Lying still, I close my eyes and use the cadence thumping into my palm to pass the time.

  I’m not sure what I’m waiting for when there’s nothing to expect.

  My breathing sounds louder in the silence of the room, a metronome I become hyper-focused on. As the gray sky brightens and the rain thickens beyond a gentle mist, my muscles slacken into a puddle of optical illusions. People stare down at me—a puzzle of misconception. They examine and dissect while I look hopelessly into their eyes, knowing all too well there’s nothing to be discovered.

  If they were to cut into me, they wouldn’t find anything but an empty cavity, a chamber of depression, a crater of disenchantment.

  There’s a knock on my door, and when I open my eyes, I force myself to sit up. “Come in.”

  “Good morning,” my mom says as she walks over and takes a seat next to me. “I was hoping we could talk before I left for the flower shop.”

  She typically doesn’t work on the weekends, but tonight’s the homecoming dance.

  “Look . . .” She pauses as if to collect her thoughts. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft, and through her makeup, I can see the red around her eyes. She’s been crying, which makes me want to cry because I’m the cause of her pain. “I know you think I’m against you, but I’m not.”

  A tear drops from my chin; I didn’t even realize any had surfaced.

  “You are my daughter, and the urge to do everything in my power to protect you is overwhelming at times,” she says. “And you’re getting older, which only makes me worry more.” There’s a smile that grows on her face, but it’s a somber one. “It isn’t easy watching you grow up and become independent. It’s hard for me to let you go.” Her last words crack, and she lets out a whimper as she takes my hand in hers. “I need to trust you more, I know that.”

  But she’s wrong.

  I’m the last person she should trust.

  The one thing she should be trusting more isn’t me, but rather, her instincts. Because as much as I hate to admit it, she has every reason to worry. She probably cares about me more than what I care about myself. Whereas she runs toward me to help, I run away, I avoid and deny and accuse everyone else around me. I made this last stint at Hopewell her fault, but I was angry at her for everything, when in actuality, I was angry at myself for being so screwed up. I’m still angry—I hate that I’m like this.

  I’ve come to resolve that she did the right thing by sending me to Hopewell the first time, and she was right to send me this last time, and she would be right to send me back even now.

  “I’m happy you’ve found a friend in Sebastian,” she tells me. “I guess, in a way, I’m a little jealous.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Because I’m sure he has pieces of you that I wish I could have.”

  Dropping my head, I crumble. Tears spill down my cheeks as she cries, and I feel guilty because she’s right. I do give him more because I trust him more.

  “I’m sorry,” I weep. “I don’t mean to hurt you, I just . . . I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know how to connect with you.” Lifting my eyes to hers, I admit, “I don’t want to fight with you, but I’m angry, and I don’t even know why. It’s just there, this constant annoyance.”

  She squeezes my hand, silently telling me that she loves me. I know she only wants the best for me and that she’s trying, but still, it’s all wrong, because I’m all wrong.

  “It’s all my fault,” I confess, my words breaking beneath the heavy burden I carry.

  “No, sweetie, it isn’t your fault.”

  “It is.” My shoulders hang, and when I look at her tear-stained face, I tell her, “I don’t know how to be your daughter. I feel like all I am is a disappointment.”

  She pulls me into her arms and lays her cheek on top of my head. “You are far from a disappointment,” she assures. “You’re perfect. We’re just on two separate pages, and we have to find a way to come together.”

  “I just want to be happy and normal like all the other girls, but I’m broken—too broken for you to love.”

  “I love you more than anything, and you are not broken,” she states, pulling back and looking me straight in the eyes. “You’ve been doing so much better.”

  She’s wrong, she just doesn’t know it.

  I’m far from better. It’s my mask of abstraction that fools her into believing that I’m doing well. If she got close enough, she’d see the fractures, see the lies, see the truth. But only I can see them because I wear them all on the inside. Everyone else is simply blind.

  Her hand runs down the side of my face before falling. When she gently pushes my sleeve up to expose the tattoo, her lips lift into an affectionate smile.

  “Was this your idea?” she questions tenderly and without any judgment.

  I shake my head. “It was Sebastian’s.” I smile weakly. “He told me I couldn’t look.”

  “You didn’t know what the tattoo was?”

  “Not until it was already done.”

  She rotates my wrist face up and looks at the delicately thin bow that’s tied over my scar. Tears swim in her eyes, and when she lifts them to mine, she’s sincere when she says, “It’s really beautiful.”

  We hug, and I wish I were different, something other than the girl I am—a disaster among people who never deserved my chaos. Perhaps I’m the cause of her straying from my dad. As much as I want to blame her, what if it was my fault? The fact that I couldn’t make her happy, that I was this constant strain on her that made her feel as if she had to run to find relief from somewhere else.

  What if I’m the root of it all?

  I look around and see little fires everywhere, burning away at peoples’ joy.

  Am I the match or the gasoline?

