Page 45 of Every Breath After (Lost Boys Book 3): Part I

AGE 19, OCTOBER

Recovery.

It’s not as life-altering as I expected.

In fact, it’s pretty damn tedious.

Well, once you get through detox that is.

In our makeshift circle, Dr. Simmons has us go around and share what he calls a suck and a sweet.

It’s a Friday tradition here at New Horizons, a substance abuse clinic shaped in the form of a three-story Victorian home buried in the upper North Scranton, a half hour away from home. From Shiloh.

We each take a turn dishing up something bad or disheartening that happened to us this week—setbacks, failures, bad news from the outside…anything—and we follow it by sharing something good. Be it a strike of luck or an accomplishment, no matter how big or small or meaningless to everyone else.

Not so much to cancel out the bad, but to cushion it and reorient our perspectives.

If there’s one thing I learned in my three weeks since being in recovery and sobering up, it’s that there’s nothing more dangerous than the whispers that keep so many of us up at night.

The ones that leave us feeling helpless—fatalistic—and panicking over a future stripped of the evil comforts we’ve come to rely on to make it all bearable.

Getting sober is daunting as fuck, absolutely.

But staying sober? Feels impossible. So overwhelming, it’s terrifying to think of going the rest of my life not touching a single substance. Alcohol, painkillers, hell, a fucking benzo to quiet my thoughts…

Even now, days after the drugs have fully left my system—taking the shakes and nausea and waves of wrath with it—I feel no more certain that I can stay this way.

Despite never fucking wanting to go through that again.

Despite hating myself so goddamn much for what I put my family through. For following the footsteps of the last person I ever wanted to emulate, and in turn breaking the most important promise I ever made to myself.

Despite wanting to be better. Stronger. Healthier.

I don’t trust myself. Simple as that.

And that’s what it all comes down to. For all of us in this room.

That beast named Addiction might prod at us, and at times, violently so, with claws that scrape us down to the bone, begging for relief.

But ultimately, it’s our belief in ourselves, or rather lack of, that drags us under when we’re at our lowest.

It’s what the beast relies on to get what it wants. And why it worked so hard to break us down in the first place, so that anytime down the road where we find ourselves at our weakest, we’ll turn to the lesser of two evils for comfort.

Recovery, as it would turn out, isn’t so much about getting clean, as it is tearing ourselves down, and building ourselves back up. So we can leave this place, and rejoin the land of the living stronger, wiser, and with weapons forged from things like faith and positivity to ward off the cruel itch pacing inside us all.

It’s… a lot, for lack of any better words.

“Well, my suck this week was that Judy didn’t make chocolate cake.”

At the gruff, wry voice coming from the seat next to me, soft chuckles and snickers fill the room, including coming from me.

He’s not wrong.

Since sobering up, I’ve got an appetite that rivals a linebacker. Good thing there’s an on-site gym with treadmills and weight machines and whatnot, otherwise I’d be rolling my way back to Shiloh.

Dr. Simmons smiles. “Yeah, that is quite sucky, Tom.”

“As for my sweet,” the middle-aged man goes on, stretching his legs out. “I decided that when I go home next week, I’ll be moving in with my brother.”

Dr. Simmons nods from across the circle. “And your wife?”

Next to me, Tom shrugs. “She’s not ready to get better. And as much as it kills me to…to not be there for her, I know if I go back to the way things were, I’ll relapse. Again. I just…I want off this carousel, man. I can’t keep doing this.”

Sucking in my cheek, I blink down at the linoleum floor.

“That’s good, Tom. Proud of you.” At Dr. Simmons words, others murmur in agreement, and the chair squeaks next to me as Tom pulls his legs in, sitting a little taller. He blows out a breath, and a glance over from the corner of my eye shows him smiling, his red-rimmed eyes bright with something like relief and determination.

“Mason?”

I clear my throat and look around the room at all the familiar faces, save for one.

