Page 51 of Every Breath After (Lost Boys Book 3): Part I

My trembling fingers betray me with the truths that still escape me

Do you hear their whispered confessions

Burrowing in your skin

In your bones

In your dreams

The angels can’t hear me

I’m praying to ghosts

My pencil stills,fingers twitching as I rest it against the rumpled page of the paper I’ve been jotting lyrics on.

Again, I find my eyes betraying me, cutting left to steal another peek at the half-naked guy sprawled out on his stomach next to me.

He was still wearing a shirt when he fell asleep last night, not even twenty minutes into the movie. Still wearing one when I passed out not long after in my jeans and tee.

Which I’m still wearing, might I add. And what prompted me to wake up—sweating, and clinging to melodies and words beating their siren song in my head.

I would’ve gotten out of bed to crack open the window, or flip on the fan, but I’d already risked waking him enough by reaching into his nightstand for paper and a pencil, because I’d stupidly left my little notebook in my hoodie pocket. And again, I didn’t want to risk waking him.

The sketchbook I have in my hands is old, and a quick flip through the first handful of pages showed familiar doodles in the skill of a child. I’d already seen these, so I knew he wouldn’t mind. But it did remind me to ask if he still had that secret one of his. The one in the blue binder.

Does he still have it? Is he still working on it, or did he give it up like I gave up piano?

My throat squeezes at the thought.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him draw. When he told me he decided to major in business, it about broke my heart. He told me he still draws here and there, but who knows if he was just saying that to placate me.

I know he saw my disappointment. I know he took it the wrong way despite my assurances.

Blowing out a quiet breath, I flip to a clean page, but pause when my fingers stick to the page, and I get a glimpse of something beneath.

Frowning, I cut Jeremy a look, ensuring he’s still asleep.

A voice warns me not to look, but it’s too late. Impulsivity and curiosity win out.

Lifting the page, I ease it away from penciled sketch of two hands interlocked in what looks like the Milky Way.

I tilt my head, and then turn the sketchbook slightly, taking it in.

A child didn’t draw this.

While it still carries his usual comic book style, there’s also a sort of realism to it that is unlike anything else I’ve seen from him, making me wonder if perhaps he didn’t draw this.

But who else would have access to this?

My gaze flits around the hands, and my brows furrow taking in the boyish juts of thumbs—the masculine shape to both sets of knuckles

I wet my lips, as words flood my mind. So fast and sudden, I have to quickly lower the page so I can write them down before I lose them. And just under the words—really, just fractured pieces of sentences; a piss-poor attempt at describing what feels so abstract still, like I’m translating some new, never-before-heard language…

There’s that melody.

The one that sung me awake.

The one that’s haunted me for years.

From behind me, it’s almost as if there’s a beating heart thumping against the wall, the one that separates this room from Izzy’s. Perhaps that’s why my muse has suddenly decided to make her presence known so acutely, there’s no fucking drowning it out.

Sure, I’ve been in here a million times since she’s gone missing.

But I haven’t been sober until now. Not this sober.

It’s like a wool blanket has been lifted, and suddenly it’s just gushing out of me.

And while it hurts…it hurts a little less when it’s all being funneled down into the pencil scribbling across the page. I’m not so much as writing a song as this point, but just…dumping my thoughts and feelings and giving life to images in my head of joined hands and starry skies and eyes beseeching me from the dark.

There’s something…something there. Something just on the edges of my awareness.

A dream.

A bedroom. There was a bedroom.

There were…shadows, slithering like snakes.

Eyes…her eyes, but not… Why? What was wrong with them?

And then it’s just…panic. Desperation. Bone-cold terror. The images are engulfed in these emotions as if they were corporeal things themselves.

I could never draw, not like Jeremy. He told me once that I make art with melodies. Words. And I suppose that’s what I’m doing now, as inspiration yawns inside me—triggered by a pain so deep, so senseless in its infiniteness, that there’s no other way to process it but…but feed it into something else.

So rather than try to snuff it out with drugs like I used to, or wield control over it like how I’d try to control a piano, I just…surrender to it, and jot down whatever comes to me. Words. Fractured sentences. Music notes. Arrows connecting whatever the hell, for me to try and make sense of later.

