I froze, one hand on the steering wheel and one on the console. My gaze rose to the visor, where his wings—the ones I’d pinned on him at graduation—were fastened. I sucked in a breath, but it only made it worse. Everything still smelled like Will, even after all this time. There was no escaping, no swallowing back the uninvited memory, no stopping the vise around my throat that tightened as my breaths came faster and faster.

I arched my neck, trying to make enough room for air to flow freely, but every ounce of breath I sucked in was thick with the scent of Will. I loved him. God, I loved him, and now this was all I had. He was gone. We’d never get the homecoming kiss he promised me, or the chance to be as happy as our friends. Tears pricked my eyes, not just from the thoughts but from the physical pain of my throat closing.

My head swam as a voice called my name. Please let it be him. Why was I still alive when someone as good as Will wasn’t?

“I’ve never seen anyone look as beautiful as you do tonight, Morgan.”

But that wasn’t real. That was two years and a lifetime ago.

I shoved myself sideways and almost missed the running board as I fled the cab. The sand cushioned my feet after falling those last few inches, and I sidestepped only to collapse against the back door and slide to the ground, uncaring of the scraping sensation as my back raked across the running board before my butt hit the ground.

Breathe. You have to breathe.

My cell phone plummeted as I drew my knees to my chest. I braced my elbows and cradled my head, blocking my ears like that might drown out the sound of his voice.

Another muffled voice—different this time—called my name through the raging cacophony of memories that wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t go back inside the box I kept them in.

“Morgan! Look at me!” Strong hands gripped my wrists.

My eyes flew open wide, taking in the set of ocean-blue ones only inches away. Tears leaked in a steady stream down my face as I struggled to get the air in, my breaths coming in quick, rasping pants.

Jackson. It was Jackson who’d been calling my name. Will wasn’t here. He couldn’t be because he was dead.

“Morgan, what’s going on?” Jackson asked, his brows furrowed in concern.

“I can’t—” I managed to force out, then threw my head back, trying to dislodge the vise from my throat.

“Okay,” he soothed, his grip softening on my wrists. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

If it was that fucking easy, I wouldn’t be in this position.

“It’s okay. I’m right here.”