A new admit.

He looks to be around my age, with thick, dark brown hair, hollow cheeks, and dark heavyset eyes that just stare blankly ahead, like he’s miles away.

Aside from a girl who got discharged last week, he’s the only other patient here currently that is young like me. The rest vary from middle-aged to wrinkly and gray.

Whether or not their appearances actually reflect their ages…

Hard to say.

Most of them are on their second or third or even fourth attempt at rehab. Like Tom.

“Well, other than the fact that my girlfriend is still missing,” I say, a short, bitter laugh rising out of me as others in the room give me sympathetic smiles, “and everyone wants me to just…give up, say she’s dead, you know. Same ol’. Just so I can get better and move on or whatever.”

Dr. Simmons nods encouragingly.

“I’ve been feeling really guilty. For what I put my family through. Especially my sister.”

Again, my words are met with more sympathetic smiles and nods of encouragement. Understanding.

They know what happened.

How I ended up here.

“I think I… I know I did it on purpose. I wanted to be found. Maybe…maybe even by her.” My voice cracks. Phoebe. My little sister found me.

“That makes sense,” Dr. Simmons says. “Some part of you knew it would be the kick in the ass you needed to get help.”

“Yeah.” Doesn’t mean I’m forgiving myself anytime soon…

Diagonally from me, the newcomer lifts his head, meeting my gaze for the first time. His brow furrows.

Looking down at my lap I blow out a breath and say, “As for my sweet…I talked to my best friend last night for the first time since my OD.”

“Your girlfriend’s brother, or?—”

“The other one,” I quickly say, trying not to dwell on how he worded that, and why it feels so…wrong. Icky.

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.

“And it went okay?” Dr. Simmons prompts when I don’t elaborate.

Nodding, I clear my throat again, and say, “Yeah. He’s not mad. But…but I think I scared him. He’s been through a lot too. And Izzy was his person—practically a surrogate sister.” I wince. “I’ve been really selfish.”

“Grief, trauma…they have a way of chiseling us down to the ugliest versions of ourselves.”

I nod. It’s not the first time I’ve been told that, more or less.

Doesn’t erase how crappy I feel though.

“I can’t help but resent him,” I murmur before I can help it. “All of them.”

“They’re at different stages of their healing journey. Everyone grieves differently.”

Clenching my teeth, I say nothing to that. My jaw ticks.

“But you’re making progress, right? That’s what that phone call was?”

Meeting his gaze, I nod. “Yeah, I guess so. I felt good when I got off the phone. I felt…better. Even if it didn’t last long.” I laugh weakly, remembering the emotional crash that came after the call, the one that kept me up into the early hours of morning.

“But it’s a win. Small that it may be. It’ll get easier, and I think you know that, otherwise that moment wouldn’t have stood out to you.”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing he’s right. It’s pretty much what Cleo said to me in our one-on-one therapy session yesterday.

“Thanks for sharing,” he says, and the others murmur and nod their thanks as well, and like always, just like with Tom before me, it never fails to wallop me with emotion. Who knew I’d find connection and solace in a bunch of strangers coming together from all walks of life?

I feel closer to these people than I’ve felt with anyone back home in months. They just…they get it. If they haven’t been through worse, they’ve witnessed or experienced enough to empathize with any struggle that comes and not judge.

It’s freeing.

Especially seeing as they don’t know me, they don’t know Izzy—not beyond what was on the news. And unlike the assholes hiding behind computer screens, they don’t violate and exploit what happened to her. They just…they feel bad. Their condolences feel genuine.

The woman on my left takes her turn, and I will myself to listen just as they listened for me. Nodding and smiling, and finding comfort in this collective give and take only group therapy in a safe, controlled environment can provide.

When Diane’s finished, she wipes her eyes and smiles, nodding as we thank her for sharing and congratulate her on her three month sobriety that just so happens to fall on today.

Is that how long I’ll be here?

