"I don't really dance," I confess. "At least when I don't have to."
"Oh, everyone should dance." He holds out his hand to me and pouts out his lip. "Come on. Come dance with me. It'll help take my mind off stuff."
Who can say no to that?
Nodding, I hand the cup to Charissa and place my hand in his. I effortlessly follow him as he escorts me down the sandy path toward the fire. I'm surprised by how fearless I am of the fierce flames, of his warm hand in mine, of the booming music.
Everything.
When we get to the brink of the throng, Tristan circles around me, dragging his fingers across my stomach as he lines his chest with my back.
"Ready?" he whispers in my ear, pressing up against me.
I shiver as I nod. "Ready."
Then we dance.
And I mean really dance.
I get more lost in myself, lost in him, as we sway together, the fire blazing in front of us, embers covering the sand. The moment is intensely perfect and I try not to think about how bad of a person I am that I haven't told Tristan much about me, at least when it comes to my sins. But it's all I can think about.
My pulse twinges with shame, the feeling only intensifying the longer our bodies flawlessly move to the music. Tristan kisses my neck as he rocks his hips and rubs up against me, his hands basking in the softness of my skin. My head is so foggy that even breathing is complicated. I used to hate music, but I suddenly love it. Maybe love it too much.
And just like that, reality slaps me across the face. Cold and harsh.
"Shit." I suddenly break away from Tristan and shove through the crowd of people and past the fire.
"Avery!" Tristan calls out as he chases after me.
I trip down the beach, below the judging stars. I can't tell what's wrong and what's right anymore. Everything feels so backward at the moment, like my feet are carrying me in the wrong direction, yet I continue down the path.
"Avery, please." Tristan grabs my arm as he catches up with me. "What the hell is wrong?"
I wiggle my arm, trying to slip away from him, but he only draws me closer until my cheek is pressed against his firm chest and his lean arms are secured around me.
"I'm just confused," I whisper over the rapid beat of his heart. I clutch his shirt, the rhythm of his pulse soothing, familiar. Too soothing. Too familiar.
He smoothes his hand over my head, his fingers knotting through the strands of my hair. "About what?"
"About you and I." I squeeze my eyes shut. Please, please tell me what to do. I'm scared and confused.
Do I tell him?
Do I run?
What am I supposed to be doing?
His hand pauses in my hair. "What about you and me?"
My eyelids flutter open and I peer up at him, then at the stars, seeking guidance. All I receive is silence, though, nothing more. And suddenly, I know that it's time.
For me to let go.
To decide.
On my own.
What I want.
My lips part. "I think it might be time..."
"For what?" His voice is strained. "Avery, is this because of what I just told you? Because I promise it hasn't happened in a long time. I'm doing better."
I jerk out of his arms, shaking my head. "No, that's not it at all. This is about me..." I glance up at the stars one final time then inch back into the moonlight. With a faltering breath, I reach for the bottom of my shirt and tug it over my head, bearing my scars. "There's something I need to tell you."
Two years, five months, and three days earlier...
Chapter 34
The day I died.
Avery
I'm passed out on the sofa from last night's late shift at the gas station, having little time to react as Conner comes staggering inside the trailer. At first, I think his reddened face is directed at me, that he's angry with me again, but then three men enter behind him. I instantly wonder if something's wrong because they're not just any three men. They're three very large men all packing guns in their hands.
"Where's Mason?" Conner asks carefully as he looks around the small room stacked with boxes. We've lived here for two months, but I'm so sick of moving I haven't bothered to unpack yet.
Sitting up on the sofa, I vigilantly glance from the men to Conner. "He's at the neighbor's on a play date. Why?"
"We need to talk," Conner says as he rushes across the living room and up to me. His mouth is twitching, which means he's high, and the purplish dots on his forearm means he's been doing drugs excessively.
I can sense impending trouble in the air that's been heading at me for a long time, like a train is moments away from wrecking me into a million pieces.
"I thought you were moving out..." I look over at the men in the doorway. The tallest of the three smiles at me, but it's not in politeness. No, it's a warning. "Who are they?"
He throws a panicked glance over his shoulder then kneels down in front of me, putting his hands on top of my knees. "I need to tell you something."
I jolt from his touch and try to squirm my legs out from under his hands, but he pierces his nails into my flesh until he draws blood.
"Conner, let me go," I say, jerking to get free.
He shakes his head, his hands tightening on my legs in desperation. "You need to listen to me. I owe these guys a lot of money, Avery, and it's become a problem."
