Page 12

ten

Hey There, Lilah. What's it Like in Winter Falls?

Noah

I lean against the wall with my arms crossed in front of my body, my eyes shooting daggers across the room.

Twenty minutes. That's all it took for Miles to run off with his ex-girlfriend and leave me here, standing alone. Apparently, she broke up with her new boyfriend a few days ago. She'd been texting him the last time we hung out, but he told me he was just helping her through it…as a friend.

I didn't even get one dance.

I watch as he pulls a flask from his jacket pocket—the same one he shared with me in the car on the way over. The two of them laugh while leaning over the high top table as they empty its contents into their punch. They each take a drink before heading back to the dance floor.

I don't know what I did wrong, but it's the same every time. Even in the sexy black dress with the makeup, I'm still just me.

"Isn't that your date over there making out with MacKenzie Stevens?"

I purse my lips and glare at Tate before replying.

"Honestly, Tate, I really don't need your shit right now. "

"I'm not here to give you shit. I came to ask you to dance."

My eyes widen. "God, am I really so pathetic that you feel like you have to come over here and offer me a pity dance? Fucking…no."

"A pity dance? Why would it be a pity dance? I assure you, I have not an ounce of pity for how fucking sexy you look in that dress."

"Tate, stop. I'm serious—you're making it worse."

"Well, he's an idiot, anyway. And he has a small dick."

I scoff. "Yeah, I know."

Tate narrows his eyes. "What do you mean, you know? How do you know?"

"How do you know?"

"We have P.E. together."

I sigh. "Look…if you really want to help me, Tate, you can give me your keys so I can get the fuck out of here."

"Fine," he says. "If you want to let some dumbass with a small dick and bad manners ruin your night, I'll give you my keys."

"I'll have a much better night if I go home." I sigh, blinking back tears. There's no fucking way I'm going to let anyone here see me cry, especially not Tate. "I thought he liked me."

"Do you want me to beat the shit out of him?"

"No."

Tate frowns. "Here."

He removes his keys from his pocket and then runs his finger along the deep 'v' of my black satin dress. I swallow hard, tensing as he slips his hand under the material and tucks the keys inside. I look around for Mia, knowing she won't be happy if she sees it. He's been touching me too much lately; I'm aware of it, but I don't necessarily dislike it. His fingertips lightly graze my nipple, causing me to suck in a breath, before he removes his hand. I don't think it could have been an accident. "And you look fucking beautiful, Noah," he says.

"Thanks," I tell him—not for the fake ass compliment, but for the keys.

Tate steps behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. With my heels, we're about the same height, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. "Do you know what your problem is?"

"I have plenty of problems, Tate, all of which I'm well aware of. I don't think I want to hear whatever you have to say."

"You come off wrong. I don't know why exactly, but they misunderstand you—all of them do. They think you're too nice, and you let them think it; you let them get away with it. But I know better than that. I know you're not a nice girl."

I sigh. "Well, what do you propose I do about it?"

"Punch him in the fucking face, or…"

"Or what?"

Tate holds out a bottle of eye drops. "Put these in his drink. He dragged you out here just to embarrass you like this, so he can spend the night shitting himself."

I purse my lips, thinking it over, watching the two of them kiss and touch each other on the dance floor. Once I realize I'm grinding my teeth, I snatch the small bottle from Tate's hands.

"That's my girl," he says.

"Shut up, Tate."

I stomp over to the table, ensuring they're sufficiently distracted before poisoning the fucker's punch. I don't know how much I'm supposed to put it there, but a few drops should suffice.

I toss the bottle back to Tate before leaving through a side door. It takes a while to find his car in the dark, and by the time I finally do, it's raining. I climb into the vehicle, and once I start the engine, the speakers connect to Mia's phone from inside, and "You're On Your Own, Kid" by Taylor Swift plays through the speakers until I leave the parking lot and I'm out of range.

The rest of the short drive is quiet, save for the sound of light rain against the steel roof. It only takes a few minutes to get home, and when I do, I get out of the car and step directly into a puddle. It's no big deal, though. I don't have anywhere else to wear these heels or this dress.

I sigh and head for the staircase. At least my mom is at work, and I won't have to explain why I'm back so early.

Once I hit the landing, I dig around in my purse for my own keys.

"Hey."

