Every Breath After: Part One (Lost Boys, #3)

by Jessie Walker

It’s just easier, I guess, to let her be in charge. It’s ’cause she’s fearless—that’s what Daddy says. And I’m timid—that’s what everyone says.

If the stars are dead… Where are the angels?

It’s not until he appears out of nowhere—like Superman dropping down on the fight—and shoves Mikey away from me so hard Mikey actually almost goes down, that everything seems to just…. Stop. The mean words. The sloshing inside me. The angry crash of waves surrounding me. It all just stops… And I gasp.

The last thing I see before the door closes behind him is his red backpack and the name stitched across the pocket. And all I can think is… I found you.

Sky blue? No. Too blue. Cornflower? No…closer, but no. Cadet blue? No, too gray.

Biting my lip, I glance down, my eyes drifting to where my backpack rests against the lip of my booster. “I love that one! Captain America is my favorite.” At the echo of that boy’s words, I find myself hunchin’ in my booster, knees squeezed together, fingers folding into my palms. I want to draw what happened, just like something you’d see in a comic book.

Why can’t boys be pretty too? What’s so wrong with that?

It’s an image I just know that I’ll carry with me until the day I die, and maybe even after that. For all I know, this will be the moment that will play on repeat for billions of years—just another star in the sky to be wished upon.

Seems pretty pointless to go through all this trouble if I don’t…release anything. Give something… Like a sacrifice. What’s a little blood for some peace?

Maybe one day, I’ll make my own songs, and someone else will have them scribbled all over their journal…

Mason… My best friend. My hero, always my hero. I despise it as much as I love it.

“‘Find what you love and let it kill you.’”

“It’s gonna be okay,” he utters in a surprisingly fierce voice, and for some reason, coming from him, I believe it. Nodding, I give him a small, sad smile. “You’re my hero.”

Some people set fire to their insides. I prefer to see mine in a thin stream of blood, drawn by my own hand. It’s a secret, like my art. Like the name carved into my heart. It’s mine.

“What about our friendship?” he says quietly. “What about us? Do I mean nothing to you?” You mean everything to me, and that’s the problem. But of course I can’t say that.

“What did I do to make you shut me out? For years now, you’ve been…pulling away. Just tell me what I did.” You chose my sister.

“But nothing. New York is you and Izzy and Waylon’s dream.” I press a hand to my chest. “Not mine.” Eyes creasing, he says, “What’s your dream then?” You. You’re my dream.

That girl thrives under pressure. Whereas I become as wilted as a century-old pressed flower in a long-forgotten journal.

He’s beautiful, even when he’s at his ugliest—a husk of the person I once knew. Barely even recognizable these days, and yet my soul still aches for him, always. More now than it ever has. And I’ve never hated myself more.

Vodka. Pills. A blade. It’s all the same. Just different roads to the same destination: peace.

We’re clothed, and yet I never feel so naked as I do as when I’m in Mason’s arms. “Do you still feel her?” And with nothing but plastic stars and planets as my witnesses, in the arms of the boy I love and who I’ll never have—not now, and not ever—I let the lie fall easily from my lips. “Yes.”

“I just…” I start to say. “You just what?” he says raggedly. I close my eyes, suck in my cheeks. “Nothing. Never mind.” I just wonder if they would have gone this long without saying it to Izzy, had it been my chair that was empty instead.

This is his fault. I lost her because of him… Because of what I felt for him that night. Because of what I did.

Red roses. The flower she pretended to the world was her favorite. Because the truth is, Izzy’s favorite wasn’t a flower at all, but a weed—daisies. And not the kind that are planted intentionally or sold at flower shops, but the kind that invade gardens and grassy fields, and poke through wooded backyards, growing unchecked, imperfect and wild.

I’m not Jeremy the Coward anymore. I’m Jeremy the Wicked. And if hope shall be my downfall… Then fall I will.

“She’s the love of my life.” Yeah, well, you’re mine, Mason. So fuck us both I guess.

Being in Jeremy’s presence has been a balm to me for as long as I can remember. Even when we were kids, he’s who I’d seek out when I was missing my dad or beating myself up for struggling with piano, or just…fuck, having a bad day. With him, I just…I never felt the need to put on airs. With him, I don’t have to be strong and put-together.

To be loved by Mason Wyatt would surely be a death sentence. The weight of it would crush me.

With age, didn’t come relief, so much as a later onset of symptoms. I didn’t grow out of anxiety…it evolved with me, shifting into something slightly more manageable. If only because I can more easily keep it at bay until I’m alone.

Relieved. I’m relieved it wasn’t Jeremy.

Hope. It’s a vicious fucking thing. Like love—like death—all it does is take and take and take. We’re put on this earth for no other purpose than to be ravaged.

Without her, I’ve been half a person. And now without him too, I’ll be lucky if there’s even a sliver of me left.

Worry about the breaths that come after, not the ones already wasted.

What was once pure and innocent, and, okay, maybe a little messy thanks to my secret crush on him, became this ugly, twisted thing, built on heightened fears and desperation, and longing for something that we’d never have again.

You’ll never be invisible to me.