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Girlfriend’s brother. Jeremy’s more than that. He’s his own person.
Not only that, but reducing it to that makes it sound like…like that’s the only reason why we’re so close. Like Izzy’s the only thing we share in common. But it’s not. It’s not. Is that what everyone thinks? Is that what Jeremy thinks? I frown at the thought.
“Grief, trauma…they have a way of chiseling us down to the ugliest versions of ourselves.”
you. I hope you’re at peace. I really, really do. Even if it means I might never find any again.
The thing is… I’m in love with Mason, and I have been for years. Longer than is probably normal or healthy, but it is what it is. So there you have it. Finally. The ugly truth in all its raw, pathetic glory.
I might be back in Shiloh. But I’m here as the new and improved me. Not as the meek, anxious kid I was, crawling out of his skin and holding his breath, wishing for the day he could finally break free, and be himself. Be me.
It demolishes me, and yet I can’t look away. Forget every other time I’ve heard this song. This. It’s this. His raw, gritty take on it. I don’t know how I’ll ever hear it again, and not hear his voice—this version. How I’ll not see this image of him on-stage, pouring his fucking heart out with every guttural word falling seamlessly from his lips, commanding the room like a god. Like he was born for nothing else but this.
It’s as if I’m observing in real time, as he sheds chains I never realized were there—one made up of ivory keys and frustrated fingers and a steel jaw and hard, bleary eyes as he tried to force sonata and overtures from a brain just aching for something more, something else…
The one now currently standing out like a goddamn beacon in a crowded room with shorn hair that practically glows in the shadows pressing up around him—hair that’s been styled away from his face, rather than brushed forward to hide it—a thin long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his forearms that molds perfectly to his narrow frame, and black skinny jeans… Those doubts are gone. They’re dust. As if they were never even fucking there to begin with. Because those eyes… Those warm amber eyes widening at my fast approach. I’d recognize this boy anywhere.
“I know it might come as a surprise to you, but I actually can make decisions for myself when I don’t have this fucking town breathing down my neck.”
Free. He looks free. And fuck if it doesn’t kill me. How selfish is that?
right words. “Half of who we once were without her.”
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.
“Jeremy…” I say slowly, warily, “why do you want to change your eye color?” Uneasiness creeps into my awareness, and my heart pounds as I wait for an answer, especially the longer he remains silent. His pacing has stopped, and now he just stands there, blinking down at the floor. “You know why,” he finally says. “Jer, your eyes are perfect the way they are.”
I know today sucks. But this is your day too, always has been, and always will be. And for that, I still love today. Because it means you exist.
Is sex always so…mechanical? Or is it just me? I bet sex with Mason wasn’t mechanical. Totally should not have said that. But what are you gonna do about it?
“Why are you apologizing? You’re not the one who called me while someone’s cock was up your—”
“I thought we were friends,” I whisper, a weird buzzing filling my ears. There’s a pause, like he’s hesitating, and fuck if it doesn’t hurt. “We are.” Brow wrinkling, I shake my head. “Then why…” “Because friends don’t get all pissy and growly when they find out the other’s having sex.”
The confusion still swirling from earlier, combined with truths I’ve avoided for years.
He’s gorgeous. Painfully so. A single glance from those baby blues is enough to steal my breath. A mere smile, a slash through my heart with a serrated blade.
To be loved by Mason Wyatt would surely be a death sentence. The weight of it would crush me.
What the hell would she say if she knew the shit I was thinking? She’s out there, God knows where, waiting for someone to find her—rescue her—and what the fuck am I doing? Thinking about what her brother looks like naked and in the throes of passion.
“Shoulda been me.”
“S’all my fault.” I’m shaking my head, slowly, then faster. He keeps talking…mumbling…slurring. Some of it makes sense. Most of it doesn’t. But I catch enough. “…better off…me ’stead a her……died…s-sorry, Mase, so sorry…” My vision blurs, and it feels like there’s a fucking elephant sitting on my chest. “Stop.” The word slips out of me, inaudible over the ringing in my ears. “Wish it was me…” His words taper off into a silence so heavy, so profound, I’m helpless to avoid what comes next. No. Nonononono—
As always when my thoughts veer off in this direction, I can’t help but wonder if the same could be said if it were Izzy still here instead of me. Would they have held on longer? Given up sooner? Who knows? Would Waylon still avoid this house? My parents? Doubtful. Would Mason resent them for trying to move on, for accepting my death so easily?