Silas stands in the hall, leaning against the building to stay out of the rain, smoke billowing from his lips while holding a small, leather-bound notebook under his right arm.

"Oh…hey."

I don't really want to explain this to him, either.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "Why aren't you at prom?"

"Why aren't you at prom?" I counter.

He shrugs. "I didn't want to go."

"Yeah, well…good for you. That was a smart choice. I look and feel stupid, so I'll see you later."

"I don't think you look stupid," he says. "You look really pretty."

"You feel obligated to say that because of what I said."

"I don't say things I don't mean, Noah."

"Thanks…I guess."

"Do you want to hang out? I ordered pizza, and I have more weed. "

"Um, I don't know. I don't really feel like it."

"If you go home and sulk, they win."

I guess he's kind of right. He's always right.

"Yeah, okay. Can I pick what we watch?"

He and Tate are always picking horror movies that end up giving me nightmares for days.

"Sure. If you tell me a secret."

"I'm pretty sure you know all my secrets."

"I'm sure there's something. I'll let you think about it. Come on," Silas says, opening the door to his apartment.

We spend the next couple of hours in his room, eating, smoking, and watching some wilderness survival show, carefully curated from the limited list of shows on Silas's watch list that won't terrify me or make me cry in my delicate mental state.

"You know what I like about when it's just us?" he asks.

"What?"

"It's quiet," he says.

I laugh a little. "Yeah. Tate and Mia are never quiet."

"Fucking never," he agrees.

"Yeah, we're both only children with single moms, though." I never knew my dad, and Silas never got along with his. His mom gave up and stopped forcing Silas to spend time with him a couple of years ago. "We're used to quiet. I think maybe they're just…not. It is really nice, though."

I realize Silas never made me tell him what happened at prom or why I left. It's one of the many reasons I'm so grateful for him. I think he's misunderstood like I am, but unlike with me, I think it's intentional. Silas would rather be the football player you wouldn't want to fuck with—the one who snapped some other guy's arm in half like it was nothing because he had a bad day, and would do worse to you if you gave him a reason. He likes the space it gives him, and the girls like it, too.

Silas's reputation might also be the only thing standing between Tate and the actualization of his death wish.

But I know he writes poetry in that notebook on his nightstand, and there are flecks of gold in his dark eyes when the sunlight hits them. Someone with golden eyes can't be anything but good.

I smile, reaching for him and wrapping my hand around the back of his neck. "You might be my favorite person in the world—you know that?" I tell him, tracing his hairline with my thumb. Silas is the kind of guy who gets his hair cut every two weeks and keeps it in a tight fade. Unlike with Tate, it isn't unusual for the two of us to touch; it's easy.

But his jaw tenses a little now. It confuses me; I watch his throat as he swallows, his gaze dropping to my tits, and I freeze. While it isn't abnormal for me to touch Silas like this or lie in his bed with him, the way he looks at me now—that's not normal.

His eyes roam over my body before landing on my lips. He parts his own, and I think for a second that he's going to kiss me.

"I could do it, you know," he says.

"…Do what?" I ask, slowly pulling my hand away.

Silas nods toward the television. "Live in the wilderness like that. I think I'd be happy."

"Oh," I say, releasing the breath I'd been holding. "Yeah, I don't think so. I mean, not me, anyway."

"Really? I think you'd be good at it."

He sits up, grabs the bag of weed from his side table, and starts filling the bowl again .

"Don't pass that to me again. I can barely move," I tell him.

"You owe me a secret," he says.

"Okay. I've been thinking that I'd be fine if the aliens took me. It'd be kind of nice to be noticed."

He laughs. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. Of the four of us, you have to admit, I'd handle it best. Mia would cry. Tate would try to fight them, and then he'd die. You'd probably think it was a hallucination and stay in denial, and I'd just be like, eh, what's one more thing?"

"Nah, I'd fight them, too. And I'd win. That's not really a secret, though."

"You tell me one, then," I say, my heavy eyelids fluttering closed.

"I didn't go to prom because I couldn't go with who I wanted to go with."

"Why not?"

"I don't know—it's complicated."

"It's never that complicated. Either you like the person, or you don't—if he wanted to, he would and all that."

"There's one other person who I've liked for a really long time, but I don't think she's ever thought of me as anything more than a friend."

"Well, you don't know unless you try."

