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But I’m helpless. And that’s the worst feeling of all.

“I’m so sorry,” she cries. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I always let everyone down. I don’t know why I do these things, Austin, but I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

“Marisa,” I whisper, blinking away my tears, “you didn’t let me down, baby. But I’m going to call your parents now. I’ve got to.”

“No.” She pulls away to look into my eyes, her own wide and frantic. “You can’t. You can’t. They’ll send me away again. I can’t go back to the hospital. Please. I told you, I just need the night. I didn’t even cut. I
didn’t
.”

More than anything on God’s green earth, I want to trust her. I want to wrap her in a blanket and pretend tomorrow will be better. But I can’t.

“I believe you. But what happens when I leave? What happens if I leave and you don’t go to sleep, and you have those same thoughts again? What’ll you do?”

“I’ll call you,” she whispers, but it comes out as a question with zero certainty. And that’s the only answer I need.

I press a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering there because, Lord, I don’t want to let her go. But I can’t fix this. I’m in way over my head here. Staring into her eyes, I yell, “Mrs. Marlowe!”

She looks at me like I’m both nothing and everything. Like I just committed the worst betrayal she’s ever experienced. It destroys me. Hell, it fucking kills me.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice wavering.

My head whirls as two sets of footsteps thunder up the stairs. Within seconds, Marisa’s dad is snatching her away from me, gathering her up in his arms like a baby. And after he hurries from the room with my
girlfriend against his chest, I finally know exactly what “slipping” means.

Mrs. Marlowe inhales sharply. She moves to the closet, grabs a bag, and begins stuffing clothes inside methodically, like this is nothing new. Like Marisa’s going to a freakin’ sleepover.

“You should go,” she says, not bothering to turn around.

I somehow manage to stand without falling back on my ass. Without Marisa in here, the room feels even darker. Empty. Dead. “Where’re you taking her?”

“Hospital,” she says. “Again.”

“Why?”

“There’s no telling what she’d do if we didn’t take her. I think you know that.” She zips up the bag and starts for the door, still not meeting my eyes. “We don’t ask questions anymore, because there are no real answers. It’s just life these days.”

How is she so calm right now? “I’ll ride with you,” I tell her. “Hell, I’ll drive myself.”

She stops in the doorway, hanging her head with a sigh. Finally, she faces me. “This isn’t something you want to see. Do yourself a favor and go home.” She walks toward me, her lip quivering. “Do you know what’s going to happen at the hospital, Austin? They’ll give her meds that may knock her out for hours. There’ll be a revolving door of doctors and nurses. She’ll have to see a psychiatrist and likely a therapist before they even think of letting her walk out the door.
If
they let her out the door anytime soon, considering her history.”

The room spins. My stomach churns. Everything’s off its axis because this can’t be happening. This can’t be happening to me, to this girl who’s knocked me to my knees in two months, to what we had—
have
—brewing between us.

Taking a step forward, I open my mouth to tell this woman how much I care. How badly I need to be there with Marisa tonight. To be there
for
her. But the only thought my brain can formulate is, “Mrs. Marlowe, I love her.” Saying the words doesn’t feel weird. It doesn’t feel out of place. It feels right. I just wish I could have told Marisa first instead of her momma.

She doesn’t roll her eyes. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scoff. She smiles, one of those “you poor sap” kind of smiles. She sniffles as a tear slips down her cheek.

“I love my daughter,” she whispers. “I love her more than life. But loving Marisa is asking for heartache. Trust me.”

“She’s worth it,” is all I can say, and it’s the honest-to-God truth.

Shaking her head, she says, “Go home, Austin.” And she turns away, leaving me alone in the room of a girl whose spirit still lingers here. But it’s not enough. It’s not her.

I could’ve stopped this. If I’d just said
something
about that stupid piece of paper I found, things may not have made it this far. I could’ve fixed it.

Somehow, I make my way down the stairs. Out the front door. Through the puddles left by the earlier downpour. Into my truck. I didn’t want storms today, but I got a damn hurricane.

My phone, which is still lying in the passenger seat, lights up with a warning that the battery’s almost dead. Not surprising, since I spent half the day calling Marisa. I grab it and scroll through my contacts and hit Jay’s number. Tonight needs fixin’, and he can help make that happen.

