I tell him about the day my father was officially sentenced. How I stole that expensive bottle of scotch he’d been saving for as long as I could remember for whatever fucking reason. How I took the pistol from his nightstand along with the picture of my mom and went up to the bridge to end it all.

“It didn’t jam,” I whisper. “The safety was on, and I didn’t know, because he never taught me how to use a gun. So when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened.”

Reggie’s quiet as I continue, letting out the words I never planned on revealing to another living soul.

“I was relieved, I think. When it didn’t go off. I threw up, even though I had already thrown up everything I thought I could. All the scotch I drank.” I swallow. “I could have jumped, but I don’t know, I always worry that I’d regret it while falling, and that just...well, it seems like a shitty way to go. I’d rather it just be done and over with, you know?”

Suddenly I’m pulled into a hug so tight I wince.

Reggie’s one hand moves to the back of my head, pinning my face to his shoulder, while his other hand grips my back. Blunt fingertips digging in.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He sniffs, voice muffled by my hair. I swear he presses a kiss to my head. “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize, ya hear?”

I blink a couple times. “I don’t want to die, I just—I need—”

He pulls back and holds my face in his big, grease-stained hands. “I know. I believe you.”

I nod.

He bows his head to mine. “You’re not alone in this anymore, okay? You’ve got me,” he says, as a secret sort of smile lifts his cheek, “and you’ve got Will—”

I pull back abruptly. “What’s that look for?”

Fuck, what did I say last night?

I try to think back, but most of it is a blur. I remember the feeling—sure. The rage, the helplessness, the fear. But I don’t remember a lot of what was said. Just flashes of moments. Of eyes looking back at me. The brown currently before me. The blues of the boy I’ve tried so hard to be rid of...

Does Reggie know?

My neck tingles hotly where Will bit it the other night. Left a bruise. Oh God...

Reggie studies my face, brows dipping low. Something passes over his features after a moment, too quick for me to catch before he leans back in his chair, a determined expression on his face as he crosses his arms.

“And you’ve got Ivy,” he finishes softly. He turns away, reaching for his mug. The coffee’s no doubt lukewarm by now, if that.

“I hurt her last night.”

“You scared her,” he corrects me.

“Same difference.”