"I've done everything except scream it in her fucking face."

"Yeah? Well, try that next time. Maybe she's just tired of trying, like I am, and she's waiting for someone to scream it in her fucking face so she can stop putting herself out there and looking stupid."

"Good to know. I'll consider that."

"Mmhmm, you do that."

When I open my eyes next, it's morning, and I'm still in Silas's bed in my prom dress with his body wrapped around mine.

Yeah, we don't do this. It must have been an accident. Still, he's warm, and he smells good. His hard chest feels good against my back, rising and falling with each hot breath against my neck. I stare at his arm draped across the front of my body and then slowly lace my fingers with his own. I like the way they look together, and I like how small he makes me feel, so maybe it's okay if I stay here like this for a minute and pretend it's an accident, too.

I close my eyes again, but my phone vibrates on the side table. Not wanting to wake Silas, I quickly reach for it with my free hand to turn it off, but grab his by mistake. Instead of setting it down, I turn it over, finding the screen unlocked and the camera open. The thumbnail in the left corner appears to be a picture of me sleeping.

My heart thuds against my ribcage. I know I shouldn't, but I click on it, and when I swipe on the photo, I find out it's just one in a collection of pictures he took of me while I was asleep.

Why would he do that?

My own phone vibrates against the table again, and I jump, dropping Silas's. It clatters against the side table before hitting the floor, causing him to stir beside me.

"Noah?"

I instantly release his hand and jump out of bed.

"Shit!" I say. "I'm so sorry. God, I'm just going to—"

"Wait, what?" he asks. He rolls onto his back, stretching his arms above his head, causing his shirt to ride up. "What are you doing? What are you sorry about?"

My eyes drop to the exposed skin above his waistline…and then to his hard dick tenting in his sweats .

Jesus. It must be huge…unlike my prom date.

"Um…I…"

Silas shrugs, adjusting it with his hand, which only gives me a better look. "What do you want me to do about it?" he asks.

I swallow hard. I can think of a couple of things.

"I'm just going to go. Sorry…again."

I race for the door, too fucking embarrassed to hear anything he's saying, and when I step out into the hallway, I find myself face-to-face with Tate.

"Whoa," he says. "What were you doing in there?"

"Nothing!" I reply, my tone a little too defensive.

"Liar. You're in your clothes from yesterday, you're a mess, and you've got this really guilty look on your face. So, please, do tell, and don't spare any details…for personal reasons."

"I'm not lying."

"Look, I'm not judging you; I'm proud of you. But it's fine—Silas will tell me."

"Whatever. I'm leaving."

"What's going on?" Silas asks, appearing in the doorway.

"Nothing," Tate says. "Noah's being a slutty little liar, aren't you, Noah?"

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there's a part of me that enjoyed hearing Tate call me slutty—that likes the way he's looking at me and that he's thinking of me that way at all.

"Hey, Noah," Silas says. "You should go stand in the grass."

"What?"

But when I look down at my body, I'm not wearing my prom dress anymore. I'm in my bikini top and a pair of sandals, standing in a puddle .

What? What's happening? This isn't how it happened.

And when I look back at Silas, he's hurling a speaker in my direction…

"Ahhh!" I scream, sitting up in bed. "Oh, shit. Shit."

"Are you okay?" Mason asks. "You were having a nightmare."

Fuck. He slept over. I shouldn't have let him sleep over, and I know that. Maybe that's why I dreamt of falling asleep with Silas after prom—I shouldn't have been there, either.

"Yeah, just…a nightmare. Well, it was a good dream first, and then it was bad."

"Who's Silas?"

My heart drops into my stomach.

"What do you mean? I don't know anyone named Silas."

"You said the name in your sleep—a few times."

"Oh, um, not Silas. I was saying, Cyrus . We…I had a cat named Cyrus when I was little, but…coyotes ate him so…that was the bad part of the dream."

"Jesus. Really? They have coyotes in Florida?"

Right. Florida. Do they have coyotes in Florida? I should have said it was an alligator.

"Coyotes are everywhere."

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" I jump out of bed, narrowly escaping Mason's attempt to wrap his arms around me. "I'd better get ready for work, so you should go."

Mason frowns. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always do this."

I shrug. "Do what? What did I do? "

"We get close, and then you shut down and withdraw, and I don't hear from you for weeks. And then we get close again, and it happens again."