“Yeah,” he answers. There’s a bunch of hollerin’ in the background, followed by a splash.

“You down at the river?” I ask, cranking up my truck. “They kept the party goin’ with that storm?”

“Yup. A little rain ain’t gonna drown out the river.”

When Jay starts talking like that, there’s only one explanation. “You drunk already, dude?”

“Yup.”

“Good. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Need me to save you a six-pack?”

I scoff. “I need you to save me a lot more than that.”

“That bad? Oh, and hey, is Marisa comin’? Thought it was your night with your girl?”

“Yeah, well, things have a habit of changing in my life at the worst damn time.” Shifting the truck into gear, I back out of the mile-long driveway. “See ya soon.”

The thing is, we always think we have plenty of time. Then, before you know it, time’s ripped out from under your feet, and there’s nothing but you and the hum of a truck engine. Because your girlfriend was
that close
to offing herself.

Again.

chapter nineteen

Thanks to whatever saint invented beer and whiskey, I can barely see a damn thing. I like it that way. It’s a lot better than dealing with reality, when reality sucks balls.

The roar of the rushing river fills my ears as I settle back against the tree, next to Jay. I don’t have a clue how long he’s been here; all I know is that he was a goner when I got here. He had some fight with Brett over his brother’s wedding, which is coming up soon. Jay wants to go together. Brett thinks he’s nuts. It’s the same fight, different day. I know it’s shitty for him, but at least Brett’s not down at the county hospital right now, being poked and prodded and doped up with meds.

“How many’s that?” I ask Jay, tossing my empty can at the trash bag and missing by a foot. Whoops.

“Last of that six-pack.” He holds out the bottle of whiskey. “’Nother shot?”

My stomach bubbles. I cringe. “Nah. Can’t take more whiskey. Not yet.”

“More for me.” He shrugs and takes another swig. “Our love lives suck, dude.”

Screw it. I snatch the bottle from him and knock it back, the alcohol burning my throat. “Tell me ’bout it,”
I say, passing it back to him. “You try callin’ Brett? Talk out…whatever?”

He shoves me. “Shush!” Glancing around, he must see that nobody gives a crap about us. The other guys are busy snaking their ways into their girls’ pants tonight. With all the trucks lined up along the water, there ain’t no tellin’ how many of our teammates are getting lucky right about now.

“You know, I figured out our problem,” Jay slurs. “What we gotta do is, we gotta stop lettin’ our lives depend on other people. Lettin’ another guy control your life is killer.”

“Yeah. Except a guy ain’t controlling my life.”

He snorts. “That’s right. I’m the only fag out here.”

I wince and nudge him with my leg. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, bro.”

“Just tryin’ to fit in with the rest of the people in this town. Don’t act like you don’t hear worse every damn day. And look at it this way: at least your girl’s not embarrassed to be seen with you.”

“Yeah. She just tried to kill herself instead.” I grab the whiskey again and polish off the bottle before chucking it across the riverbank. “Have you noticed that? How people close to me like to kill themselves? Wonder why that is.”

He gapes at me. “You’re
really
goin’ there? Seriously?”

I shrug. “I mean, let’s talk this through. Logic and all that.” I count off on my fingers. “My dad was so nose-deep in depression that it drove him off a bridge, and I never noticed. My girlfriend, who I’ve been around every damn day for weeks, snuck a razorblade into her room without me realizing she was gonna try killing herself again. I’m a fucking jinx, Torres. Might want to run while you can.”

He grabs my chin, jerking my face until he looks straight into my eyes. “I ought to beat your head against the tree for that. You’re not gonna sit here and
blame yourself for this shit. Any of it.” He lets go of me, leaving my skin tingling. “And if you think about it, she didn’t really
try
to kill herself.”

Yeah, well, I don’t want to think about it. I came here to forget. I push myself to my feet, swaying. The blood’s rushed from my head and alcohol swirls in its place. I dig my keys out of my pocket. “I gotta get my drunk ass home before I end up facedown in the river.”

I think he tries to grab my hand, but yanks on my pants leg instead. “You ain’t drivin’, Braxton. You can barely stand.”

“I won’t drive,” I tell him. “I’ll just sleep in the truck.”

