IT’S my fault he’s dead.
She’s trembling so badly, it feels like the truck is shaking with her.
Knees tucked up to her chest, she curls in on herself like she’s trying to disappear. Like she’s shrinking down to her sixteen-year-old self before my very eyes, re-becoming the young, terrified girl whose entire world shifted in a heartbeat.
Amelia’s tears dry up around the same time her words do, when she’s finished telling me the awful story she’s kept close to her chest for years. A scarily blank expression replaces the aching sadness in her eyes. That shine, that glow, that always forces my gaze to her is gone. It’s like she simply has no emotions left, or maybe they’re too much for her to handle so she’s switched them off. Fuck, after what she just told me, I can’t blame her.
I itch to tug her onto my lap, to comfort her, to fucking love her but I don’t. I don’t think that’s what she wants. No, I know that’s not what she wants. Judging by the self-loathing lacing her every word, sympathy will only make it worse.
So, I clasp my fidgeting hands in my lap and I wait for her to talk. For her to come to me, if she wants to. Whatever she wants. Whenever she wants.
It doesn’t take as long as I expected.
“It was a drunk driver,” she says blankly, the only sign of emotion the rasping shakiness of her voice. “They were coming straight at us but Sam must’ve swerved or something because he…” Trailing off, she squeezes her eyes shut. “All the impact was on the driver’s side. He died instantly.”
It takes all my strength not to react. To keep my expression neutral and my hands to myself, my nails biting into my palms with the effort.
Amelia shifts to face me, eyes opening slowly, and the complete and utter agony within their watery depths makes my chest seize. “If you’d seen the wreck.” She inhales a deep, steadying breath, shaking her head as if she’s trying to empty it of what I can only image is a harrowing image.
I understand what she’s implying and I wish I didn’t.
I should be dead too.
“I was lucky.” She snickers sarcastically, her face twisting with bitterness and hatred as she spits the words like they taste bad in her mouth. It’s self-hatred, enough to make my skin fucking crawl and my heart plummet to my stomach. “A concussion and a dislocated knee, that’s all I got.”
All. That’s all. Like her pain meant nothing. I’ve seen the damn scar on her leg, faint as it may be; that’s a surgical scar. That isn’t nothing.
I don’t point that out; I know better. I wait and see if she’s going to carry on. When she doesn’t I give her a gentle push. “What did you mean when you said you forgot?”
Wincing, Amelia looks away. “It was his anniversary. The other day, when everything happened with Diane and Dylan, I knew I was forgetting something but I couldn’t place it. It was four years since he died and I forgot.” Forehead furrowing, she quietens as though she’s talking to herself. “I killed him and I fucking forgot and I’m pretty sure all that shit was the universe smacking me down for it.”
Before I can stop myself, I grab her hand, squeezing in the hopes it’ll make her look at me. It works, and I struggle not to buckle beneath the weight of the guilt in the eyes I love so much. “Don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault,” I say, praying that she lets herself hear me. “Nothing that has happened to you has been your fault.”
A frustrated noise escapes her and she rips her hand from mine. “You don’t get it,” she insists. “The only reason he was driving was because of me. If I didn’t force him to come get me, he would’ve never been in that car. If he hadn’t swerved, he wouldn’t have died.”
“Or you both would’ve died,” I counter but I don’t think she even hears me. She’s beyond reason, overwhelmed by grief, the memories she’s shoved down for so long proving too much for her.
Amelia reaches for the door handle and all I can do is click the central lock to stop her from leaving, too terrified to let her out of my sight. She jiggles the handle, slapping at the door with a wail when it doesn’t budge, raking her hands through her hair harshly before cupping her face. “I stole someone’s son,” she sobs. “Fuck and his brother. We grew up together and now I can barely look at him.”
It’s so easy to connect the dots now. Why I found her on the verge of a breakdown that night in Carlton with that guy—Sam’s brother, obviously—hovering nearby worriedly. Why they both looked so fucking distraught at the sight of each other, like they’d seen a ghost. Why she left Carlton, why she was so distressed at the thought of returning, why everything.
She’s gasping for air now, a hand pressed to her chest as she cries her fucking heart out, mine breaking at the sound, and I can’t take it anymore. I unlock the car but before she can escape, I’m out and rounding the hood, wrenching her door open, and gathering her in my arms. Her wheezed protest is half-hearted and short-lived; as soon as I wrap my arms around her—our earlier position mimicked yet so fucking different—she collapses against me. As her muffled sobs resonate through me and her tears soak my jumper, I constantly repeat how it wasn’t her fault and, after an eternity in which I’m not sure she breathes, she settles enough to croak out, “I used to wish I died with him.”
Merda.