He isn't wrong; I just didn't realize he was aware of the pattern. But I can't get close to anyone—not really, not ever. Not if I want to keep playing this game. No one can ever know me, just like Tate told me once before, and that's even more true now.

I can't open up. I can't tell anyone how I feel. I can't risk having more than just a drink or two with others around because I don't know what might come out of my mouth if I did.

And I can't fall asleep next to someone else. Because even though it's been over a year, I see them almost every night when I close my eyes. And I talk in my sleep.

But yesterday was my mom's birthday. And so, when I went to Jodie's to do laundry, I got into her medicine cabinet and took a Xanax, washed it down with some vodka, and only then did I decide I didn't want to be alone.

"Mason, I really do just need to get ready for work."

He sighs, reluctantly climbing out of bed and gathering his discarded clothing from the floor. When he isn't looking, I grab his wallet from the desk and quickly remove his debit card and driver's license before setting it down. I can't explain it—it's not like I'm going to use the card, and he's never done anything to deserve it…that I know of.

It's just that I can't stop playing this fucking game. In a way, it makes me feel like I'm still myself.

Or maybe it's just because I ran away from a bad life and woke up in a boring one .

"Then you'll let me take you out tonight, right?"

"I don't know," I tell him. "I'll text you."

"You know, Lilah…" Mason starts, pulling his shirt over his head. He straightens it out and then runs his hands through his blonde hair.

He really is handsome…in a very conventional way—muscular build, strong jawline, pretty blue eyes and a tight ass. He looks like the guys I hung out with at Holbridge Academy, except they only looked like good guys, and none of them would've deigned to work as a mechanic.

And my ex-boyfriends murdered them.

He crosses the room until he's standing in front of me, and continues, "One of these days, I'm going to get tired of this, and I'm going to stop answering your texts, and then what are you going to do?"

It stings a little, but I know I deserve it. "I won't hold it against you."

Mason laughs a little, shaking his head before placing a hand on my cheek. "Well, that's nice of you, but it's also not at all what I wanted to hear." He leans in, kissing me on the lips. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah…see you later."

Sighing, he heads for the door. I'm relieved when it closes behind him, and then I feel guilty for feeling that way. Honestly, I should leave him alone. I know he wants and deserves more than this.

But I get lonely, too. Is that so bad? Does that make me a bad person?

I have his license and debit card hidden behind my back, so yeah, it probably does.

I toss them into a drawer before getting into the shower and washing my hair. I've kept it red all this time and added bangs. I'm still in Winter Falls, working in the café. A week turned into a month, and that turned into, Can I stay through the winter? After that, it just became permanent; I didn't leave, and she never asked me to. I'm a good employee, and where else am I going to go?

But I'm careful. I stay off social media, and I don't let people take my photo. I bought a prepaid cell phone, and I try not to google anything about myself or the murders. And somehow, after all this time, I've stayed off the radar.

So have Silas and Tate. I don't know where they are or even if they are, but I know they haven't been caught. The media refers to what happened that night as the Multnomah County Massacre and named me an accomplice, just as Tate said they would. There were candlelight vigils and promises to leave no stone unturned, but months went by with no sign of Silas or Tate, so no one really talks about it anymore.

But it was in the local paper last month on the anniversary, reminding everyone of the tragedy. And even though there was a small, black-and-white photo of me in the article, which sent me into a panic, no one here looked at me twice.

I don't need reminders; I'll never forget. My body will never forget, and that's another reason I needed Mason out of here.

I have this…routine. It takes a long time.

After I dry my hair, put on makeup, and get dressed, I go to the kitchen and prepare some eggs, strawberries, and toast .

The toast is pretty easy to get down. I've gotten to the point where I can eat small bites of dry, crunchy foods, and they won't come back up in my throat. But I can't survive on just crackers and toast, even though I did for quite some time. My hair and nails have grown brittle, and I've lost more weight than I really had to lose. It helps—I guess—with the disguise, but I think it's killing me.

Jodie even made me take a drug test last spring. She said she tests all of her employees occasionally, but I knew it wasn't true. I could tell by the way she stared at my collarbones instead of my eyes when I spoke to her.

