My home is fairly small, but quaint, with plain cream walls and a standard kitchen. I love it because it has a strong roof and walls. I only moved into it just under three months ago and called it the beginning of my new beginning. It was actually built by Habitat for Humanity and I’m going to help build a house starting Monday to repay them for building my home.

“Hey, you’re home early.” My brother Jax is sprawled across the living room sofa with a thick textbook propped up on his chest. He’s been living with me for over a year now ever since our mother disappeared. No one knows where she went or what happened to her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

I like having Jax here with me, not just for the company but because it means he’s no longer living in that shitty house with my cracked out mother and whatever man she’s hooking up with. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when he starts moving on with his life, but I’ll figure it out—I always do. And I’m glad Jax is doing things the forward way in life, I just wish I didn’t have to rely on his help so much.

“Yeah, I got tired.” I drop the keys on the table then plop down in the recliner. “And I was worried about Mason’s fever.”

“You’re always tired.” Jax sets the book down on the coffee table as he sits up. “And I texted you like fifty times telling you Mason was okay.”

“Yeah, I know… I didn’t sleep very well last night. Must be nerves or something over building a house,” I lie because it’s not that—it was finals, and working more hours at the bar while managing to build a house at the same time. I’ve become a juggler again just like I was at sixteen, only it’s my own responsibilities this time instead of our mother’s.

“You know, I could help with that,” Jax offers with a yawn. “Either help with the house building thing or get a second job or ask for more hours to help pay bills.”

He’s such a sweet kid. You’d never think he came out of our mother. But Jax looks a little like me… Well, at least enough that some people can tell we’re related. He has a similar shade of brown hair and hazel eye color, which are traits of our mother. His nose is definitely more prominent than mine because we don’t have the same father, even though my mother was living with my father at the time she had Jax.

My mother goes through men like she goes through drugs, with casualness and zero regard for the consequences. It got her a total of who knows how many children. She was almost forty when she brought me into the world, and I know for a fact she had more children before me, but only because she rambled about it once when she was high. When I’d asked her where all her kids were, she’d muttered something about being with their fathers. When I’d asked her why my father didn’t take me with him, she’d told me it was because I was unwanted.

“I don’t want you having to work anymore hours unless it’s put toward college.” My head wobbles back against the recliner, so close to falling asleep.

“What if I don’t want to go to college? What if I decided I’d rather do something else?”

“You’re going. There is no other option.”

“Yes, mother,” he jokes but then we both pause because I’m pretty much like Jax’s mom and have been since I was four years-old when our mother gave birth to him.

He looks like he wants to say more, maybe about our mother, but then zips his lips, deciding against it. I often wonder if he thinks about her and why she’s missing. One of these days we’ll probably get a phone call from the police saying they found her dead. But we never really talk about it, avoiding the painful truth of why Jax is really here with me.

“You should go to bed,” I yawn. “Get some sleep before work tomorrow.”

He nods. “Oh, and just so you know, Mason likes peas now.”

With a lot of effort, I lift my head up. “Really? How’d you manage that?”

“I told him they’d help him get strong like all those super heroes he’s obsessed with.” He starts for the hall but then pauses, looking at me. “I’m kind of envious of him and his wild imagination. You’re doing good Avery. Way, way better than what we had.”

I crack a smile because it means a lot. “Thanks, Jax.”

He returns my smile. “You’re welcome.” Then he disappears into the hallway, and moments later, I hear his bedroom door shut.

It takes me at least fifteen minutes before I drag my ass off the couch and kiss Mason goodnight, then I go into my room. I peel off my filthy clothes, slip on a pair of pajamas, and flop down on the bed with my guitar. I thrum the strings quietly and not very well, but learning how to play became part of my new life—the one after my death and Conner.

I’ve been exhausted all night, and like usual, the moment I set the guitar down and attempt to go to sleep, my eyes won’t shut. It’s been that way since that day a little over two years ago when my entire life—my entire world—changed.

The day I died.

The day my life started over.

The day I got a second chance.

But what that second chance is, I’m still searching for.

Finally, I can’t take my restlessness anymore and I end up going into the bathroom to take a half of a sleeping pill. I hate that I have to take it, but know there isn’t really a choice—I need to get some sleep. As soon as I swallow the pill, I hit a state of panic as I wait for it to kick in.

To calm myself down, I wander into the kitchen and sit cross-legged on the floor, right in front of the sink. Then I open the cupboard and read the note on the inside that’s written by the guy I made the exception for.

Avery,

I’m not sure if you’re okay, but I hope so. I know this is probably weird, some guy you met for like two seconds writing on your kitchen cupboard, but I just wanted to say that I hope you find the place where you can breathe, to where your soul can thrive again, to where you can be free, to where you can live again…. I never really did see the rest of the tattoo, so I’m not sure. Maybe you already have. I hope so.

It was nice meeting you. Hopefully, one day our paths will cross again.

Tristan.

a.k.a the Pretty Boy

The note always makes me smile, because it’s sweet, innocent, with no strings attached. In another life, I would have ended up with a guy just as sweet and who remained sweet even when things went to shit. Reading Tristan’s words always brings me comfort and I’m allowed to grasp onto them because Tristan is untouchable and I’ll never get caught up in dreamland with him.

As I stare at the note, I end up drifting to sleep on the kitchen floor, feeling content. But that contentment floats away the moment my eyes close.

Fire. Smoke. I’m burning alive. I can’t breathe.

Even though it takes a lot of energy, I manage to force my eyelids open from the memories. I’ve been dreaming the same thing since the night before it became a memory. The dream didn’t happen the exact same way but it was similar enough to be a forewarning. Or maybe it wasn’t so much a forewarning but my subconscious understanding that eventually that’s where my life would end up. That I could ignore the truth all I wanted, but in the end, all that rage was only going to end in flames.