  “I have an idea,” she says. “Let’s spend this evening together, just you and me. We’ll order in Chinese and watch a movie. I’ll even let you pick. What do you think?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah?” She brushes away the last drop of sadness from my cheek, and I nod. “Okay then. Well, I should get going.” With a kiss to my cheek, she stands. “We’re going to be okay.”

  Are we?

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She smiles, and this time, it reaches her eyes. “I love you too.”

  The door closes behind her, and the world drops out from beneath me.

  I sit with myself for a while, unmoving, bones cold, lost—that’s what I am.

  Lost.

  Malfunctioned.

  Lying back, I zone out as I stare at the ceiling and then out to the clouds, out to heaven. I think about the peaceful souls, granted wishes, happily ever afters, the little houses with their little flower gardens.

  My heart bleeds its last tear, and I’m done.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Here are your pills, show up to therapy, and don’t forget about self-care. That’s what everyone tells me.

  But where’s the cure? Where’s the fix?

  Where’s the end?

  I’ve spent years searching for the reason.

  There is none.

  I’m on a dead-end path, and I’m tired.

  I’m so tired.

  Listlessly, I pull myself out of bed, across the room, and down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and drink it all. Setting the empty glass on the counter, I turn and look out into the living room. Photos sit in frames, memories and smiles hide the dark truth.

  They are all lies—exhausting lies.

  My attention falls away, and I stare blankly at the island . . . and then the stovetop . . . and then the knife block.

  Indifference is the scariest feeling I know. To have the ground crumble beneath me, to have the sky fall and the waters come in and feel nothing.

  I pull one of the smaller knives from its slot and hold it in my hand. It isn’t a knife I see, though, it’s a key, a key to the lock that’s held me hostage for far too long.

  It’s the key to my freedom.

  I go back to my room, slip beneath the covers, and tuck myself into my warm bed. Resting my head on the pillow Sebastian slept on last night, I inhale his scent, wanting to connect the way all humans should, but I can’t. I’m too detached.

  I’m an inhumane atrocity this world has endured for far too long.

  Why are you so sad?

  If I could pull back these ribs of mine, they’d see the raw red wounds of vicious pain that hold no explanation as to why.

  I grip the knife and touch the blade to my scar, the scar that leads to my deliverance from this ever-constant suffering. I trace the line gently as I nestle my head into the pillow.

  This world has wrecked me so badly that, when I’m gone, there will be little pieces of me scattered everywhere. In the trees I climbed as a child. In the grass I ran barefoot on. In the sand I built castles with. In the Sound Sebastian and I jumped into just last week that will now carry me out to sea.

  So take me, world.

  Break me, shatter me, and toss my pieces into the sky.

  Clutching the handle in my unsteady hand, my heart takes its last beats, my lungs their last breaths, my defective mind its last thoughts, and with conviction, I cut.

  I cut deeper than ever before.

  I cut until . . .

  . . . until the ribbon breaks.

  SEBASTIAN

  Four weeks later . . .

  Damp earth seeps into the knees of my jeans, chilling my skin, chilling my bones. No matter how frozen they get, they will never be as cold as hers that now rest beneath me. I push my hand against the wet ground and dig my fingers into the dirt that separates us. Another tear rolls down my face, and when it drops off the tip of my nose, I wonder if she’ll be able to taste it.

  The irrational part of me wants to claw my way down to her because I can’t accept that she’s gone, even though I know she is.

  How could I not?

  I was there.

  I saw her.

  After I left Brent’s house, I called, but she didn’t answer. She always answered, so I called again and again and again.

  I can still remember that morning. She kept hugging me because she didn’t want me to go. It worried me, and I could feel it in my gut that something wasn’t right.

  But I left anyway.

  When I got back to her house, her car was in the driveway, but when I rang the doorbell, she didn’t answer. Panic had me running to the back door, which was still unlocked from when I had left earlier.

  Fear stung as it lanced me because, when I called her name, there was no response.

  I pinch my eyes against the memory that won’t stop haunting me, and when I reach my hand out and press it over her name, I want to believe it’s her I’m touching and not the headstone marking her grave. My eyes sting, swollen with misery as I try to blink them back into focus, but pain and alcohol have me completely bleary and weak.

  Her bed was soaked in so much blood; it was horrifying, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from gathering her into my arms. Her body was still warm. I couldn’t let her go as I screamed and cried for her to come back to me. Everything spun into a complete blur, a fucking nightmare.

  I was gone for only two hours.

  Two hours.

  “I should’ve never left you,” I whisper, hanging my head as an unbearable ache rips through me—it’s guilt, and it’s been festering since I found her.

  I look back now and see the warning signs. She handed me red flags, and I thought I was helping her, but it wasn’t enough.

  Picking up the nearly empty bottle lying next to me, I unscrew the cap and pour the vodka down my throat.

