I shrug and physically remove her hand from my leg. I stand up and walk to her nightstand where I pick up my phone, keys and wallet. I don’t want to risk staying, because staying means talking, and I’m sure whatever we’ll end up saying will be something we’ll regret.

I need time. Time + perspective.

“You’re leaving?” she asks, sitting up on her knees, her eyes wide as she places the bottle on the floor next to her.

“Yeah. I think so. I have—”

“You’re mad?” she interrupts.

I drop my shoulders and face her fully. “I’m not mad, Riley. But there’s a big difference between can’t and won’t. It’s not like you have plans,” I say. “You can go, Riley. You just don’t want to.” I make it halfway to her door before I feel her hand on mine and when I spin to face her—there are tears in the eyes the color of sadness.

I drop my gaze, my hands on my hips. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Dylan…” She says my name like some sort of plea. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I really can’t. I haven’t left the house in over a year,” she admits. “I’m terrified of what’s out there.”

I try to breathe through the ache in my chest caused by the fear in her voice. “Why?”

“Just don’t leave yet, okay?”

I don’t leave. I can’t.

And I don’t bring it up again because I don’t want to see that same look in her eyes—the one telling me that whatever she fears is bigger than she lets on, bigger than this room we call our solitude, bigger than us.

She goes back to drinking in silence and writing in her notebook.

I go back to watching her.

She doesn’t look at me the way she did when I walked in.

I think about the horizon, the calm—and I wonder when it is we’ll be able to find it. And if we can ever find it together.

The alarm on her phone sounds, warning us that her mom will be home soon and I’ll need to go. She reaches for it and taps the screen a few times, silencing it, then she looks at me.

I look at her.

After a while, she gets up and sits on the bed next to me. “I really do wish I could go with you,” she says quietly.

“It’s okay. You have your reasons.”

After a sigh, she says, “Can your dad go with you? Or Eric?”

I turn to her. “It wouldn’t be the same as having you there.”

“I feel horrible.” She exaggerates a pout.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t say it to make you feel bad.”

“I know. I just wish I could give back what you’ve given me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what it’s like to do things alone. Until you came along, I was drowning in it and now…”

“Now?”

She dips her head.

I throw my arm around her shoulders and bring her into me. “I appreciate it, Riley, but I’ll be okay. Promise.”

“Will you come by after? Tell me how it went?”

“If you want me to.”

“I do,” she whispers, then looks up at me, a sad smile on her beautiful face. She leans up and kisses my cheek, her lips lingering longer than necessary. When she moves back, she doesn’t move far. So when I turn to face her, she’s only an inch away. I bite down on my lip, my gaze moving from her eyes to her wet, parted, perfect fucking mouth. Then I reach up, my hand cupping her face… please, please let me kiss you. Slowly—giving her enough time to push me away—I lean down…

“Shit!” She pushes me away.

“Seriously?”

She’s on her feet now, whispering loudly, “My mom’s home!”

“So what?”

She’s pulling on my good arm to get me to stand. “You have to leave.” She looks around frantically, then points to her window. “Out there!”

I dig my heels into the carpet. “Riley, I’m twenty-three, I’m not jumping out of a fucking window.”

“Please, Dylan.”

I cross my arms. “No.”

The panic in her eyes escalates when we hear the front door open. “Dylan, please,” she cries.

I roll my eyes and start for her window. I lift the damn thing, then climb through it, wondering how it’s possible for a twenty-year-old to be constantly drunk but not allowed boys in her room.

She follows after me, sticking her head out when I land on my feet and start to walk away. “Dylan!” she whispers.

I stop and turn to her. “What?”

“Good luck tomorrow. I’ll be thinking of you.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m always thinking of you.”

Fifteen

Riley

I think I lose my ability to breathe on the third knock. It started the second I stepped foot out of my house and got worse with every step. I have no idea how I manage to keep it together long enough for someone to actually open the door, but as soon as it does, I instantly regret every single step that got me here. She’s stunning—blond hair, big brown eyes and legs for days. She’s wearing a blue flannel shirt—exactly like the ones Dylan wears—and not much else. If you take away the instant jealousy, I’m pretty sure I have no justified reason to hate her as much as I hate her at the moment. Then she smiles, and I hate her even more. But then she says, “Are you here for Dylan?” and when I nod, her smile gets wider. “I’m a friend of his brother’s. We’re just having breakfast,” she says, opening the door wider. Her smile begins to fade the longer I stand there, completely unsure of what to do next. I want to see him, but I want more to run back to my house, close the doors, drink the wine I hadn’t touched since last night and remember all the reasons I’d told him I couldn’t even though, clearly, I can. I just really, really didn’t want to.

“Are you coming in?” she asks.

I nod again, though my reluctance is clear. “Maybe I should—”

“He’ll be happy to see you, Riley,” she says, and my breath catches.

She opens the door wider and it’s enough for me to take a step forward, literally and metaphorically.

I mumble an apology for interrupting when I enter the kitchen—feeling the heat of three pairs of eyes on me. I look at everyone in the room, saving Dylan’s for last. His dad and his brother are almost identical in their features, minus a beard. Their eyes are brown, though. Dylan’s are blue. I’d remember the shade of blue even if I wasn’t looking at them right now.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, coming to stand.

I use my skirt to wipe the sweat off my palms. God, I wish I were drunk. Or at least buzzed. It would make this so much easier. But I made my choice, and for the first time since I can remember, I chose someone other than myself. “Your appointment—it’s this morning, right?”

He nods. “I thought you said you couldn’t—”

My shrug cuts him off.

“Why don’t you join us?” his dad says, finally breaking our stare.

“Do you want me to?” I ask, my eyes back on Dylan.