Would I even be upset about that at this point?

“Shawn?”

At the unfamiliar name, I lift my head, following Dr. Simmons’ gaze to the guy on Diane’s left with the dark, closed off gaze, and gaunt, stubbled cheeks.

“You feel like taking a turn today?”

It’s his first group. Has to be. There are other times and groups, but if he was here before today, I probably would’ve seen him. Unless he was still in detox.

The worst of it, he would’ve spent in the hospital under close monitoring, like me. By the rangy, gaunt look to him, and the bags under his eyes, and the slight tremble to his fingers as he rubs at the sweats covering his thighs… I’d say he’s fresh out of Hell. Probably just arrived.

Group was the first thing they threw me into when I arrived too.

Did I look that bad then too?

I don’t think so.

There’s a raggedness to him—a hollowness—that tells me his rock bottom was a lot deeper than mine.

Tugging down at the sleeves rumpled around his hands, he starts bobbing his knee. He’s fiddling with something just under sleeve, and I catch a wink of pink before he quickly covers it.

A hospital bracelet maybe?

“Um,” he says, clearing his throat. His voice is deep, rough. He blinks fast. “I…I feel like shit.”

Despite how abrupt his words are, no one laughs.

“I haven’t been sober in years. It’s…it’s hard.”

Wincing, I look around, taking in the wary lines and knowing, empathetic eyes shining back.

Jesus, years? He can’t be much older than me. Though the scruff and wariness in his eyes definitely ages him.

Dr. Simmons says, “The first couple weeks are the hardest.”

Shawn’s jaw ticks. He says nothing.

“And something good?” Dr. Simmons says, tilting his head.

The guy shakes his head.

“It can be anything at all. Something that might be nothing to another person, but everything to you, even if it’s not lasting.” At those words, his gaze flits to me.

Shawn works his jaw, and plays more roughly with the end of his sleeve. Finally, he just shoves it up, just enough to reveal a pink and yellow beaded bracelet. The pink ones are round, but the yellow are shaped like little moons.

I frown.

“I got a gift,” he forces out shortly. Quickly. “In the hospital. Someone made this for me. I-I can’t remember the last time anyone…” His voice fades, and he scowls before quickly shoving his sleeve back down, hiding it. Hunching his shoulders, he slumps back.

He’s clearly done sharing.

“That’s great, Shawn. Definitely something to be happy about.” I can hear the pleased smile in Dr. Simmons’ voice, but I don’t look over to confirm. I only have eyes for the guy currently darting wary glances my way as the room murmurs a sort of welcome to him.

It reminds me of my first day. Shows and movies always make it out to be some big to-do, where you stand up, introduce yourself, and purge your life story.

And sure, that happens…eventually. Slowly.

But not once have I ever felt like I was put on the spot, like I was expecting that first day in group. It wasn’t a Friday, so we didn’t go around sharing sucks and sweets. Instead, others took their turn talking about what was on their mind. And when Dr. Simmons landed on me, I just shook my head, and he moved on.

Something tells me he would’ve done the same for Shawn today.

Honestly, I’m surprised he spoke.

My gaze drops, lingering on his right wrist. He notices, and quickly crosses his arms. When I look up, he’s glaring straight ahead, pointedly avoiding me.

“Well, I think that rounds up today’s session. I’ll see you all Monday.”

Chairs squeak against the floor, and chatter fills the room. The mood to follow is light, light in a way I never expected rehab to be when I first got here, but have come to grown used to in the gaps between therapy and workshops.

One second we’re here, exposing ourselves in all our ugly, raw messiness. And the next, it’s chatter and laughter like it’s a family get together.

Tom claps me on the back and tells me to take care, before making his way over to the refreshments.

