My self-imposed dry spell ended with the first shot of Jameson. I didn’t even like Jameson. But it was all I had in my loft. I looked around the place with a rueful sigh. Home. Except it wasn’t. I’d felt more at home in every hotel I’d shared with Tori. And in the car.

After I’d left Twin Souls today, I’d considered dumping the Mustang in the lake. Everything in that rolling piece of metal reminded me of Tori. The chain she’d made of Big Red gum wrappers hanging from the rearview mirror. The two Goldfish crackers on the passenger seat that I’d looked at a dozen times but couldn’t bring myself to sweep away. Her hair bands in the ashtray. And even the Dr. Pepper stain on the floorboard.

The Mustang wasn’t a fucking car anymore. It was a time capsule. A roadmap of our journey. I could either stick the car in storage and never drive it again or learn to live with the pain. Sadly, there was no third option.

Another shot.

As the alcohol burned a path to my roiling gut, I wandered over and opened the window overlooking Sixth. What was it about this street?

Lost and found, you turned me around, and it all came down to you.

It wasn’t the street. It was Tori. She was everywhere. In every face and every sound. Even the breeze held a hint of sugar and cinnamon. Sweet, like her. And so fucking bitter I could barely stand it.

The Jameson wouldn’t wash it away. So why bother?

I held the bottle up to the light. “You took that away from me too, you little thief. I can’t even enjoy this shitty fucking liquor. Are you happy now?”

A knock at the door drew me out of my thoughts. Pizza. I vaguely remembered ordering it. Stalking across the room, I grabbed my wallet from the table where small bags of Pepperidge Farm cookies in all varieties sat open.

Sweeping the crumbs off my T-shirt with one hand, I reached for the doorknob with the other.

And then Tori was there, standing in front of me.

She didn’t say anything, and for a moment I wondered if I’d conjured her. So I did the only thing I could do. Threading my fingers through her silky hair, I pulled her mouth to mine for a kiss. Taking her air when she gasped, I claimed it as my own. Her tongue darted out, and oh my fucking God, thank you. Thank you for this. Whatever it was—hello or goodbye—if I kept her here, right in this very spot, I’d make it last forever.

“Lo,” she murmured, and I tightened my grip. Her palms molded to my chest. “Logan.”

Reluctantly, I pulled away and let my hands fall to my sides. It was a small victory, breaking the connection before she had a chance. Pride—I still had a little. It was in there somewhere.

“Hey, princess.”

My tone was so casual that she looked up at me, confusion lining her brow.

Yes, I just kissed you.

Maybe if I didn’t make a big deal of it, she’d forget about the last month. And we could pick up where we left off. But then I thought of her in that church, at the place where we ended, and reality crashed in.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Tori said as she peered into the apartment. “Unless you’re busy.”

Did drowning in a pit of my own despair count as busy? Probably not.

“Nope. Not busy. Come in.”

Standing aside to let her pass, I drank her in while she took a look around the place.

“This is nice,” she said as she took a seat.

It wasn’t nice. It was empty as fuck. Platinum albums propped against the wall. Boxes I’d never unpacked stacked up in the corner. A dead plant, leaves yellow and shriveled, sitting on the window sill.

That about summed it up.

Smiling, I plopped down next to her. “Thanks.”

“So I guess you heard about the concert?” She flinched. “Of course you have. You’re in it.”

If I were smart, I’d ask why she was here. Put an end to this agony. But I was down for the pain if it meant a few extra minutes with her.

“Yeah … I was a little surprised by that.” When she cocked her head, I added, “The concert. It’s not something I thought you’d be into.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I’m not, really. I’m doing it for someone else.”

Her whispered words were like an arrow to the chest. Another reminder of what she was: the brightest star in someone else’s sky.

“Miles,” she added in a voice even fainter than her whisper. “I owe him that.”

Miles …

“He’s not in a wheelchair?”

Tori’s head snapped up. “No … where did you hear that?”

I shrugged, my gaze darting to the Jameson. A few more shots might loosen the knots in my tongue. “I don’t really know. But nobody’s seen him in what, years?”

“He keeps a low profile. He’s been to rehab a couple of times.” She shifted her gaze to the window. To something beyond this conversation. “Things have been hard for him.”

A knock shattered the silence, and Tori whipped her head to the door. “If you’re expecting someone …” She was halfway out of her seat before I could stop her. My fingers coiled around her wrist, and she looked up at me.

“I’m not expecting anyone. Nobody’s ever been here except the guys. That’s my dinner.”

She sagged against the cushions. “Oh, okay.”