“He was gone. I couldn’t dance anymore. Me and Cass couldn’t talk without crying. I started drinking a lot to cope.” I stiffen; I did the same when my dad died but shit, I was an adult. Amelia was a kid. Alone and suffering and coping in the worst way possible, and it fucking breaks my heart to imagine her like that.
“I got in with the wrong crowd purely because they were the furthest thing from my actual friends. I was such a fucking mess for months. I didn’t even go to his funeral. I was too drunk or too high, I can’t even remember. I just…” Her forehead digs into my chest as she takes a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see the family I ruined because I was drunk and selfish. So fucking selfish. I ended someone else’s life so why shouldn’t I ruin my own?”
I have to stop myself from interrupting her with my protests about how fucking wrong that is, holding her a little tighter instead.
“James found me one night behind the wheel of my dad’s car, drunk off my ass and begging to see Sam.”
Oblivious to the fact I’ve almost stopped fucking breathing, Amelia carries on, telling me how she moved a couple of days later but I barely hear her. I can’t stop picturing her, wrecked and sobbing behind the wheel of a car like she was when I found her not even a week ago. It broke me seeing her like that, and it breaks me all over again knowing it wasn’t the first time.
Wasn’t even the worst time.
If it’s this fucking painful knowing everything she’s gone through, I can’t even imagine how much she’s hurting. She doesn’t fucking deserve any of this shit yet she’s so convinced she does.
A fucking awful thought occurs to me.
“Amelia,” I croak her name. “Is that why you stayed with Dylan? Because you thought you deserved how he treated you?”
Green eyes meet mine and silently answer my question, so much fucking shame and that overwhelming, sickening guilt lurking within them. She breaks my stare, watching her fingers as they trace invisible patterns on her wrist.
“I think Dylan is my karma.”
“That’s bullshit,” I bark, unable to help myself. “There is nothing that you could possibly do to ever deserve anyone putting their hands on you like that. Nothing.”
She doesn’t believe me, I can tell she doesn’t, but that’s okay. I’ll remind her every day for the rest of my fucking life until it sticks in that beautiful, complicated head of hers.
Releasing another haggard sigh, she tilts her head so her nose brushes my neck, her deep inhale echoing around the car’s interior. “The worst part is I’m pretty sure Sam would be so disappointed in me.”
“If he loved you half as much as I think he did, that’s impossible.” If he loved her half as much as I do, it’s unfathomable. Gripping her by the chin, I coax her gaze upward. “You’re killing yourself with this guilt, querida. This isn’t healthy.”
The saddest smile curls her lips. “I don’t know how to turn it off.”
“Talking about it might help.” Tucking her hair behind her ears, I cup her cheeks. “You can talk to me, querida.”
Amelia hesitates. She shifts. A couple of long, shaky deep breaths warm my skin. And then, she nods. “Okay.”
She spends the next hour telling me about him.
Trapped in my room—we relocated from the police station, resuming our conversation when tucked beneath my sheets—she verbally sifts through the good memories. The ones that make her chuckle and smile wistfully. The ones that evoke happy tears, not distraught ones. The ones that aren’t tainted by death and sadness.
I play with her hair as she talks, winding coppery strands around my fingers, tugging occasionally when she steers off track and gets that lost look on her face. I don’t say a word; I listen to the beautiful, strong girl curled up in my bed, and I relish in the show of trust her quiet confessions convey.
When she runs out of memories, or maybe when she can’t take divulging any more, she wriggles closer, the hand that’s been fisting my jumper gliding upward to rest on my cheek. “Thank you for listening.”
“You gotta stop thanking me for common decency, meu amor.” It crushes me that she thinks not being left to sob and suffer alone deserves any praise.
“Don’t want you feeling neglected,” she murmurs, the note of teasing like a soothing balm to the fucking rip in my emotions. “I’m grateful you’re here even though I didn’t make it easy.”
Covering her hand with mine, I twist to kiss her palm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
God, the quiver in her voice fucking kills me.
“”You don’t know either,” I point out carefully, studying her conflicted expression. “Do you trust me when I say I don’t want to go anywhere?”
Satisfaction bursts within me when she nods without hesitation. “Yes.”
I’m about to tell her to focus on that trust when a slamming door causes us to jolt apart. “Amelia?” Cass’ voice rings out and I swear to God, my heart falls to my ass. “Are you here?”
We must’ve lost track of time; I was supposed to get her out of here before the guys got back from practice. Or, at the very least, relocate somewhere less suspicious. And it’s too late to smuggle her out; her bag and shoes are downstairs, already giving away her presence.
Frantically, Amelia and I scramble to our feet, fixing our rumpled clothes—we didn’t do anything other than talk but it sure as fuck looks like we did. She’s smoothing down her hair, mouth open presumably to ask how the hell we’re going to talk our way out of this, when my bedroom door swings open and the least ideal visitor in the world barges in. “Hey, Amelia’s stuff is downstairs, is she-”
Cass stops.