And so I sit here, and I spend an hour trying to force down whatever I decide to make, fighting against involuntary ruminations. It comes up, I swallow it back down. On days that I'm not too tired, too utterly fucking overwhelmed by the thought of eating to try, anyway.

Today, it's scrambled eggs and strawberries. And the inside of my mouth already feels like it's sweating.

I set the plate on the counter, and then slide onto the barstool. I let myself take a couple of bites of toast first as a warmup, and it goes down pretty easily. Next, I try the eggs.

As soon as I put them into my mouth, my esophagus tenses. I chew…and chew…until I finally get up the nerve to swallow.

And they come back up.

And they come back up.

On the third try, with the help of some water, I keep them down. I try the strawberries next, cutting them into tiny squares first, and it helps .

See? I can't have Mason here for breakfast. I can't go on dinner dates.

By the time I leave for work, I've finished the strawberries and toast and maybe three bites of eggs. Still, it's progress. I'll get there.

Another way my body remembers is the pain in my ankle when it rains, and today, it's definitely going to rain. I make my way down the staircase, using the railing to take some of the weight off of it.

I cross in front of Jodie's house and then make my way through the parking lot to the front of the café. Judging by the amount of cars outside, it's a little busier than usual, but it's also warm for this late in October. Winters here are longer and snowier than I'm used to, and when people can get out on the weekend like this, they make the most of it.

Distracted, I run into the back end of a truck that didn't bother pulling all the way into the parking space.

"Ah, fuck," I mutter.

Great. That'll leave a fucking bruise. Everything leaves a bruise now—another unfortunate side effect of my malnutrition. The back of the truck is covered with bumper stickers, but one in particular catches my eye.

Make Women Obedient Again!

"Mother fucker…"

I grit my teeth, looking from side to side to ensure no one is watching, then pull my keys from my pocket. Digging past the stickers and into the paint, I drag my house key across the tailgate .

I look back at my work and smile before rounding the corner onto the sidewalk, slowing when I find myself behind a couple with a little girl. It looks like they're coming from a fall soccer game. The girl, maybe around nine, dribbles her ball from one foot to the other behind her parents. As they turn toward the front door, the girl loses her footing and kicks the ball into the street.

"Damn it," she says under her breath. I laugh a little, remembering myself at that age doing the same thing when I thought no one could hear it—a harmless act of defiance that, for whatever reason, made me feel powerful.

But then she goes for the ball without looking.

I don't even think about it; at no point did I make a decision, and I don't realize what I'm doing until after it's already done, but I grab the girl by her jersey and pull her back as an SUV skids to a halt, its horn blaring. And then I'm on the ground with the little girl next to me, her parents kneeling beside us, frantic with questions, as they pull her, sobbing, into their arms.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"Why did you go in the road?"

"Are you hurt?"

The driver of the SUV gets out with the same questions. The soccer ball isn't as lucky.

"You're a hero," the mother says, helping me to my feet and then hugging me. "Thank you so much. You saved her life."

"Um, you're welcome," I say, awkwardly shrugging her off. "It's not a big deal. I have to go to work. I'm glad she's okay, though. "

"Wait! What's your name?"

"It's, um, it's Lilah."

"Well, here," the dad says, opening his wallet. "Take this."

He holds out a few twenty-dollar bills.

"Oh, no," I tell him. "I can't take your money. I don't want to take your money. I—"

I almost say something about how I'm late for work, but I stop when I look around and realize that not only is everyone on the street watching, but people have stopped their cars and come out of shops lining the street to watch, too.

And a lot of them are holding up their phones, recording.

Oh, shit.

I panic, my breath coming short as my pulse quickens, and what food I did manage to force down threatens to come back up. "I—I have to go."

Lowering my gaze, I race for the safety of the restaurant—past the family, the onlookers, and Jodie at the front door. I don't stop until I get to the back room, pacing back and forth in front of my locker, my hands shaking.

Fuck. Is this it?

Is it time to go? I've known since I first got here that the day would likely come when I'd need to leave, but I let myself get comfortable and started to think maybe it wouldn't. After all, every year, they'll forget a little bit more. Every year, I'll look a little less like the nineteen-year-old girl in the grainy security camera videos and photographs.

And in this town, where nothing happens, and no one stays for long, they aren't looking for mass murderers .