I pressed a kiss to her palm and then dropped her hand and spun for the door without waiting for her reaction.

When I returned with the pizza, she was holding her copy of Wuthering Heights. “You had this?”

Lifting a shoulder, I dropped the box on the table. “You left it.”

She hummed, and I felt it down to my balls, remembering every time I’d coaxed that little sound from her throat with my tongue, or my fingers, or my cock.

Stop.

But it was too late. My dick was now fully aware of her presence. Painfully aware. Forcing my brain to conjure thoughts of zombies and that killer clown from IT, I went about plating a slice of pizza. Mushroom and bell pepper. Her favorite.

“Here you go.”

Taking the plate without looking up, her gaze remained on the pages in the book. “Did you read any of this?”

And I knew right then, Fate had intervened, giving me the perfect opening. I’d made my peace with the goddess, but I still thought her sister was a bitch. Yep, I was relatively certain that Irony was waiting in the wings to fuck things up.

Still, it didn’t stop me. Sliding the book from Tori’s hands, I gazed at the cover. “I didn’t read it.” I plucked the note from the front flap and looked her in the eyes. “Or this. Or the contract you found in my backpack.”

With the connection we shared, I thought that might be enough for her to put some of the pieces together. But she just stared at me with a scrunched-up brow.

“I can’t read, princess. Not a word.”

That wasn’t really true anymore. In just under two weeks I’d learned the alphabet. Simple words of the three-letter variety were jumping out at me now from everywhere. I’d also learned a name. Funny enough, it was Tori’s and not mine.

“You can’t read … I don’t understand.” She scooted closer as if she could find the answer on my face if she looked hard enough. Maybe she could. With her knees pressed against my thigh, I wasn’t going to stop her from trying.

“Illiteracy,” I joked. “It’s not just for inbred hicks anymore.” My attempt at humor fell flat, and she frowned, concern etching her brow. No pity, though. I smoothed the wrinkles with my thumb. “That’s why I went to LA. To meet with a doctor who specializes in adult dyslexia.”

“But, I know people with dyslexia. Dylan has dyslexia. He can read.”

After explaining to Tori about the three different types of the disorder, mostly to buy some time, I sat back with my arm behind my head. Easier to look at the ceiling for this.

“I have the garden variety brand of dyslexia. Except …”

When I didn’t finish the thought, Tori snuggled against my side, gazing up at me with her chin resting on my chest like I was about to tell her a bedtime story. Having her this close, it should’ve warmed me, but I was cold all over. I hadn’t figured out how to relate the story without re-living it. So far, only Dr. Patel and the therapist she’d recommended in Austin had witnessed the telling.

“Remember how I told you my mom died when I was eight?” I felt her nod, and I took a last gulp of air, enough to sustain me for my descent into the murky depths of my memory. And then I closed my eyes. “I was there.”

Mama gave me a little shove, and I stumbled onto the wooden steps in front of the trailer.

“Take your sister and get out to the car,” she whispered, setting Laurel on her feet beside me. Peering around Mama, I saw Daddy sleeping on his chair. My lip curled back, and Mama grabbed my chin.

“Logan, baby, do as you’re told. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I wasn’t a baby, but I didn’t mind it when Mama called me that. So I nodded. She kissed my forehead.

“Ugh … Lo, stop pulling my arm,” Laurel whined. “Lo-gan!”

I should’ve been paying attention. Should’ve made her be quiet.

But it was too late. The light flickered on, and my daddy’s roar sliced through the night air. “Elizabeth! You hidin’ from me, bitch?”

Laurel stopped dead in her tracks. “Daddy …”

Turning toward the dirty window, I saw him. Daddy. He was out of his chair. And then he roared again. And Mama screamed.

Yanking Laurel’s arm, I dragged her toward Mama’s beat up old Mustang. “Shut up. Shut up,” I pleaded. “He’s going to hear you.”

My hand slipped off the door handle. Once. Twice. I rubbed my sweaty palm on my jeans.

God, please, help me.

And the door opened. And then we were inside.

The window in the backseat was little. But still I could see. Mama was on the porch now. One of Daddy’s hands around her mouth, the other in her hair. “Who are you going to see?” He shook her. “Huh? You cheatin’ on me?”

Mama did that thing she told me to do when Daddy was angry. She just … stopped.

It worked, and his hand slid off her mouth. “We’re outta milk, Jake. I need some for the kids’ cereal.”

Maybe it was her voice—she had the voice of an angel—but he stopped jerking her around. “Don’t you be leaving me alone with these kids very long, woman. You got ten minutes.”