Izzy was the glue, not me. I’m just the consolation prize. The spare. The unprepared understudy. This role was never for me.
Relieved. I’m relieved it wasn’t Jeremy. And just like a similar dreary day, I think about how double-edged it is—to feel such stark relief and yet such agony, you wonder what’s the point of feeling anything good at all?
I just… Wanted him. Needed him. To make me understand. To make this go away. Something.
God, no wonder he wishes it was him instead. He’s had to watch me fall apart over and over and over again… Fall apart over her…
This is Jeremy for fuck’s sake. The boy who, for as long as I’ve known him, has always felt like something was wrong with him. The boy who once told me how he feels like a burden. The boy who’s always fought so hard to melt into the background, so no one would spare him too much attention.
“Are you seriously gonna tell me you haven’t thought the same?” he rushes out so unexpectantly, I freeze, the lip of the bottle paused against my waiting mouth. “That you didn’t wish it was me instead?” His voice trembles, but grows stronger, louder as he continues, “That you didn’t think it—” I whip around so fast, he flinches back. “No. No, I fucking didn’t.” His eyes widen, and he gulps. I take a step forward, and he takes several back. “I didn’t even let myself consider the possibility until you brought it up the other night,” I practically shout, flinging the hand holding the bottle out.
“You’re freezing, and it’s starting to sleet.” “I’m f-fine.” I whirl on him, seething. “Yeah, you’re always fucking fine. What else is new?” His eyes widen, mouth parting. I look all over his face and scoff, waving him off. “I take it back. You’re an idiot too.”
“Wait, what? I’m not—” “Not what? Stubborn?” I bark out a laugh, nodding. “Right. And I’m not an addict who’s fallen off the wagon. And Izzy’s still alive. And you’re the one who’s dead, and everything is just fucking perfect.”
Boy, boy, boy. Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy.
I yank his face to me— “Shut up. Just. Shut. Up.” —and crush my mouth to his, smothering his gasp. He tenses. I tense. And everything just…stops. Time ceases.
“Mason?” he says, staring into me with so much confusion, so much fear, so much… Want. So, so much want. And I just— I can’t. I can’t stop this.
His. I’m kissing a boy.
He’s all smooth, flat planes, and sharpened edges, leaving no fucking doubt whatsoever as to the fact it’s a guy I hold in my arms. Jeremy…
Licking and sucking at lips I didn’t know how badly I craved until this very moment. How I went so long without this… I’ll never know. My brain clouds over with the sensations bowling me over. I’m spinning and spinning… Falling and falling…
He kissed me. Mason Wyatt fucking kissed me. He kissed me. And I kissed him back. Me…Mason…kissing…
How will I ever move on if he keeps me chained here? How will I ever have a chance of feeling whole again, if I’m forever torn between hope and acceptance? Can I even be whole again?
“Please don’t fucking leave me, Iz.” I flinch back. My body reacting before I even have time to process what he said. The pain is so sharp and unexpected—brutal and unforgiving—that I actually glance down between us to make sure there’s not the hilt of a knife sticking out of my chest.
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.
A fatal hit if there ever was one. There’s no coming back from this. No coming back from the boy I love kissing me, then calling me by my dead sister’s name. No coming back from finally, stupidly thinking maybe—just fucking maybe—there was a chance. That I was an option for Mason.
I fucking hate him. And for the first time ever… For one sharp, swift beat that will forever be a black spot on my shattered heart… I don’t wish it was me who got taken instead of Izzy. I wish it was him. Because then I’d have my sister back. We’d be together.
I’d have Izzy, and I wouldn’t know what it’s like to kiss someone I’ll never have. I wouldn’t be on the kitchen floor of an apartment I have no place being in, feeling like the reality of her absence finally hitting—catching up with me—is literally going to kill me.
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.
Jeremy, please forgive me I can’t do this without you
“Sometimes I just felt like I had more in common with him. Like I could be the real me with him.”
“Two things can be true at once, Mason. But something will always come along and tip the scales eventually.” A meaningful pause settles over the room, and then she drops her final question on me like a bomb. “What tipped yours?”