Diane gives me a smile, and says she’ll stop by my room later to drop off the book she just finished. I’d never been a big reader, but there’s not much else to do around here. Books, movies, board games…

Mostly, I spend my time writing. Journaling. Scribbling stream of conscious thoughts in a black and white composition notebook the staff provided me. Sometimes I’m writing just for me. Sometimes it’s letters to Izzy. Letters to Jeremy, to Phoebe, to my mom, Gavin and Linda…

Letters no one will ever see.

They’re for me, not them.

Just as I stand, in the corner of my eye, I spot that Shawn guy heading for the door, bypassing the table full of refreshments along the wall where the others have congregated.

Normally, I’d grab a coffee and maybe a donut to take back to my room.

I tell myself that one day, I’ll hang back, mingle with the others. So far, other than passing pleasantries and book and movie swaps, I keep to myself.

And they respect that.

Today, though, I find my feet carrying me toward the hall where the new guy just disappeared.

He’s a good way’s up ahead, his steps growing quicker as the distance between him and the meeting room grow.

Frowning, my steps slow, watching as he strides for the steps, rounding the corner. There’s a quiet thud, and I quicken my steps, just in time to see Shawn nearly collide with someone coming down the stairs. He stumbles back, hands thrown out, fingers spread wide. Eyes bulging.

The guy he ran into—a friendly older man named Uriah who’s obsessed with the New York Yankees—apologizes and offers the younger guy his hand to shake, as if he’s introducing himself.

Shawn stares down at the hand like he’s never seen such a thing.

My frown deepens, and my steps slow to a halt.

Uriah’s smile falters, as Shawn’s face hardens with what looks like anger. Eyes blazing, he takes a step back, then another, and another…

Just for someone coming down the hallway to collide with his back.

This time, I witness firsthand the panic warring with wrath ripping across his features. His eyes all but blacken as he throws himself back with an animalistic snarl.

Oh shit.

“Sor—”

I storm forward just as the woman goes to grab his arm—to comfort him? To steady him? A reflex? I don’t know.

All I know is it’s a bad fucking idea.

“Hey,” I say, quickly stepping in front of her. “Are you okay?” I smile wide, and probably look cracked given the circumstances.

Her brow furrows, and her gaze cuts behind me to where I hear footsteps quickly retreating.

“Great,” I say. “Have a lovely day.”

Whirling around, I chase after the guy as he guns for the exit up ahead, the one that opens into a fenced in backyard.

Blaring sunlight sears my vision when I quickly follow him out, catching the door with my shoulder just before it can close.

Blinking to adjust my vision, I look around, relieved when I find Shawn just standing there with his back to me, rather than scaling the white fence. I don’t even know him, but that spooked look in his eye…

Yeah, I’ve seen that before.

In Waylon.

“Hey,” I call out.

The guy’s taller than me by a couple inches. And he’d probably be wider too, if he wasn’t skin and bones under his baggy long-sleeved black shirt and gray sweatpants. You can just see it in the tendons scoring down his neck. In the way his cheekbones press against his skin. In the knobs of his long fingers just as he clenches them into fists before turning around.

“What?” he bites out.

I hold up a hand, showing him I’m not here to hurt him. “You good?”

He takes a step back, but I don’t match it.

Crossing his arms, he gives a jerky nod.

“I’m Mason.”

Nothing.

Clearing my throat, I gesture at his arms. “I know this is weird and random, but can I see your bracelet?”

His face hardens, and he shakes his head. “No.”

I roll my eyes, and again, can’t shake the thought that he reminds me a certain six-year old petulant little brat I’d met so many years ago.

“I just wanna look at it.”

“It’s mine.”

Jesus Christ.

“You don’t have to take it off. I just wanna see it.”

His jaw works, and there’s something in his eye—some emotion I can’t define. It’s calculative—suspicious—but it’s also more.

With a muttered curse, he unfurls his arms, and shoves his sleeve up just enough to reveal the bracelet. Holding his fist up, he lets me get a good eyeful of it.

“Happy?”

I cock my head, brow knitted with confusion. “I have the same one back in my room.”

