So maybe not everything I touch turns to shit, because Lachlan still shows up some days after school, sketchbook in hand. He goes right to the desk I set up in the corner for him, pulls out his markers, and gets to work.

The boy’s skills are beyond talent, and even though we don’t talk much while he’s drawing, I know that I at least did something right. And eating toast for dinner every night to make up for the cost of the markers has totally been worth it.

I print off an email from a supplier with a list of things I’ve asked to return to them. It’s the fourth time I’ve done it this week. Soon, my store will be empty. Soon, I’ll be empty.

I start going through the stock on the shelves, dumping products into a box haphazardly, ticking off items one by one.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“Do you not want me here?” Lachlan asks out of nowhere.

My eyes snap to his. “No. I mean, yes. Of course, I want you here. Why would you say that?”

He scratches the side of his head. “You’ve just been, I dunno”—he shrugs—“different the past couple weeks.”

“Different how?”

“Well, for one, you stopped dressing cool.”

I look down at my clothes: sweats. Because I decided this morning that it didn’t matter how I dressed. It’s not like anyone was going to see me. I replay his words in my mind. “Wait. You think I dress cool?”

He grins, as if he knows he just complimented me. He has no idea that besides Logan saying I didn’t need anyone to tell me I was pretty, it’s probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me since I moved here. “You totally dress cool,” he says, nodding. “So… is everything okay with you?”

I could lay it all out there: I could tell him his brother hurt my feelings. That if my heart wasn’t already partially damaged, Logan had the power to break it with a simple “Later, Red.” I could tell him that the image of Logan with someone else right after spending time with me keeps me up at night. Or the fact that he was with someone the night before we reconnected. I could tell him that even though I’m hurting, most of my thoughts are still about a blue-eyed boy who made me laugh more than anyone, who made me feel something beyond loneliness and insecurity. I could open up to him, considering he’s the only person I have in my life who knows to ask if I’m okay. But… Lachlan’s nine and not at all ready for any of that, so instead, I muster a smile and make my way over to him. “My washer’s broken,” I lie. “That’s why I haven’t been wearing my normal clothes. And you,”—I pull down on the brim of his cap, making him giggle—“you being here is absolutely the highlight of my day. So please don’t ever think that I don’t want you here.”

“Okay, Red,” he says, offering a smile of his own. “I was just worried that something happened with you and Logan.”

My heart skips a beat, and I stumble over my words. “Why—why would you say that?”

Lachlan shrugs. “He’s been coming home late, which isn’t a big deal on the weekend. But, during the week, he normally goes to work and comes right home.”

I try to play it cool, but the images are back, only this time, it isn’t just Bella with the Boobies. It’s so many various nameless, faceless girls. “Oh yeah?”

“He’s probably just been hanging out with you, right? Sexing or whatever?”

My eyes widen at the last part, and I shake my head. “No, Lachy. He hasn’t been with me. But, that’s not to say he hasn’t been with someone else.”

“Oh.” He drops his gaze. “But I thought you two were…”

My lips thin to a line.

“I’m sorry, Red.” He goes back to his drawing, shaking his head. “I don’t ever want to be a stud,” he says, and I laugh for the first time in what feels like forever.

“I don’t think you have a choice, dude.”

* * *

“Who’s supposed to be picking you up tonight?” I ask, looking out the full-length windows of my store. Most nights, Lucy or Cameron collect him when they leave work at five. Other times, Lachlan’s brother’s girlfriend, Laney, gets him. But it’s past seven now, and he’s still here.

“Dunno,” Lachlan says, shrugging, too preoccupied with his drawing.

Thunder claps, and I look up at the dull, gray sky, wait for the clouds to open up. A few seconds later, they do, and the atmosphere is coated with heavy rain.

“Dude. I don’t drive, so… maybe I should call Cam or Luce for you?”

He’s paying attention now, looking out at the thick sheets of rain falling from the sky. “How will you get home?”

I turn to him, and without replying, I reach for my phone and pull up Lucy’s number. The bell above the door dings just as I hit call. I hit end just as fast, turning as I do. Logan’s standing outside, cap backward, soaking wet. He has the door open just enough to whistle into the room. He doesn’t look at me. “Let’s go.”

“I’m just finishing something,” Lachlan rushes out.

Logan snaps, “I don’t feel like standing out in the fucking rain!”

“So don’t stand outside,” Lachlan tells him, not bothering to look up. “Just come in. I’ll be five minutes.”

Logan shakes his head. “Now, Lachy,” he says, frustrated. His focus switches to me, his eyes red… he’s stoned. He balls his fists, his eyes locked on mine. “Pack up your shit, Lachlan, and say goodbye to your friend. This is the last fucking time you come here.”

“What?” Lachlan’s on his feet. “You can’t do that. You’re not the boss of me!”

“Yeah?” Logan laughs. Cynical and deranged. He walks into the middle of my store. To Lachlan, he says, “Dad shouldn’t be letting you spend all this time here. He doesn’t even know Aubrey. For all we know, she could be a kiddy fiddler.” His gaze moves to mine, holds it there. “Is that it, Aubrey? Is that why you let him spend all that time here? Buying him gifts when you barely fucking know him. Do you like little boys?”

It’s hard to find your voice when everything inside you shatters. It’s one thing not to give a shit about me, but this—this is too much. My voice cracks, and I hate that it does, “Jesus Christ, Logan. Don’t be vile.”

“And don’t talk to her like that!” Lachlan yells.