"Well, I don't know what you want me to do about it." I look over at the men again, noticing one of them is removing his belt. When he catches me staring at him, his lips twist to a grin. My attention zips back to Conner. "We're broke. We don't have any money."
"See, that's the thing... you can help," he explains quietly. "They're going to give me more time to come up with the money on one condition."
Like a horse senses a thunderstorm, I want to flee. "And what's the condition?"
Before he can respond, the guy without the belt steps forward and sets his gun down on top of a stack of boxes near him. "It's you, sweetheart."
My gaze whips from him to Conner, my eyes pleading with him not to do this. When I see his deadened expression, I shove him down and spring from the sofa. I make it three steps before I'm tackled from behind and knocked to the ground. The carpet scrapes my cheek, and my body screams out in pain as Conner bears his weight down on me.
"It'll be over soon," Conner whispers in my ear. The worst part is that he actually sounds sorry. After everything he's done, the motherfucker is sorry.
"Fuck you. I fucking hate you... God, please don't do this." It's the last thing I say before a hand slaps over my mouth and an unfamiliar body pushes down on me.
"The less you fight, the quicker this will be over, sweetheart," the guy says, and then my pants are being yanked down.
I fight back.
Fight like my life depends on it.
But I'm weak.
Helpless.
I fucking hate being helpless.
I hate everything.
The way he touches me.
Uses me.
Breaks me.
That Conner watches me suffer.
That he broke every promise he made to me.
That I broke a thousand promises to myself.
That I broke myself.
That I didn't fight hard enough.
That I let all this happen.
Maybe that's what hurts the most.
That I did this to myself.
I just want to die.
God, let me die.
When it's all over, I'm still alive though, but hollow inside.
I'm still breathing.
I don't want to be breathing.
I remain motionless on the floor until I hear the men leave the house. But there's still someone in the living room.
"Avery, I..." Conner struggles with what to say.
A single tear drips down my face and splatters like blood on the carpet. "Get the fuck out."
Moments later, the door squeaks as he leaves, for the first
time doing what I've asked him.
I stay face down on the floor for what feels like an eternity, unable to move, unable to cry, unable to do anything. It's like I've died, yet somehow I'm still breathing and my heart is still beating. All I can think about is all of my wishes and how they never came true, and what I would wish for now if I still believed in dreams.
I'd wish I couldn't feel the pain.
Wish this was all over.
Wish I could get rid of the past, burn it all away.
All of it.
Maybe it's time.
When I finally stand again, it's only to put an end to my misery. My rubbery legs stagger down the hallway to my bedroom and trip over the clothes on the floor to get to the dresser. I open the top drawer, grab the box of matches inside, and then pick up a bottle of tequila from the nightstand before collapsing on the bed.
With the little energy I have left in me, I douse the mattress with alcohol then remove a match. Without much forethought, I strike the tip of it against the side of the box and watch it burn, quickly singeing away the wood, erasing it into nothing.
Right before it can burn out, I drop the match and the mattress engulfs in flames. Then I curl into a ball and watch as the fire spreads around the room and melts the walls. Smoke circles the air as fire hisses at my skin. Heat scorches deep into my bones and erases my sins--erases everything. The smoke detectors siren off, but I barely hear the sound over my own screaming. Pain. So much pain.
The smoke steals the air from my lungs, and my heart withers inside my chest. Death is close. The end is near. Then the pain will finally be gone.
I surrender like I have for years. But right as I can feel the end approaching, the fire closing in on my body, I catch sight of a picture on the dresser. It's of Mason and me during the one trip we took to the beach, one of the rare, happy moments I've been able to give him. As I stare at it, the fire begins to char the edges, ready to melt the photo away with me.
"Oh, my God, what am I doing?" I leap from the bed, snatching up the picture as I bolt out of the room.
Potent smoke floods the entire house, and by the time I reach the front door, my oxygen supply is dwindling. Gasping for air, I stumble outside beneath the night sky and the stars and look back at the damage. Flames swallow the entire back section of the house.
What have I done?
I need to call the fire department, stop what I've done.
I stagger toward a payphone at the front of the trailer park. My bare feet are scalded, and the gravel pierces into the open wounds. Everything hurts, even my soul, broken, battered, beaten down, down, down. So heavy, but I keep running, even as my lungs constrict. I make it to the phone and fumble to retrieve a quarter from my pocket.