He gives me a flat look. “Cool.”

And with that, he storms back the way he came, being careful not to come anywhere near me, slamming the door behind him before I can so much as figure out what I want to say.

Alrighty then.

At first,I’m not sure what woke me.

Behind my eyes, there are squiggles and little circles—music notes. In my mind, I’m writing. Creating. And here, in the recesses of sleep, it doesn’t hurt. It feels…natural.

And there’s this itch, one I haven’t felt in a long time.

The one that calls to me, urging me to wake up, and write it down. Take out my piano and see how it sounds.

And then it’s quiet. Empty again.

Time loses all meaning…

And then it’s back. And this time, my eyes fly open.

Sitting up, I look around my small room. It’s dark, save for the red numbers lit up on the digital clock on the nightstand. 12:20.

I scrub the sleep from my eyes, and crack my back before scooting out of the bed.

From outside my room, an acoustic guitar thrums gently into the quiet of night, the only sound to be heard.

I don’t recognize the song, yet it calls to me.

Sings to me from a deep, forgotten place I haven’t so much as visited, much less thought of in months. Years…

As if under a trance, I find myself padding toward my door, and opening it. The music, louder now, though still playing quiet enough to be respectful, floods my senses.

I feel it in my buzzing, twitching fingertips.

Taste it, metallic and heady on my tongue.

Smell it, achingly sweet and familiar, like the scent that clings to the Montgomery house.

And I hear it…

I hear it down to my soul.

When is the last time I listened to music?

It’s a ridiculous question to wonder, seeing as music plays everywhere all the time. There’s really no escaping it, short of losing my ability to hear it, or wearing heavy duty earplugs.

But I’ve gotten used to tuning it out.

Blocking it out.

Yet, now, in this late hour, it’s as if a dam has broken in my head, releasing all the water that had flooded that chamber inside me. The one I practically lived in since I was a kid, obsessing over the need to collect every song I heard and loved.

It’s empty and exposed again now…waiting for me like I never left.

Helpless to not venture toward it, my feet carry me down the short hall to where the figure sitting against the wall strums what looks to be a classic Martin in his hand. Dark hair mussed all about. The same black shirt and gray sweats he had on yesterday.

My footsteps are quiet, slow, but he registers me right away, the music cutting off abruptly, just as his head snaps my way.

I hold up my hands, and not taking my eyes off his, I lower myself against the wall facing him. Two feet separate us, and I hope it’s enough.

Shawn’s gaze is dark and wary, but steady on mine, like maybe a part of him knew I would come.

Maybe that chamber exists in him too.

Maybe it’s his that lured me out, made me dare to skim my own.

“Did you write that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Just fucking around.”

I nod.

A beat passes, then he asks, “You play?”

“Piano,” I croak. “I used to at least. It’s been a while…” Inhaling, I shake my head and say, “But I know a little guitar.”

He rolls his lips together, and turns his attention back to the fingers framing chords over the frets. But he doesn’t strum again.

Wetting my lips, I say, “It’s yours?”

Another short nod, brown hair a couple shades darker than mine, hanging over his eyes.

“Do you think I…” My fingers curl restlessly against my thighs, twisting in the thick black fabric of my sweats.

Whereas Shawn wears a long-sleeved shirt, I wear an old band tee. It’s white, with the Breaking Benjamin Celtic knot logo plastered across the front in faded, chipped black.

He stills.

“I just…I haven’t played in so long.”

An ache rises in my throat, swelling it, thickening my words.

“I didn’t even…miss it, ’til now.”

Unreadable, yet hard eyes lift to mine. “This is all I have.”

I blink, my lips parting.

Scowling, he holds the guitar more securely. As if he can’t help himself, his fingers start to move, and he starts strumming. At first, it’s a song I recognize, but it quickly shifts to that one he was playing before—the one that spurred on dreams of music notes, and carried me out here.