And that’s when Logan loses it. He reaches over, grabs Lachlan by the arm, picks up his backpack, and drags him across the store.

I run after them, trying to save Lachlan from Logan’s path of destruction. “Don’t you dare make him get in the car with you!”

Logan halts on the sidewalk, me beside him, and we let the rain drown out our anger, our hurt. He turns to Lachlan, hands him his keys. “Wait in my truck.”

“No.”

Logan glares at him, a silent warning. After a beat, Lachlan’s eyes find mine, worried. Tearful. “I’m not saying goodbye,” he mumbles, and my heart cracks against the weight of longing and loss for something I never really had. When I don’t say anything, just stand there, shivering against the temperature, Lachlan runs across the road and toward Logan’s truck. As soon as he’s inside, I brace myself for Logan’s words, his attack.

“I’d never put Lachlan in danger. Ever. So, don’t tell me what to do, Aubrey. You don’t fucking know me.” His eyes stay on mine, his words meant to slice, severe, destroy. “You thought you did, but you don’t. And you had no fucking right to say the things you said to me—to make me feel guilty. I did nothing wrong. That girl in Cambodia—she snuck into my hotel room. Luke gave her the key. It was a joke. Nothing fucking happened. And Bella—she says she sleeps with me every other week. She doesn’t. Did I leave you that night and go back to the party? Yes. You were drunk, Aubrey, and I knew if I stayed that I’d give in to what you wanted, and I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I went back to the party and bought weed. Then I left. I fucking left. I haven’t been with anyone since that night with you. And if you’d stopped to ask me about any of the things you accused me of, then maybe you’d know that. But you didn’t. I was right fucking here if you wanted the truth, but instead, you judged me. You decided I was a disappointment, and instead of coming to me, you just fucking left.”

Because we lived by the lake, most of us kids learned how to swim from an early age. For some reason, I just couldn’t get the hang of it. By the time the twins were older and experienced enough to swim without floaties, I was still wading on the edge of the water, afraid of dying.

When I told my mother that, she said I had two options:

A: be afraid for the rest of my life.

B: take swimming lessons.

I wish I’d opted for option A. Because option B only made things worse.

After she died, there was a moment when I no longer feared death. In fact, I wanted to be a part of it. So, a few days after her passing, I left the house in my pajamas and walked through the darkness of the night toward the lake. I got to the end of the dock, and I jumped. I couldn’t reach the bottom. I didn’t care. I stayed under the water until my lungs burned, and I’d heard her voice—my mom’s—telling me to rise, to get some air.

So, I did.

But then I’d go back under, do it again, just so I could hear her voice.

I was nine years old, and all I wanted was to hear my mother’s voice.

Lucas found me that night, and he stripped me out of my wet clothes, gave me the shirt off his back. Literally. He walked me back to my house, his arm around my shoulders.

I lied when I told him I just wanted to feel something.

Truth is, I wanted to feel nothing.

He swore he’d never tell anyone.

He never did.

Now, I fill my lungs, my entire insides, with everything Mary has to offer. Mary is my whore, and she never once tells me what we’re doing is wrong, that we shouldn’t. I walk toward the lake, my hands at my sides, and continue until the water reaches my nose. And then I keep going farther and farther under so I can hear her voice. My mother’s…

But I don’t.

Instead, it’s Mary’s voice.

Aubrey’s.

And it’s not just voices.

It’s visions, too.

Aubrey’s eyes.

Aubrey’s tears.

And then Mary’s back, begging me to take her. To love her.

Aubrey’s crying.

You don’t need her, Logan. You have me: Mary.

Aubrey’s breaking.

I rise up from the bottom, gasp for air as soon as I hit the surface.

Aubrey.

Aubrey.

Aubrey.

I go back down.

I am tied.

I am bound.

I am sinking.

Low, low, low.

I am liquid.

I am drowning.

I am disappointment.

I am nine years old, and the leather cracks beneath my weight. The car still smells new, even though I’ve been in it for months. The dash is gray. I can barely see over it…

I am nine years old, and I am fucking terrified.

* * *

It’s two in the morning when I make it back to the house. Dad is up, pacing the living room. He takes me in from head to toe while audible droplets of lake water fall to the floor beneath me. I try to calculate how many times I’ve seen him like this: unsettled eyes and a tired mind and a soul too forgiving of me.

I should really cut this shit out; it’s not fair that I do this to him. I know that. Deep down, past the bullshit, past Mary, I know he worries.

He’s expecting me to say something, anything, but the only thing I can think to say is “Mary made me do it.” I don’t say that, obviously, and so we stare each other down, waiting for the other to speak first.

But it’s neither of us who do.

“I’ll get a towel,” Lachlan says. I didn’t even notice him sitting on the stairs, pajama pants, no shirt, and he shouldn’t be up this late, or early, whatever. He comes down a moment later, towel in hand. There are tears in his eyes, but no sound to accompany them. “Bend down,” he whispers, and so I do, and then his towel-covered hands are on my head, patting my hair, and I fight back my own tears, because I’ve never treated him the way I did tonight. I need to apologize. I need to get rid of Mary, to get her out of my system, to stop letting her control me. I’m about to speak, to say sorry, but Lachlan beats me to it. “I’m not saying goodbye to her.”

And I say, “Okay.”

And then Dad is pulling him away, handing me the towel to dry myself off. He says, his voice soft, but his words hard, “I’ll make the call tomorrow.”

And I say…

I say…

“Okay.”