Mama’s eyes jumped to the car for only a second, and I knew to get down. Daddy thought we were inside the trailer, me and Laurel. I shoved my sister on the floorboard so she wouldn’t ruin the plan. She glared up at me. “Sorry, sissy.”

“Go on now,” Daddy growled, and he shoved Mama down the steps. She landed on her hands and knees. But it didn’t faze her. She pulled herself to standing and, wiping her hands on her dress, she walked toward the car.

Run, Mama.

But she didn’t. Her eyes locked on mine as she took careful steps, scooting around the empty beer bottles and soda cans.

Just a little farther, Mama.

I saw Daddy before she did. He burst out of the trailer, his wallet in his hand. “Where’s my money, you whore?!”

And he was running. And Mama was running. She slid behind the wheel, and the engine fired up. “Logan … stay down. Don’t let him see you.”

But as she pulled away, I peered over the backseat. Just my eyes, like an alligator. And Daddy was in his truck.

The car went all funny, the way it did that time Mama drove over the ice. I tumbled onto the seat, and we were going so fast. But I was happy. And Mama smiled at me in the rearview mirror. She was happy too.

“It’s okay, baby.”

It seemed like a long time passed, but I wasn’t sure. Because my eyes were droopy, and Mama was singing that Judds’ song about grandpas’ and the good old days. The car pulled to a stop, and I blinked at the red light. Mama reached over to change the radio. And then I heard tires squeal and she looked up. Her eyes got real wide and she glanced around all quick like. A flash of blond hair outside the window. Mama’s mouth barely moved when she said, “Be a good boy, Logan. Watch your sister.”

The car door ripped open, and I dove onto the floorboard next to Laurel.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I peeked over the seat and saw Mama on the ground. She was bleeding. She was bleeding so much. And then I noticed the car in front of us. Just for a second. There was a red glow around the license plate. I stared at it. Stared and stared until it sped away.

And then someone was leaning in the car. A man with blood on his hands. “Is this your Mama?” He was big, with a beard, but he sounded scared.

I nodded and looked back out the window. And the other car was gone.

“Don’t move,” said the bearded man.

I didn’t move. But I hoped he’d come back. And he did. When he pulled the seat back and held out his hand for me to take, I saw Mama’s legs. But her top half was covered with a blanket. A yellow blanket with a big, red blotch. The blotch looked wet. I didn’t want to look at the blotch. Instead, I looked at Mama’s legs. One of her shoes was missing. It was the red sandal with the little bow that fit between her toes.

When the bearded man helped me out of the car, he looked surprised to find Laurel clinging to my waist. Pulling her closer to me, I looked up at the man, and in my most polite voice, I asked, “Can you find my mama’s shoe, sir?”

She needed her shoe. For when she got up.

The bearded man took my hand, and he grunted something that sounded like, “I’m sorry.” And then he told me to sit on the bumper of a big truck. I did that too.

And then there were lights. Red lights. And blue lights. And the blotch was bigger.

The policeman knelt in front of me. He asked me questions. I told him about the car. I told him about the red glowy light. I told him everything.

And then there were two of them. Both on their knees, talking to me.

“Concentrate, son. You want to help us, don’t you? Just tell us what you saw. The license plate on the back of the car. Give us a letter.”

I tried. I tried so hard.

“I can’t,” I said and looked down at the pavement.

The policeman stood up, and there were spots of blood on his boots. And through his legs, I saw Mama. There were people around her now. And there was no more blotch. Just red. Red hair. Red dress. Red.

The policeman leaned forward again, his forehead all scrunched. He smelled like how Mama did in the morning. Like coffee.

“Son, if you want to help your mama, you need to concentrate and give us a letter.”

And I knew what he meant. If I didn’t give him a letter my mama would die. So I tried some more. And no letters came.

And she died.

By the time I finished my story, day had slipped into night. I was on my back now, Tori’s hot, salty tears soaking through my T-shirt. Forehead pressed to my temple and lips a hair’s breadth from my ear, she spoke in a faint whisper.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Over and over she said it, fingers digging into my shoulder where she held onto me. I wanted to tell her it was okay, that I was fine, but I couldn’t form the words. My lids were too heavy, and I was so fucking tired.

Banding my arm around her waist, I took my last bit of energy and rolled us onto our sides.

Face-to-face now, I threaded a hand in her messy hair. “Stay with me, baby.”

My voice was thick, the words slow and slurred. I was drunk on Tori and truth, and I hadn’t slept in weeks. And it didn’t even matter that she’d probably be gone when I woke up. Or that there would be no sex. Right now, she was here. And she smelled of warmth and safety and cookies. And I loved her.

And I might’ve said that too.