By the time he’d turned sixteen, he was using. Pot at first, then, too quickly, heavier stuff. He’d kept it from me—just like he’d kept the fact that he was depressed and those drugs were his form of an upper. Dean and Mary had known and gotten him help when he’d agreed to it. It was strange, that when he was with me, it’d never showed. But when I looked back on it—I could see signs. Like how he’d frown when watching the kids or go days without speaking to anyone but me. Or be gone all weekend and nobody knew where he was.

When he was eighteen, he’d moved out, and things had gone from bad to worse. We’d tried to help him, but he’d kept us all at arm’s length, not wanting us to get involved in his mess, and concealed his secrets. He’d been in and out of jail, hadn’t been able to hold down a job or make money unless he was dealing, had barely spoken to or seen the family, unless it had been me. He always had time for me. It hadn’t been until a year and a half ago, when he’d met his girlfriend, Lisa, that things had begun to look up.

Her parents happened to own a restaurant in town that they were about to shut down. They’d offered him the work for six months, to see if it was worth saving. To him—it had been like being offered a second chance—one that he’d taken seriously. He changed the hours of operation, opening only at night through to brunch. He’d had trouble sleeping at night, so it had been perfect for him. And perfect for them. Soon enough, his girlfriend’s parents had welcomed him into their family, just like Dean and Mary had. And he’d needed that. He’d needed to know that he’d still been loveable; at least that was what he’d told me. And Lisa—she was great. She’d seen through his bullshit and seen the same person that I had. She was one of the few people who knew about his past, and had loved him, regardless. When she’d gone off to college in Savannah, a good four-and-a-half-hour drive away, they’d known it would be tough, but they’d promised to make it work. It had meant a lot of phone calls and coming home to visit when she could. And it had meant Clayton spending a lot of time on his own, time that I should have been there.

I should have seen it. I should have noticed him struggling. He’d always been able to know how I felt before I even realized it myself, but I’d been unable to do the same for him. He’d kept his feelings hidden so that I would never have to feel his pain. He’d always put me first, put everyone else first. He’d found a way to care for Mary and Dean and all the kids, even when he’d had no idea what it felt like to be cared for.

His past, his depression, the drugs—none of that was really who he’d been. To me—he would always be Clayton—the quiet boy who’d so easily become my best friend. My hero.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Blake

“Blake.”

Something nudged my foot.

I waited a moment, trying to get my bearings. And then I remembered where I was and what had happened.

“Blake,” she said again.

When I opened my eyes, I expected to see her in bed next to me. But she wasn’t there. And it wasn’t Chloe who was saying my name.

It was Mary.

“Where’s Chloe?”

“She left early; she wanted me to come in and tell you that you should go to school and not wait around for her.”

“Oh” was all I could say.

“She just needs some time, Blake. It’s not like she doesn’t appreciate that you’re here for her.”

“I know that.” I shrugged. “I just wanted to see her. That’s all.”

She smiled warmly before leaving the room.

Chloe

His arms had felt nice around me.

I’d never felt the warmth of someone’s embrace before.

Not really.

Not before Blake.

Those clouds kinda look like Blake.

I brought the joint to my lips and inhaled deeply, blowing circles as I puffed out continuous, single, tiny breaths.

A lethal cocktail of recreational and prescribed pills—the cop’s words replayed in my head, over and over. But Clayton—he’d been smart. He’d known what the fuck he’d been doing. He’d wanted to die.

“I hope you’re happy, fuckhead,” I said aloud, ignoring the prickles of grass in and around my back. I was at an abandoned baseball field close to home. This was where Clayton and I had used to come and talk shit—a place where we’d pretended to have dreams. He was also my first kiss—right there—in that patch of grass. It had been gross, but he’d said that it shouldn’t be with some random guy I met at a party, just because he told me I was pretty. He’d said he wanted it to mean something. And it did. Even now, he’s the only guy I had ever kissed who meant something to me.

Before Blake.

“Have you seen my mom? My aunt Tilly?” I squinted at the sky, the sun so bright it made my eyes water. But I didn’t blink. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to use it as an excuse for these endless, goddamn tears. “What’s that?” I raised my heavy hand—or at least it seemed heavy—and cupped my ear. “No? You haven’t seen them? Then what the fuck was it all for, Clayton? Was it that bad here?”

I stopped myself and let out a sob. “I’m sorry,” I cried to the sky. “I didn’t mean that. I know you had your reasons, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t talk to me about them. I’m sorry that you felt like there was no other way.” I sat up and let the sob consume me. And when I was done—not just with the crying but with the entire joint—I got in my car, drove to the liquor store in the next town over, and bought a bottle of vodka.