Like it’s bugging him…like there’s something there he’s trying to reach by playing it, but he can’t figure out what it is.

“I think…I think I know what comes next.”

His fingers still.

“I’ll give it right back, I swear.”

His dark gaze lifts to mine once more, reluctance and wariness edged around his eyes and mouth.

I flit a glance down to where his sleeve hides the bracelet I know is likely still there, before returning my gaze to his.

“I swear on the life of the girl who I’m pretty damn certain gave you that bracelet I’ll be careful and give it right back.”

Some expression works across his face. Shock, maybe…but also something else. Something that makes me wonder if he knew who I was all along, even before I told him I have the same one.

A long moment passes, before he finally, finally nods.

Crossing my legs, I wait for him to extend the guitar.

I’m careful to take it without getting anywhere near him.

It’s warm and light in my hands, and my chest rises, heart rate quickening as I run my hands over it, tracing its shape.

Setting it down in my lap, I get situated, reacquainting myself with the instrument. I can’t even remember the last time I touched a guitar. That last summer we had, probably. Not long before I played piano for what would be the last time, unbeknownst to me.

I run my fingers over the strings. “So you met my sister.”

A beat passes, then, “She visited me in the hospital.”

I nod, confused more than ever now having had confirmation, but also, knowing not to push it with him. There’s just something very fucking skittish about Shawn, making me tread lighter than I’ve ever tread before.

“Her mom…your mom…she was my nurse. I guess she was watching her for the day, and at one point she snuck in my room to…hang out or whatever.”

A soft humored sound leaves my nose. “That’s Phoebe for you.”

He nods, fiddling with the bracelet now peeking out from under his sleeve. The only shock of color not only on him, but in this drab hallway with the white walls and white doors and gray carpet.

“Your mom got me in here,” he says after a long moment.

My fingers pause along the fretboard. “She did?”

He nods. “Like I said,”—his eyes lift to mine, and he nods at the guitar in my hands—“that’s all I have.”

Comprehension rolls through me, and I nod. “I see.”

“I didn’t want to get clean.”

“So why did you? Take her up on this, I mean.”

His throat bobs with a swallow and he looks away, eyes darting around the empty hall unseeingly. “I was dead when they brought me in.”

A chill runs down my spine.

His mouth opens, but closes. Whatever he was about to say, he’s taken back, and when moments pass without any further elaboration, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that.

There has to be.

But for whatever reason, he’s not talking.

Can’t say I blame him. He doesn’t know me. And the dude’s clearly got trust issues for miles.

So rather than push for more, I inhale deeply, and for the first time in two years, I let music fall from my fingers.

It hurts, but not as badly as I thought it would.

I’m rusty as fuck, especially seeing as guitar was never really my instrument of choice. I didn’t nurture this potential, not like I nurtured piano.

But it’s exactly why I’m able to do this.

Play again.

Feed that thing inside me that’s been dormant for so long, finally peeking out again, yawning to life.

It’s still there.

Just like Jeremy said it would be.

It’s still inside me.

It hasn’t abandoned me too.

Throat thick, I slide my fingers down the frets, using my other hand to strum and pluck, just feeling it out. I fuck up a lot, but where with piano, I was always trying to keep things perfect, I find myself just rolling with each flat note. Each stutter. Each whine.

I just play and I breathe and I wonder how I went so long without this.

Eyes burning, I finally slow my fingers, and look up to find Shawn watching me with unreadable eyes.

“I’ve missed this,” I tell him, with a note of surprise.

And he just nods, telling me without words, that somehow…

Somehow, he gets it. This guy who is a stranger, and yet has met my sister…my mom…

This guy who reminds me of Waylon, and who I feel weirdly drawn to. Like…like there’s something important here.

“That song you were playing before…”

His gaunt cheeks turn ruddy around his scruff, and he looks away, nodding shortly.

“Can you show it to me?” Brown eyes flit to mine, and I shrug. “I used to fuck around too.”