He shakes his head and tries to stand, but falls back on his ass. “Look for Randy or Eric. They’re DDs tonight. Don’t make me call your momma.”

He pops the top to another beer and chugs it back. Maybe it’s even worse for him than I thought. I turn for my truck, trying to tell my legs to walk, but they’re worse than pool noodles. Dang. How much
did
I drink? And why the hell did I park in effin’ Egypt? Once I finally reach the trusty old Chevy, I yank the door open, but it slams closed.

Eric steps in front of me, holding out his hand. “Keys, bro.”

There’s two of him. Does he know that there’s two of him? I rub my head. It’s already hurtin’ like a bastard. “Junior, I got this. I’m just gonna sleep.” He pushes my shoulder, making me stumble back. “The hell was that for?”

He scoffs. “You’re drunk off your ass, Braxton, and you never trust a drunk. Now give me the damn keys before you kill yourself.”

My throat tightens. “Like father, like son, huh?” I manage to choke out.

Eric’s face falls. He blinks quickly, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna be like your dad tonight.” He swipes
the keys right from my hand. “Get in. You’re going home.”

There’s no use arguing. He’s lucky I haven’t puked all over his boots. I slide into the passenger seat and slump down, my eyelids growing heavy. Marisa flashes through my head, clear as ever, even through the alcohol haze. I squeeze my eyes closed. I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to think about how tonight was my fault. I should’ve seen something was wrong. I’m her damn boyfriend, and I couldn’t even tell that she was thinking about offing herself.

The truck lurches, taking my stomach with it. I puke on the floorboard. Flopping back against the seat, I close my eyes again. I hope Marisa’s sleeping. That’s all she wanted to do. Right now, that’s all I want. Maybe we can sleep together.

“Do I wanna know what happened?” Eric asks.

“Nope.”

“You gonna be all right?”

Nope
. “Sure.”

He snickers. “You’re a piss-poor liar, Braxton.”

The truck slows and rumbles over my driveway before it stops. I force my eyes open. The house is dark, which means Momma must have given up on me and gone to bed. There’s no telling what time it is, but I’m in for it tomorrow.

Just as I reach for the door handle, Eric says, “You’re the most together person I know. If you’re losin’ it and my brother’s losin’ it, I don’t know who the hell to count on anymore. Y’all are making me look normal.”

It’s hard to hold it together when everyone leaves you. Jamie loved me, left me, and forgot all about me. And apparently there’s something about me that makes people want to kill themselves. I wasn’t good enough for Dad. I’m not good enough for Marisa. I’m not good enough for anybody.

Love sucks. It’s a damn joke, and a bad one.

“Best advice I can give ya?” I say. “Put a steel trap around your heart.” I step out of the truck. “Drive this on home. Bring it back whenever.”

Stumbling into my room is a cruel reminder of what I thought tonight would be. This was date night, because Marisa’s supposed to leave for Maryland on Sunday. So the pile of pillows and blankets still sits next to my door. They never got to be loaded up in the truck bed and taken out to the pond. And I never got to tell Marisa how nuts she makes me. How her smile makes me understand every stupid love song cliché. How crazy I go when she’s not around.

How I love her. No matter how much it freakin’ sucks, I love that girl.

Damn it.

chapter twenty

The goblins are back. They don’t have pickaxes this time. They have drills, screwdrivers, and hammers. Basically, they came with the whole damn toolbox.

The sun streaming through my bedroom window is like a laser. I yank the comforter over my head with a groan. What I’d give to sleep in for just one Saturday, especially today. I can’t remember the last time I got the chance. My door swings open just as blessed sleep nearly takes me again. Wait for it. Wait for—

Momma snatches both the comforter and sheet off me in one swift motion. “Up. Now.”

I groan again, rolling my face into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

Her footsteps cross my room. I hear my blinds being drawn. Yeah, no way I’m opening my eyes now. The sun’s shining on me, taunting me.
Wake up, ya hungover dumbass
.

“Why do you hate me?” I mumble.

“Off your ass. Now.”

That
wakes me up. My body fights me on it, and it takes a few tries, but I manage to sit up. Momma stands at the foot of my bed with her arms crossed and the nastiest glare I’ve seen on her face in a long, long time. And there’s a good chance I might still be drunk.