I try the combo on my padlock twice with shaky hands before I get it right and my locker opens. After tossing my purse inside, I take out my green apron, tying it around my waist.

Jodie leans against the doorframe, watching me slam the locker closed before kicking it. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine," I lie.

"You're mad they took your picture?"

" Mad isn't the right word."

I brush past her, clocking in before passing through the kitchen and into the dining room. I pretend she isn't following me, waiting for answers, and busy myself wiping down the already-clean countertop.

"No one is going to find you," she says to my back. "You're safe here."

Of course, Jodie believes I'm only hiding from an ex-boyfriend. But I'm hiding from two ex-boyfriends and life in prison.

"You don't know that."

"Well, what would you do? Go back and let the little girl get hit by the car?"

Maybe. "No, of course not."

The bell above the door dings. "Welcome to Poplar Café," I tell the man. "You can grab a seat wherever you'd like, and I'll be right with you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Jodie asks.

"Absolutely not. I just want to do my job, and then I want to wake up tomorrow to a normal day where no one knows me or cares about anything I did. And they don't take my fucking picture. "

Grabbing a menu and a pot of coffee, I approach the man who just walked in. "I'm Lilah, and I'll be your server today. Can I start you off with some coffee?"

"Hey, you saved that girl, right?" a woman behind him says. "Do you mind if I take your picture?"

The rest of my shift went by normally, for the most part. Only one other person asked if they could take my picture, to which I also declined, and sometime before the seven hours elapsed, my heart rate slowed, and I felt stupid about my full-blown meltdown.

"Hey, Lilah," my coworker, Zoey, says as she passes me on her way to the back room. "Guess what?"

"You're late," I say, signing out of the cash register. "And the register was short again yesterday, so Jodie asked me to tell you to make sure you're reconciling the drawer at the end of your shifts."

"Okay, Jodie-lite. Calm down."

"Whatever. Text me if you have any problems closing. If there's anyone still lingering in the dining room after midnight, tell Gabriel. He'll get rid of them for you."

"You're no fun," Zoey says. "You didn't even guess, so I'll tell you—you've gone viral. See?" A video of me in the street earlier plays on her phone's screen. "Congratulations. "

"What?" I ask. "What do you mean, I've gone viral?"

"Oh, right. You're too cool for social media. Viral is when—"

"No, I know what viral means!" I say, snatching the phone from her hand.

Six million views. It looks like it was uploaded from the security camera at the boutique across the street, so the quality is poor, and you can only see my face for a few seconds.

"Okay. I mean, that's not really that bad, is it?" I accidentally say aloud.

"I mean, you look okay in it," Zoey says.

She's lying. Her voice does that thing where it goes up at the end, but that's not what I mean.

"No one looks good when they're making a surprised face like that," she continues. "And I'm going to assume you save your nicer tops for when you aren't working, but you really never know when you're going to get caught out like this, so that's something you should think about."

"What? No, I mean…six million isn't that many, right? And you can barely tell it's me."

Zoey shrugs. "Six million is twice the population of Chicago, but sure. It's not the only one, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the one with the most views because it captured the incident, but there are more photos and videos from the aftermath, too." She takes the phone back, and I watch as she types Winter Falls car accident into the search bar.

Six different stills populate on her screen.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

"In this one, you're not making that face, but your hair looks a little frizzy."

"God fucking damn it!" I yell, kicking the lockers. "Fuck!"

"Um, are you—"

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Zoey."

"Well, you don't have to be such a bitch about it. It's not like I—"

"Hey!" Gabriel, the lead chef and acting manager when Jodie isn't there, steps into the back room. "There are people waiting out here. Are either of you working?"

"She is," I tell him. "And she's late and already clocked in. I'm leaving."

"I'm going!" Zoey says, tossing her phone into her locker and tying her apron on her way out.

"What's your problem?" Gabriel asks.

I sigh. "Nothing. I'm exhausted, and she caught me off-guard. It's not a big deal."

But I was a little too harsh. It wasn't Zoey's fault; I don't have many friends, and I can't afford to make enemies.

"Do you think she's stealing from the till?"

"Honestly, no. I don't think anyone is stealing; I think she's just sloppy."

It was me.

It was only a couple of times and only about forty dollars, but still, I shouldn't have done it to Jodie. But sometimes, I can't stop myself. Jodie is nice enough to pay me in cash after taking out my rent and utilities, but it doesn't leave me much left over after groceries and essentials. Plus, I'm angry and bored, and it's a shitty combination .