For a long moment, he just stares at me.

Then, finally, he gestures at my hand on the frets, and then curls his own fingers, explaining where to put them. It’s tricky, especially given how rusty I am—not to mention, essentially a novice when it comes to guitar. When Gavin taught me, he’d physically place my fingers where I needed them to go.

But Shawn…

Clearly, touching is a hard-limit for him.

So I remain patient, as does he, and slowly, but surely, I’m able to roughly play the chords I woke up to.

My lip kicks up as my clunky playing smooths out. I half-expect Shawn to get sick of me trying to perfect it and steal it back, but surprisingly he seems content to let me figure it out and help me when I need it.

At one point, I skip a chord, and as if to compensate, some instinctual part of me just sort of…rolls with it, creating something new.

Only Shawn says, “Wait,” at the same time I pause, and cock my head.

“Do that again.”

So I do.

And then he gestures again.

He eyes my finger placement intently. He nods. “Can I?”

Without a word, I hand it to him, and he easily positions it against his chest, and puts his fingers to the frets.

Brow furrowed in deep concentration, he plays through the original song he wrote, and shifts right into mine. He sucks in the corner of his lip, and does it again, this time adding a couple notes to make it transition more seamlessly.

My eyes widen, flying to his.

“Huh,” he says. “That’s pretty good.”

A short, abrupt laugh bursts out of me.

“W-wait here,” I rush out, and scramble to a stand. His gaze follows me as I dart down the short hall to my room.

When I return, he’s playing through the song again, over and over until it’s this…rhythmic riff, undeniably catchy.

Opening my composition notebook to the next empty page, I pop the cap of my pen with my teeth, and bring the ballpoint down to the page.

“What are you doing?” he asks, now lightly plucking at the strings.

Talking around the cap pinned between my teeth, I mutter, “Writing it down so we don’t lose it.”

“I won’t lose it.”

My pen stills, and my gaze drags up to his.

He shrugs as if to say, What?

Spitting the cap to the side, uncaring as it skids away, I run a hand through my hair, and say, “Well I need to write it down. Especially seeing as it’s not finished. I work better when I can…see it and work it out this way.”

Shawn says nothing to that, but when I look up, he just makes a gesture for me to hurry up.

Smiling to myself, I finish the final chord.

“I think I got it.”

He hands me the guitar without a word, and I play through what we’ve got so far, then slide my fingers up, pushing at the E string to raise the pitch, and give it a sort of keening sound, before quickly sliding back down and transitioning to the same chord progression as earlier but this time half-a pitch higher. Making it feel like it’s climbing toward something.

“I like that.”

Nodding, I do it a couple more times, slower, then faster again, ensuring he’s got it. Handing him the guitar, I grab my notebook and jot them down. Erase and redo when he tweaks it some, making it better.

We must sit in the hallway for hours, going back and forth, until we have an entire two-minute acoustic song that is…well, probably far from perfect, but it’s…it’s something.

By the time we stop, the sun is peeking in through the window from down the hall. Our eyes are bleary, and my fingers are numb and there are words—lyrics—taking shape in my head. And when Tom stumbles out of his room, he cuts us a funny look. “Thanks for the lullaby, guys.”

When he turns away, Shawn and I look at each other.

“We stayed up all night.”

He grunts at that, and runs his fingers through his hair. In doing so, I realize at some point he must’ve rolled up his sleeves. When he lowers his arm, my gaze catches on the marks going up his arm. Little bruises and divots.

My eyes fly to his just as he shoves his sleeves down.

He scowls and pushes to a stand, the guitar neck squeezed in his fist as he goes to bolt.

“Shawn,” I say.

He pauses, halting at the sound of my voice. But his back remains to me.

“I’ll see you later?”

He turns his head, showing me his profile as he gives a short nod.

And then he’s gone, disappearing into his room two doors down from mine.