In my head, I’m humming that melody from so long ago, the one that’s haunted me since I was fourteen. The one I’ve kept to myself since the last time I tried to figure it out, when Izzy and I took it, ran with it, and made something altogether new from it.

Spinning, spinning…

Spinning the wrong way.

I frown, teeth gritting together until I fear they might snap right along with the chewed up pencil in my grip.

Shawn, Waylon, and I have been writing our own music for months now. We’ve yet to do anything with them… But they’re there, collecting slowly but surely, so that they’re ready when the time comes to share them with whoever feels like listening.

This song though…

I don’t know what the fuck it is about this song. It just feels like I’m…like I’m waiting for something. A stroke of genius perhaps. An epiphany…a revelation…something.

Regardless, when I consider sharing it with the guys…asking for their help, because fuck if we’re not better together than apart, for an array of reasons…

Something holds me back. Stops me in my tracks.

All I can think is—mine.

A soft snore sounds from next to me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I find myself turning my gaze to the other side of the bed once more.

Only inches separate us, and I can’t help but think back on all those fuzzy nights I found my way here, into Jeremy’s bed.

Of all fucking places to go…

But just like last night, in the drive over here when I told myself I’d just be checking on him, making sure he got home safe, that’s all…

I couldn’t stop from inviting myself upstairs.

Couldn’t stop myself from prolonging my time with him, despite knowing how late it was, how tired we both were.

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.

Sure, it feels good when I do something that put stars in his eyes, like that first day we met, and I defended him. Or like last night, when he talked about how much that coming out party I threw him meant to him, despite how fucked out of my mind I was back then.

But it goes so much deeper than that.

With him, I’m not feeding some ego-driven desire, but rather feeding some deep-seated need to just…exist. It’s a need I never really considered enough to even put words to, until I no longer had what fulfilled it.

Or rather…who.

With Izzy, it’d started out as me wanting to impress her.

After all, she was this pretty girl who made magic with her fingers.

But Jeremy…

Jeremy…

My gaze drifts down the delicate knobs of his spine, lingering on the two, barely there dimples above the waistband of his black shorts.

And I gulp.

He makes magic with his fingers too.

And it’s messy and quiet and perfect in its imperfections and it’s…

“Freeing,” I murmur.

He groans softly, and I tense.

He lifts his head from the pillow, twisting around, and cracking an eye open. “Mason?”

My heart thumps, and my mouth dries. “Morning.”

He swallows and wrinkles his nose, looking around. “What are you… What time is it?”

“Early,” I hear myself say. I rip out the pages in his sketchbook, only belatedly realizing I’d flipped the page and written all around his drawing. So caught up in the whirlwind of my thoughts—the music, and words I was trying to chase down—I didn’t notice.

Grimacing, I carefully fold the pages, and set them on the nightstand. Sensing Jeremy’s gaze, I say, “Sorry, got bit by the muse. Needed something to write in.”

A beat passes. “Oh. O-okay.”

I lick my lips, flitting my gaze to his just as he frowns, leans up a bit, and looks down.

“Where the fuck’s my shirt?” he mutters.

“Don’t know. You must’ve thrown it off in your sleep,” I say, my voice oddly distant even to my own ears.

His eyes round in horror, and all the blood seems to rush to his cheeks at once.

Before I can assure him it’s not a big deal—because it’s not…

He scrambles out of the bed, mumbling under his breath. The words fumble out of him so fast, it takes a second to process what he’s saying.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean—I just—I…”

Now, I’m the one frowning as I hurriedly push myself up to a stand, the song and sketch I tainted and stole forgotten, as concern for him takes center stage.

“Hey,” I say, rounding the bed to where he’s hunched over, frantically looking around the floor for his shirt.

Already having spotted it strewn over his garbage can earlier, I go over and grab it and quickly bring it to him. “Here.”

Avoiding my gaze, he quickly, jerkily shoves it on.

My concern only deepens.

“Jeremy?”

Nothing.

“Hey, look at me.”

He shakes his head, and I can hear his breaths quickening, pitching, like he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

Not knowing what to do—it’s been years since I’ve actually seen him have an attack, if that’s even what this is; he learned to hide his very well over the years, unlike me—I just let instinct guide me.

Grabbing his bunched shoulders, I steady him, and then before I even realize what I’m doing, my hands are cradling his smooth cheeks, and I’m lifting his face, giving him no choice but to look at me.

