For a couple of days at least, it was easier to think. To be inside my head. For the first time in a long, long time—if only briefly—I found myself able to (co)exist alongside all the noise in my head and amidst all the pain and somehow have none of it spoil all the rest. It was kind of a big deal. Maybe I’d never get a chance to say it, but because of him, I had a good few days. That alone made it all…so lovely.

*

I opened my eyes and was immediately reminded I did not handle vodka as well as I used to. I sat up on the couch, feeling one hundred years old, and grabbed my phone to check the time.

8:45 a.m.

On a Sunday. Having drunk heavily the night before. After who knew how many double vodkas. Somehow, waking up on a Sunday at eight forty-five was the best I could do. I walked—dragged myself to the kitchen and set up the coffee maker. Bending over the counter, I rested my chin on my hand and waited for my coffee to be ready so I could drink the two gallons and go upstairs to get a few dozen aspirins.

“Yello!” a cheerful Noah said, running to the kitchen.

He was a morning person. Liam had been like that too. In fact, it was a family trait that seemed to have missed me. They could wake up at whatever time and still all but greet the sun and merrily go about their day as if it wasn’t fucking disgusting to do so.

“Hey,” I barely said.

“You look destroyed,” he pointed out, thoroughly enjoying.

“Thanks.”

“So, Emma’s in town?” He got his favorite bowl out of the cupboard and headed to the fridge to get some milk.

“Yeah, did you see her already?”

“Kinda,” he said, pouring milk on his cereal. “She’s sitting on Liam’s bed, almost catatonic.”

“Shit.”

“I didn’t think I should disturb her,” he said with his mouth full.

I sighed. “All right.” I stood up straight and headed up the stairs.

At Liam’s room, I found the door ajar. I knocked twice before entering, finding Emma sitting on the edge of Liam’s bed, just as Noah had said. It was the first time I’d been in that room since going to St. Yve’s. His room seemed brighter than I remembered. When Liam was alive, the curtains were almost permanently shut, but Emma had opened them. Tiny specs of dust danced in the sunlight, from the farthest corner of the room all the way to her palms, which lay open over her lap, unmoving, as she stared at the wall in front of her.

I sat beside her.

“This girl in the photos,” she said. “I don’t think she exists.”

“She exists,” I said softly.