Page 117

Nail to the heart.

Slams the door.

Nail to the heart.

Leaves the house quietly loud.

Nail to the heart.

“She didn’t mean it,” Ford offers. “She’s ju—”

“Go,” I demand, jerking the door open with a shaky hand.

“Scotty, she didn’t mean it,” he repeats, reaching for me. “She’s just upset.”

I jerk his hand away and shove him onto the porch with both palms to his chest. “Stop, Ford.” His name is a soggy shout on my lips. “I know what I am. She’s right. This was a mistake. You need to go.” He opens his mouth. “Now!”

His expression is pure defeat. Because of me.

He might think he wants this, me, but he can’t. Not after this. I won’t let him.

“Scotty, she’s a teenager,” he pleads. “She didn’t mean it. I’ll talk to her. This will be fine in the morning, she’s just—”

“Stop!” I demand, looking at him, feeling so desperately empty all I can think of doing is lying on the floor and letting myself die. Wren is right—I’m too fucked up for any of this. His face . . . his beautiful face and familiar blue eyes shatter the final fragments of my heart. I’m twenty years old all over again, standing at a trailhead expecting to see him but instead finding the life I imagined completely obliterated. I should have never ever agreed to any of this.

“I love you,” I say, voice sounding far away.

“I lo—”

“I love you, and Wren’s been cutting herself,” I say over him, making him go deathly silent under the porch light. “And I never want to see you again. Either of you.”

“Sco—”

I slam the door in his face, and then I drop to the floor and cry.

Forty-Three

Iblinkatthefield, trying to remember how I got here.

After I called June, I hibernated into a cave of blankets and stayed in bed like a wounded bear. The house I had come to love like a cozy nest betrayed me by morphing into a depressing museum without permission. Every item was a memory belonging to Wren or Ford. When I contemplated burning the damn place down, I poured a drink.

Ford texted and called too many times to count; I smashed my phone.

Molly whimpered in the kitchen; I threw a turkey leg against the crooked tiled backsplash.

I went for a run; I cried.

I played some of Zeb’s records; I snapped four of them in half.

Finally, I climbed into the Bronco and just drove, without music or direction and with the windows down despite how cold it is.Muscle memory got me here because I don’t remember making a single turn.

The field is the one where Ford brought me on our date. The one I ruined like I ruin everything. Like the universe has preordained to be ruined because it’s me. Like no matter what I do or how I try to help, heartache is all I will ever have. Ever cause.

Where the landscape was filled with yellowing cornstalks and still mostly green leafed trees when I was here before, the corn’s been harvested and the trees are bare.Dead like me.

Unable to contain it, my mouth opens: I scream. I drop my head back and don’t stop until my throat feels like it’s bleeding. Until I can barely breathe.