He inhales sharply, his body going ramrod straight like someone took a taser to his spine.

And he’s utterly still.

Warm brown eyes round with fear and something else—something deeper, something I can’t define—collide with mine.

I search them, and then drop my gaze to where his nostrils flare and relax with his quick breaths. Against the heel of my palm, his pulse flutters like that of a hummingbird’s wing.

“Do you need to hold your breath?” I ask stupidly.

Way to command the situation.

He shakes his head, and his chest rises and falls in deep, even breaths.

Okay…that’s a good sign, right?

“You’re freaking out over nothing,” I tell him, again, stupidly.

He scowls at the same time I wince.

“I just meant?—”

“Is it nothing though?” he whispers raggedly.

My eyes widen, before comprehension has my brows slamming down heavily with my frown.

He quickly averts his gaze, and his cheeks grow warm under my hands, reminding me I’m still cradling his face.

Against my wrists, I feel a heavy swallow ripple through his throat. His long dark lashes flutter against his cheekbones, and a flash of pink has my gaze snapping to where his tongue pokes out to wet his full lips.

A whooshing fills my ears—thump-thump, thump-thump.

Warm, amber eyes flit to mine, then away, then back again, growing impossibly wide.

“Mason?” he says, so quietly I barely even hear him over the roar flooding my ears.

What…is this…

I sink into his gaze, and I feel…something, something big lurking there, just on the horizon. A tug from somewhere inside me, or maybe inside of him…

Emotion flares from his eyes, expanding his pupils.

And I see myself reflected there, in their black, shiny depths.

Is the fear I see mine, or his?

My fingers flex against his soft, too-warm skin, and it’s like I’m suddenly outside myself, watching as my lips part. Watching as I start to lean in?—

Just as he rips away from me, gaze pointedly aimed at the floor.

Back in my body, my hands hover in the air, and it feels like my heart has split itself down the middle, and each side is currently pulsing against each of my palms.

“Sorry,” he mutters, turning away, hugging himself.

I frown. He keeps saying that.

He mumbles something about contacts. The hell?

“Contacts?” I say, lowering my hands.

He gives a jerky nod as his fingers fiddle with the ends of his short sleeves. “Y-yeah, I’m thinking blue or green might clash weirdly with the brown, so I might just try a darker shade of brown.” He barks out a rusty noise, that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a laugh.

“I don’t get it,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

“Fuck it, maybe I’ll try something weird, like red, or cat eyes, so I can scare people off.”

My lip curls, and I imagine my face is one big what the fuck. Not that he can see it. He’s too busy pacing, and tugging at the hair that had fallen out from whatever gel he used to style it back last night. It now curls messily over his brow, reminding me of the boy I remember.

Maybe college hasn’t completely changed him…

Is it wrong that I’m a little grateful for that?

I clear my throat, and shove away the thought. “Where is this coming from?”

He shakes his head. “Just something that’s been on my mind for a while. If I could put on eyeliner, I could totally put in a contact.”

Eyeliner?

So he was wearing some last night.

“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.”

For a long moment, he’s so still, I don’t even think he’s breathing.

Hell, I’m not either, because where in the actual fuck did that come from? I mean, obviously I meant it, but it’s not like I go around telling Waylon or Shawn their eyes are perfect. So, like…

What the fuck?

He huffs a quiet, miserable sort of laugh that has alarm bells going off.

“Right,” he mutters.

“Jer—”

Shaking his head, he makes a beeline for the door, throwing it open.

“Jeremy!” I call out harshly, chasing after him.

He stops abruptly at the top of the steps, causing me to rock to a stop before I can bowl him over, send him flying. His fingers are white around the railing, and for a second, I wonder if he’s just going to ignore me, and run off to…

Well, I don’t know where. This is his house.

Whipping his head around, he darts his gaze between mine, and I barely hold back a flinch at the agony searing back at me.

What…

“Of course you’d say that,” he all but spits, his voice ragged.

My eyes widen, and I’m shaking my head, already dreading what comes next.

“They’re her eyes.”

And with that, he tears himself away from me, racing down the steps, disappearing around the corner. A moment later, a door opens—slams shut. And I’m left with nothing but a haunted house and those three words bouncing around my head.

They’re her eyes.

Well, fuck.