But he had gone to the party, he had been tripping on acid and, when he was hallucinating and out of his mind, thinking he was seeing some kind of monster, he’d shot an eleven-year-old boy—Jada’s younger brother, whom she’d brought to the party against her parents’ wishes.

As a result, Atticus was now paraplegic. The knowledge of the pain he’d caused, and the permanence of the loss, continued to torment Tobias. Tobias wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself, constantly struggled with what he’d done—some days worse than others. Although Maddox advised him to let it go, the past held him like a vise, and sometimes that vise tightened to such a painful degree he thought it would crush him entirely. It was in those moments that he was tempted to take up his old self-defeating behaviors.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

Startled that Atticus could talk and sound so normal, Tobias turned to him. He’d assumed Atticus was out for the night. “I’m…here to check on you,” he said lamely.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Your mother just left.”

He managed a crooked grin. “How long did you have to wait for that?”

Tobias didn’t see any reason to tell him it had been most of the evening. “I didn’t mind. There was no need to upset her.”

In a weak and slightly uncoordinated movement, Atticus gestured at his own prone position. “This isn’t your fault, you know. This accident had—” he took a deep breath as though summoning strength “—nothing to do with you.”

Tobias rocked back. “I didn’t say it did.”

“But that’s what you were thinking. I could see it on your face.”

Tobias hadn’t realized he was so transparent—or that Atticus had been looking at him that closely. “I’m sorry, Atticus. For what I did thirteen years ago. I’m sorry for that every single day of my life.”

“I know. But not everything that happens is a consequence of that one night. You have to let it go. Otherwise, you’ll just…destroy yourself.”

“I can’t believe you don’t wish that for me.”

“That isn’t what I want.”

It was what his mother wanted. She would love nothing more. The negative energy that radiated off Susan was partly what helped feed Tobias’s self-loathing. “Could you have avoided that parked car if you’d had the use of your legs?” It was a direct question, the type Tobias typically tried to avoid with Atticus, simply because it was so awkward, but he had to ask, had to know.

“Does it matter?” Atticus responded.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m going to be fine, so let’s not even go there.”

“You wouldn’t be fine if your neighbor hadn’t—”

“Dude,” he broke in. “Will you do me a favor?”