But somehow I survived. A survivor of a lot. I even tattooed it on my forearm along with a cross.

Survivor.

But why did I survive?

Life?

Conner?

Myself?

Always the same questions bouncing around in my head with never a real answer.

So I look up at the stars that are just outside the window.

What were you trying to tell me that night? Why did I come back?

Like always, my only response is the sound of my beating heart, leaving me to interpret what I will with it.

Chapter 4

I feel like no one sometimes.

Tristan

I’m woken up by the sound of chirping birds, the smell of stale coffee, and a ridiculously cheery song being sung.

“Good morning sunshine, good-bye ass**le,” Nova sings and Quinton laughs, all smiles and happiness as if they’re sniffing roses and skipping on rainbows.

“If that’s meant for me, it’s not funny.” I throw a pillow over my head to block out the sunlight and their cheery, lovey-dovey talk. It’s bad enough that I have to share a motel room with the two of them, but the sound of them kissing is maddening.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy their company. I do. And I have nothing against them even with our complicated past. Quinton is actually my cousin who was involved in an accident that killed my sister Ryder, something that my parents blame Quinton for because he was the driver. Me, I don’t like holding on to that kind of anger because it’s draining and too time consuming, nor do I ever want to be like my parents. Plus, it’s not going to bring Ryder back, even though I think my mother might believe otherwise.

Besides, Quinton’s not a bad guy. He’s had a shitty last few years because of the accident. Years full of drugs, homelessness, and self-destruction. In a lot of ways he’s like me, only he has darker reasons to do drugs, yet he still seems to have an easier time adjusting to life without them. Me, I struggle with my sobriety every damn day. When I’m sober, life is harder than when I’m high. When I’m sober, I feel more alone than when I’m high.

When I’m sober, I feel lost.

Plus, I don’t have a Nova by my side—the most positive person on the planet. I used to believe I was in love her, but I think I might have just been searching for love to see if it existed. I’ve pretty much moved past that now, and the belief that anyone will love me, but it doesn’t mean I like the sound of them making out.

“Would you two knock that shit off?” I grumble as I throw the pillow at them.

Nova laughs as she catches the pillow then chucks it back at me. “You should really listen to my lyrics,” she says as the pillow lands on the bed in front of me. Then she plasters on a huge smile, her blue eyes sparkling. “Good morning sunshine, good-bye ass**le. It’s your new motto in life.”

“Are you calling me an ass**le?” I ask as I sit up, yawning and stretching.

She suddenly looks worried. “Sorry, but you kind of were last night.”

Quinton nods in agreement as he sips his coffee. “Yes, you were.”

I stretch my arms out. “Yeah, sorry about that. It wasn’t you two. It was just… stuff.”

They give me a look, the one they get when they’re concerned that I’m about to go do a line or shoot up. The look is probably justified, but it still annoys me.

“I’m going for a run.” I toss the blankets off, grab some clean clothes from my duffel bag, and change in the bathroom. Then I head outside to take my morning jog, something I’ve been doing for the last three months in a desperate attempt to replace my drug addiction with sweat and exhaustion.

I let my legs carry me as I sprint down the side of the road. And sprint. And sprint. My feet try to outrun my past and thoughts of drugs, but my sins nip at my heels. By the time I return, I’m dripping in sweat, my shirt is drenched, my limbs ache, yet I still feel my thoughts drifting to drugs.

“Jesus, you look like you went for a swim,” Nova says when I trudge inside, panting and a little dizzy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Before either of them can say anything else, I lock myself in the bathroom.

I really wish they’d stop looking at me like that. It doesn’t help me stay clean, nor does it erase the last couple months of living back at home in Star Grove. I only visited because my mother begged me to be present for when Ryder’s new tombstone got put on her grave. There was already one on it, but my mother decided Ryder needed a larger stone with a more elaborate inscription. As much as I needed to visit Ryder’s grave, I wish I’d never gone back. Because it wasn’t just about going home. It was about returning to the past.

The past is never good, and the visit left me more ruined than I already was, clawing at the edge of the cliff, ready to fall again. I’m really starting to question if I can be one of those people who stay clean for the rest of their lives. I’ve had to go through detox twice already and the idea of snorting a line still makes my mouth salivate. I crave the numbness. Crave the desolation from my mother’s final look before I left. The one that silently said: Why couldn’t it have been you that night in the car with Quinton.

But I haven’t broken yet.

I want to, though.

Even if it means severe consequences.

Consequences I’m too familiar with.

Like the Hepatitis that took six months of treatment to get cured of. Then there was the day I almost overdosed. Part of me wishes I’d never come back, but the other part of me knows I begged for a second chance, begged for someone to help me find my way back. Not sure if anyone heard me, but I’m alive. As for the finding my way back part...

I feel so lost all the time.

All are reasons to just say no.

But I want to say yes.

It’s always there, an echo in my mind, calling out to me.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Telling me that I don’t have a reason to stop.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I’m a lonely bastard.

Sighing, I put on my work jeans and then tug an old T-shirt over my head. Then I force myself to be as happy as possible as I return to Nova and Quinton, but it’s not easy.

By the time we’re walking to the site where the home is being built, just a little over a mile away, I’m wishing I never came back to North Carolina in the first place. It’s not like I’ve ever been into building houses or devoting my life to a good cause. Habitat for Humanity is Nova and Quinton’s thing, and I’m just the tag along, but I didn’t have anything else to do. I’m taking a few online courses and that’s about it. That’s my life.