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... until the ribbon breaks.

SEBASTIAN

Four weeks later ...

Damp earth seeps into the knees of my jeans, chilling my skin, chilling my bones. No matter how frozen they get, they will never be as cold as hers that now rest beneath me. I push my hand against the wet ground and dig my fingers into the dirt that separates us. Another tear rolls down my face, and when it drops off the tip of my nose, I wonder if she’ll be able to taste it.

The irrational part of me wants to claw my way down to her because I can’t accept that she’s gone, even though I know she is.

How could I not?

I was there.

I saw her.

After I left Brent’s house, I called, but she didn’t answer. She always answered, so I called again and again and again.

I can still remember that morning. She kept hugging me because she didn’t want me to go. It worried me, and I could feel it in my gut that something wasn’t right.

But I left anyway.

When I got back to her house, her car was in the driveway, but when I rang the doorbell, she didn’t answer. Panic had me running to the back door, which was still unlocked from when I had left earlier.

Fear stung as it lanced me because, when I called her name, there was no response.

I pinch my eyes against the memory that won’t stop haunting me, and when I reach my hand out and press it over her name, I want to believe it’s her I’m touching and not the headstone marking her grave. My eyes sting, swollen with misery as I try to blink them back into focus, but pain and alcohol have me completely bleary and weak.

Her bed was soaked in so much blood; it was horrifying, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from gathering her into my arms. Her body was still warm. I couldn’t let her go as I screamed and cried for her to come back to me. Everything spun into a complete blur, a fucking nightmare.

I was gone for only two hours.

Two hours.

“I should’ve never left you,” I whisper, hanging my head as an unbearable ache rips through me—it’s guilt, and it’s been festering since I found her.

I look back now and see the warning signs. She handed me red flags, and I thought I was helping her, but it wasn’t enough.

Picking up the nearly empty bottle lying next to me, I unscrew the cap and pour the vodka down my throat.

I have nothing left; I’ve lost it all—Harlow, my family, my home, my purpose. It’s all gone. Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I spent it getting drunk in the random hotel I’ve been staying at. Never have I felt so alone.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. It’s meant to comfort, but it doesn’t.

“Are you about ready?”

I nod, and when Marcus kneels next to me, I break even more because I’m not sure I am ready.

“I don’t know if I can do this without her,” I admit.

“You can. I know it feels impossible, but it isn’t.”

I look at him, and his eyes are filled with tears as he stares at her grave.

“She told me not to go,” I murmur. “Why didn’t I listen to her?”

“You couldn’t have known what she was thinking.” He wipes a tear from his face.

“Why didn’t she tell me? All she had to do was ask for help.”