Where There's a Will (Lost Boys, #1)

by Jessie Walker

There’s only so much time a person’s allowed to grieve before it becomes an inconvenience, I’ve come to learn.

Before the clock speeds up, and the world goes on spinning without you, you either pull yourself out in time to catch up, or you get left behind.

But with just a single glance at the skyline I once called home, popping up over the horizon like little shiny beacons under the rising sun, I knew I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go back there.

I’m free in all the wonderful and horrible ways a person could be free.

Taking action means taking responsibility, and I just ain’t about that life.

“I’m sorry. For your loss. I know those words are empty, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Grief is a bitch like that. Taking all that was once good, it cuts through like a knife—leaving a scar that is vile and ugly and permanent. Leaving memories that were once pure and light, forever stained by the bitter taste of loss.

but I do know guilt. I do know denial. Anger. The curse of remembering.

Art is a lot like a parasite. An invasion of undeniable need to share your soul with the world.

Perhaps this is what it means to find company in misery. It’s not so much a common ground, as it is a curse. We’re not trying to understand one another, we just can’t help but do.

“Well, everyone who mattered already knew what happened, you know? It changed things. How they saw me. How I saw myself.”

“I was either not upset enough, or taking too long to move on.

“But I can’t. It’s like...like I have no idea how to feel, or where to go from here, and I don’t know what to do with any of it,”

“The sun will always rise again.” I shrug. “You just need to make it through the night. Take it day by day—moment by moment if you need to—until you reach the other side. Nothing lasts forever.”

Sometimes secrets are secrets for a reason. Especially the ones you keep from yourself.