“Does he hate me?” I ask.

“Who could hate you?” he says. “We love you.”

“We?”

“We,” he repeats.

I sink back into him, and I release the bracelet into the river, I watch it fall, and I feel myself falling with it.

I didn’t jump, but I fell with it, down into the darkest depths of that river. I left it behind, the dream of perfection, of being enough of making people proud, of finding love, of losing it.

I drowned in its depths.

And it was me who set me free.

Chapter Forty-Two

Ambrose

Two Weeks Later…

I’ve finally been discharged from the hospital, Quinn and MB have taken care of all the funeral preparations for my mom, but MB still refuses to see me.

Quinn said to give it time.

One second was enough.

I love her, I miss her, I need her.

Tessa’s possibly getting charged with child pornography, no shock there, and all I keep thinking while I’m sitting bored out of my mind at home is that I miss MB and that she’s staying with Quinn.

I want to hate him, but he’s done so much for me—him and his family.

I know sometimes his dad can be a prick, but he’s a smart prick, and he’s taken care of the will and everything else, but I’m lonely. And I feel like an idiot because the first day I’m back, all I do is stare at her closed door and wish it would open.

I can’t even go to the bathroom without staring at that stupid shower like I’ve completely lost it. I don’t blame her, and I think she knows it. Quinn says she’s getting there, but how do you get back from that sort of trauma?

I don’t blame her, and yet I do, because she didn’t trust my love, my loyalty—and then I think back on my dad’s death and go, okay, but do you really blame her for thinking this way?

I don’t have to finish school since the accident, but I want to go, I want to see her even though I don’t even know if she’ll talk to me, but I have another week of recovery.

I’m lonely in the giant house I used to boast about but hate at the same time.

How many days did I roll my eyes at my mom or dad, and now I have nothing.

I stare down at the black suit I have to wear for the funeral and don’t even know how I’m going to make it through any sort of speech for my mom.

The eulogy should be done by her son, right? But what if you have no words anymore? What if they’re stolen with each breath you take.

I’ve written nothing.

I feel everything.

Senior year was never supposed to be like this. I was and am a rich asshole complaining about a life I actually get to live.

And they’re buried in the ground.

I take a deep breath and reach for the suit on my bed. I hear footsteps and imagine it’s a ghost. How great would that be?