I could see it in his hollow eyes, the way his throat bobbed, and the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped his knee, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Hey,” I whispered, reaching for him without thinking.

Suddenly, he was standing.

I barely had time to react before he was walking away, disappearing into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

I sat there, frozen, staring at the empty space he left behind, my chest so tight I could barely breathe.

And then, for the first time in months, I broke. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as I curled my arms around my knees, biting down hard on my lip to keep the sobs inside.

Because Blake had been right there. Because, even now, after everything, he was still choosing to walk away.

29

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

The sun was out, marking the first real warm day of March. The heat clung to my skin as I leaned against Tiffany’s car, sipping my soda. The parking lot was packed, the air thick with the scent of soap, wet pavement, and whatever cheap cologne the boys washing the cars had doused themselves in before their shift.

I rolled my shoulders, letting my head tilt back just enough to feel the sun sink into me. It felt good—like a thawing, like my bones had been frozen for months, and now, finally, they were starting to warm again.

It had been four months since Mom’s diagnosis.

Four months since Blake had shut me out.

Four months since I had let myself break.