"Help," I gasp for air as I tell the operator. "My house is on fire."
"What's the address?" she asks. "Ma'am, I need the address."
I sputter it out, then hang up and the phone spits out my quarter. I pick up the coin before my final breath leaves me and I fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Into a blanket of stars.
Leaving the world.
My life.
With a silent cry echoing behind me.
Help me.
Chapter 35
The day I was saved.
Tristan
I've finally done it. Finally pushed the boundaries of life too far. There's no going back now. This is the end.
I'm going to die.
"Tristan, can you hear me?"
I can hear Quinton from somewhere, but it's too dark to see anything. My body is broken, worn out, used and abused to the point of no return. Too many drugs course through my system, and I think I'm ready.
To die.
"Come on!" Quinton cries out. "You can't fucking die on me. I can't lose another fucking person in my life!"
I feel bad for leaving him, but not enough to fight for my life. I'm not scared of death, just tired. So fucking tired of being alive yet never fully breathing. Of always sinking further into despair. Of drifting. Of being lost. Of messing up.
It's time for this pointless journey to end.
I take a final breath as my heart flat lines.
Then I fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Toward something I don't understand.
To the stars.
All I see are stars.
Is this what death looks like?
Am I dead?
The revelation crashes against my chest like a jolt of electricity. Slams into my soul. Jumpstarts it again. I'm dead. Gone. I'll never breathe again.
I don't want to die.
Panic sets in. I stretch my arm out, reaching for something, but I can't feel my hand. I try to breathe air into my lungs, but I'm not even sure I have a body anymore.
Please don't let me die.
Please save me.
Please.
Help me.
Present day...
Chapter 36
I think I'm starting to understand the meaning of life.
Tristan
She looks like a ghost standing in the moonlight, her expression haunted by her past. Scars crisscross the flesh of her stomach and ribs, marks of how badly she was broken. Her anguish stabs at my heart, ruptures my soul, fills me with a helpless need to help her. I just don't know how I can.
"Avery, I'm so sorry that happened to you." My bare feet sink in the sand as I inch cautiously toward her. The entire time she recollected the day of the fire to me, she kept her distance. The space still remains as she stares helplessly at me, her chest rapidly heaving as she fights for air. "But what happened--even the fire--wasn't your fault."
"Yes it was." She doesn't step back as I approach her, but she tenses, gazing over my shoulder at the bonfire down the beach. "I should have walked away from Conner a long time ago... but I didn't. And then..."
"None of that was your fault." I clench my hands into fists. The thought of someone hurting her like that is unbearable. God, I thought I'd been through so much, but it seems unbelievably trivial now, unimportant. She's the one that's important now.
"Some of it was." She angles her chin, her neck arching back as she looks up at the midnight sky as if she's speaking to the stars. "And that's something I'll always have to pay for."
"You don't owe the world anything. You only owe yourself a good life."
Her gaze collides with mine. "I know I do. I didn't understand that for quite a while, but now... I think I'm getting that I deserve to be happy."
I relax as she starts to loosen up. "I'm glad you understand that. You deserve every ounce of happiness there is."
"So do you," she says, inching toward me. "You know, for a while, I thought it was you... that I was supposed to help."
That part of her story really got to me, but I don't--can't--think too much about it. The concept that both of us could have died and crossed over at the same time only to be brought back and reunited is mind-boggling. And, honestly, I don't want this--us--to be about anything other than her and I anymore.
"Even if it wasn't about helping me, you've helped me. A lot." I dare another step toward her, yearning for her closeness, desperately needing to touch each of her scars, feel the realness of her. "You've helped me so much... more than you realize or even I realized until I started to think about it."
"Good, that's what I wanted to hear." She relaxes more, her shoulders unwinding with each even breath. "Whether it was you or not, I still wanted to do something good, you know? With all the bad that's tainted my life, it's been good to have some happiness."
"But what about you?" I have to ask. "You deserve help too. I know you get stressed sometimes."
"I'll be fine," she promises, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. "I survived. I'm thriving, and that's what really matters... that I'm"--she turns her back to me--"alive."
My breath hitches in my
throat at the sight of the tattoo I've begged to see for months.
Branches of a half dead, half flourishing tree span from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. The elaborate tree trunk sketches the length of her spine, dark ink embedded into her skin and surrounded by tons of pale, jagged scars. On the blossoming side of the tree is an inscription.
Carry me away.
To where I can breathe.
To where my soul can thrive again.
To where I can be free.