  I have nothing left; I’ve lost it all—Harlow, my family, my home, my purpose. It’s all gone. Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I spent it getting drunk in the random hotel I’ve been staying at. Never have I felt so alone.

  A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s meant to comfort, but it doesn’t.

  “Are you about ready?”

  I nod, and when Marcus kneels next to me, I break even more because I’m not sure I am ready.

  “I don’t know if I can do this without her,” I admit.

  “You can. I know it feels impossible, but it isn’t.”

  I look at him, and his eyes are filled with tears as he stares at her grave.

  “She told me not to go,” I murmur. “Why didn’t I listen to her?”

  “You couldn’t have known what she was thinking.” He wipes a tear from his face.

  “Why didn’t she tell me? All she had to do was ask for help.”

  “We could ask a thousand questions, but none us will ever know what was going through her head or how badly she was suffering.”

  It hurts to think about the misery she must have been in to feel that hopeless, to just give up like she did.

  “At least she’s no longer in pain.”

  “I want her here. Selfishly, I just want her back.”

  “I know,” he says, rubbing my shoulder, doing what he can to console me, but nothing will ever repair this.

  She’s gone, and my world is shredded.

  He tightens his grip and then stands. “Take your last drink. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  After he walks away, I down another gulp before closing my eyes and trying to find her. I search for her all the time . . . in the mist and in the clouds and in the shadows.

  “I still feel you,” I speak into the air, believing she’s here because she has to be. “I feel you every day, and I miss you.” Hanging my head, I talk through the pain, my voice breaking against each word. “You were my best friend . . . you’ll always be.”

  After another swallow, I stare at the bottle as if I’m going to find her in it. “I know how much my drinking and driving worried you. I honestly never thought it was a problem, and then you came along, and I felt like I didn’t need it as much. But now . . . now you’re gone, and it’s all I have to help with this agony. I’m out of control, and I know it,” I tell her. “Even though I was too trashed to hold a conversation last night, I called Marcus. I was scared—for the first time, I was truly scared of myself, of who I’ve become, of what could happen to me. He came with no questions asked, and when I’d sobered up enough to get coherent words out, I begged him to help me.”

  Tightening my coat around my body, I shiver against the bitter chill.

  “I’m going back to Hopewell. Marcus thought it would be the best place since I could keep up with my schoolwork there and still graduate, but I want you with me.” I pinch my swollen eyes shut, pushing rivers down my face. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s going to be to go back and fight this alone . . . without you. But I have to. I have to try. I have to keep living . . . for you.”

  I throw my head back and drink my last drops, making a promise to myself that this is it, that I’m going to fight for my life and take it back. It’s what Harlow would want me to do.

  So, I’m going to do it—for both of us.

  I set the bottle next to her headstone and reach into my back pocket.

  Looking down at the turtle I folded this morning before Marcus picked me up from the hotel, another tear falls. I lay it on the ground and read the words I’d written across it: “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

  “I really am sorry.” I sit for a moment, silently appreciating everything she gave to me and everything she was. As the mist starts to gather on the turtle, I think about the one she attempted to make and how proud she was of it. I’d teased her about it, and the memory causes me to smile, but it hurts so badly. “I still have your turtle, by the way.”

  I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat and pull it out. “See, I never got rid of it,” I tell her as I hold it between my fingers, all misshapen. “It’s my favorite because you’re my favorite. And it’s perfect because you’re perfect. You never thought you were, but you were.”

  With a deep breath, I shove the turtle back into my coat pocket, wipe my face, and stand.

  “I hope you found your peace.” Then I turn and walk away, leaving the bottle behind but bringing Harlow with me.

  “Are you okay?” Marcus asks when I get into the car.

  “No.” I’m empty without her.

  “You will be. This is the first step.”

  And then he drives me to Hopewell.

  If you or someone you know is struggling emotionally or is thinking about suicide,

  call or text 988 for help and support.

  www.988lifeline.org

  If you or someone you know is being abused or needs a safe place to sleep,

  call or text the National Child Abuse Hotline

  1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453)

  www.childhelphotline.org

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  I must first acknowledge my assistant and dear friend, Sally, for without her, I’d be lost. She is my anchor in this crazy publishing industry. When I came to her six years ago with this story idea, she embraced it, and, for that, I am so grateful. Most would’ve shied away, but not her. She supported me and embraced my characters as they came to life. I knew this would be the hardest book for me to write, but she was with me every step of the way—through the tears and heartbreak—through every emotion I needed to go through to make this book a possibility.

  It was Denise Moore’s expertise that I relied on when writing the chapters at Hopewell. She’s a superhero, and I am indebted to her for the hours she spent on the phone with me as she detailed and shared stories about her years working as a nurse in a juvenile mental health facility. She opened my eyes to the reality of what life is like for teens who spend time behind those walls.

  My editor, Ashley Williams, worked tirelessly on this manuscript. Through late nights and stress-filled days, she is always there to help me improve my craft in order to be a better writer. She’s the only one I trust with my words!