Blinking slowly, forehead creased in confusion, he looks from Amelia to me to my messy bed and back to Amelia again, zoning in on her tear-stained cheeks.
I see the exact moment my friend automatically assumes the worst and confusion morphs into pure fucking rage. In a flash, I’m shoved against the wall, the material of my jumper fisted between Cass’ fingers. “What the fuck did you do?”
I don’t try to fight him. I could flatten him if I wanted to, he knows it. I do kind of want to, honestly—I’m a little offended that after everything I’ve done, he still doubts my intentions. But I don’t.
I hold my hands up innocently. “Cass, calm down.”
Instead of listening to me, Cass proves how freakily similar him and Amelia are; when strong emotions take over, everything else fades away. “What the fuck did you do?” he repeats, slamming me against the wall again for good measure, trying to be threatening but only succeeding in irritating me.
One more slam and I’m going to slam back.
Sensing my irritation, Amelia snaps into action. “Stop it,” she admonishes, trying to wriggle between us to no avail; Cass doesn’t budge. “Cass. He didn’t do anything.”
Scoffing angrily, Cass’ glare shifts to his sister. “You’re crying.”
“Not because of him.”
“You were in his-”
“I told him about Sam.”
In the blink of an eye, Cass’ fire burns out. His face shifts from enraged to absolutely devastated, his hands moving from my chest to Amelia’s shoulders, the tight grip he had on me a stark contrast to the gentle way he holds her. A hushed conversation breaks out between them, only pieces of which I catch.
Forgot. Anniversary. Sorry.
So quickly, I’m forgotten. Neither of them notice as I back away despite the fact all I want to do is throw Amelia over my shoulder and drive her ass back to our happy little bubble by the coast.
I don’t get very far. My feet hit the bottom step of the staircase and I come to a halt when I notice it’s not just my roommates scattered around the living room like I expected; Amelia’s are too, along with Sydney.
“Oh, Nicky,” Ben sighs. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” Avoiding their gazes, I shuffle into the kitchen, away from prying eyes. My elbows hit the island counter, my palms cradling my head, and I let all the air leave my lungs. A never-ending loop of everything Amelia told me, everything I now know about the shit she’s been through, plays in my head. Dylan’s face pops up, and for the millionth time, I curse that fucker and all his bullshit.
Thirty seconds of peace are all I get before someone murmuring my name snaps me out of my thoughts. I let out a groan, expecting Ben’s teasing or Jackson’s unobtrusive but equally annoying prying, surprised when instead, I’m met with a pleasant grin. I’ve only met Sydney a couple of times yet the way she’s beaming at me, you’d swear we were best friends.
“Never a dull moment, huh?” She jokes gently, patting my shoulder.
An emotionless chuckles escapes me.
Copying my stance, curiosity tilts Sydney’s head. “What language was that?”
I spare her a sideways glance, quirking a brow.
“You were muttering away to yourself. It sounded like Spanish but it’s not, right?”
I grimace; apparently, my internal monologue about how much I want to fucking ruin Dylan Wells wasn’t so internal. “Portuguese.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re Brazilian, right?”
I nod, confused by her sudden interest in me but intrigued at the same time.
“That’s cool. I always wanted to speak another language. My parents tried to teach us Bengali but it didn’t really stick.”
“Bengali?”
Sydney beams at my question as though I’ve offered her the fucking moon on a silver platter. One word is all it takes for her to launch into conversation, telling me all about her heritage and her parent’s attempts to get her speaking their mother tongue but, according to her, she’s shit at languages because she’s right-brained, apparently, whatever the fuck that means.
I listen to her babbling, reluctantly at first but her cheery, excited tone is hard to tune out. It draws me in, and eventually, I find myself chuckling at her anecdotes, find myself enjoying her company, find myself actually engaging in the conversation.
Just when I find myself thinking I’m grateful for the distraction, I realize that was probably her intention all along. With narrowed eyes and a knowing smirk, I lift my gaze, unsurprised when I find Kate lurking just beyond the doorway, pretending not to watch us. Her nose crinkles when she realizes she’s been caught but she’s far from sheepish. When I beckon her over with a jerk of my head, she saunters toward us, the picture of innocence as she slips an arm around her girlfriend and asks, as if she didn’t orchestrate this entire conversation, “She talking your ear off?”
Observant and cunning. What a combination.
Sydney pinches the hand tangling in her thick, dark hair. “Excuse you. I am great company. Right?” When I nod my agreement, she huffs triumphantly. “Nick’s gonna teach me Portuguese.”
“He is?”
“I am,” I confirm; a single real conversation and I’m convinced Sydney could get anyone to agree to anything with the sheer force of her geniality. A dangerous team, her and Kate.
Feigning a grimace, Kate muses, “I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for.”
