Throat raw with emotion, I can only nod.

Blinking rapidly, I turn away from him to look down at my lap. “Zayne had no problem with being gay. And his family’s great. Maybe even better than mine.” I smile wetly. “Everyone loved him, even those who tried not to. But he was funny and sweet and never had a mean thing to say about anyone...” I shake my head. “God, he had the patience of a fucking saint.”

A grunt. “I suppose he’d have to, dating you.”

Slowly, so slowly, I turn to face him.

His mouth twists into a grimace. “Sorry.”

A laugh sputters out of me. And it’s not long before he’s joining me, low rusty chuckles slipping through his lips, as I curl over myself.

“Dude,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“Sorry, I—”

“Don’t. Please.” I cock my head at him, still smiling. “Don’t you dare apologize. Do you know how refreshing it is to laugh when talking about Zayne?” I blow out a breath, tipping my head back. “I needed that.”

A breeze blows through, shaking the windmills hanging from the awning.

“I didn’t know him,” he says after a while, “but I think he’d want you to laugh more.”

I roll my head toward him, but his eyes are trained somewhere on the distant tree line.

Smiling to myself, I drop my head and tuck my lip under my teeth.

“Was he depressed?” he asks quietly, before quickly backtracking. “Shit. Ignore that. Obviously. I just mean—”

Sobering once more, I nod as I cut him off. “I know what you meant. And the answer is yes. I guess he was diagnosed as a kid. Been struggling his whole life.”

A beat passes. “You guess?”

Throat tight, I nod. “He never told me. His parents did. After. He didn’t even leave a note—not really—just two scribbled sentences on a napkin: I’m sorry you had to be the one to find me and I promise this isn’t your fault. That’s it.” Anger bites the ends of those last two words.

Waylon doesn’t say anything.

“I hate him so much sometimes,” I say gruffly. “He couldn’t just...hold on for a few more minutes? He couldn’t just...call? Me, his parents...friends. Anyone. Losing him...hurt, sure, but doing what he did—” I scrunch up my face and look away, burying my chin in my shoulder.

“It wasn’t right,” he whispers. “Wasn’t fair to you.”

I give a quick little shake of my head. “Sometimes I think he did it on purpose—like, like it was all some kind of cruel, sick game to him—”

“Will.”