I'll stop, though. For now.

"Hmm, all right. Well, I put that to-go order that was never picked up in the fridge if you want it. I'll see you tomorrow, Lilah."

"I do want it. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

I stop by the fridge and grab the bag before leaving through the back door, then cross the parking lot to my apartment.

The lights in Jodie's house are off, and her car isn't in the garage when I pass. She hasn't told me yet, but Gabriel said she started seeing someone—a paramedic from the next town over. She's gone most nights and spends more time on her phone than she ever has.

Once inside, I bolt the door and take out a half-empty gallon of cheap as shit vodka I stole from the gas station. Like I said, I don't allow myself to drink often, and when I do, it's always alone, but it's an untenable life hack for my little eating problem. If I drink enough, I'm able to detach enough to eat an entire meal without vomiting. I take a swig from the bottle before removing the styrofoam take-out boxes from the bag.

A large container of fries, some mac 'n' cheese, and a burger—that's at least a day's worth of calories for a normal person. The fries I can eat sober and without much issue, so I can save those for breakfast tomorrow. There's a soda in the bag, too. I take it out, drinking until it's half-empty, and then pour vodka into the container until it's full again. Then I pile the food onto a plate and toss it into the microwave.

Another perk to my living situation is that Jodie shares her Netflix account with me. I skip past all the Halloween horror recommendations and push play on one of those survivalist shows Silas got me hooked on. I bring the food to bed with me, watching television while I drink until I can look at the plate of food without a lump forming in my throat.

Halfway through the second episode, I'm wasted, but I've managed to finish the mac 'n' cheese and at least a third of the burger, so that's something. I put the rest of the food in the refrigerator, and then I turn off the light, clumsily step out of my jeans, and remove my bra from under my shirt before crawling into bed.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand, and I grab it, knocking over my drink in the process.

"Fuck," I grumble, swiping to unlock it.

MASON Just now leaving work. I'm going to Spades with a couple of friends—I don't suppose I can convince you to come with me, can I? I'll pick you up.

I close one eye and attempt a reply.

Can't. Had a bad day an god drunk.

"Shit," I whisper, reading it back to myself after I hit send. Eh, well. He'll figure it out, right?

But the phone rings a few seconds later. I shouldn't answer it—I have rules about talking while drunk—but I do it, anyway.

"Hey," I say. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Mason says. "I'm just wondering how drunk you have to be before it's considered god drunk ."

I laugh a little. "It's one of those things where when you know, you know."

"Hm, okay. Does this have anything to do with what happened this morning with the little girl? I saw the video; that had to be scary."

"Yeah, it was scary," I tell him, choking on the words a little. "I'm really scared…that my life is over…again."

"What are you talking about?" he asks. "Your life's not over, Lilah. You're fine; the kid is fine. Why don't you let me come over, okay?"

"No, I'm fine. And you have plans—you should go be with your friends. You should be with people who are good and good for you, and not me. I'm…not a good person." I should stop talking. I should stop talking and hang up the phone. "I'm walking around missing parts and a bullet wound, and I will never, ever be clean."

"You're a good person, Lilah."

"I wish I'd met someone like you when I was younger. Maybe I'd be different."

"When you were younger?" he repeats, laughing a little. "You're twenty years old."

"Yeah, but it's already too late because I can't forget. It's like…phantom limb syndrome, and even though they're gone, I can still feel them."

Tate, Mia, Silas, my mom. They'll all gone. I've lost all my limbs.

"Lilah, you're freaking me out. I'm just going to come over, okay?"

"No! No, don't."

"I don't think you should be alone right now. "

"I don't want you to," I lie, because I have to. For the rest of my life, I'll always have to lie. "I don't want to see you…ever."

"Is this about what I said this morning? Because…I didn't mean it. If you're not ready for something serious, I'm fine with that. I don't even think I want to be in a relationship, so I don't know why I said that."

Now he's the one lying, and it makes me feel worse. "Yeah, you do. You deserve so much better than this."

"What—"

"Bye, Mason."

I end the call, turn off the television, and then curl into a ball under the covers and cry. Without realizing it, I push my hands into my hair and begin rubbing circles behind my ears with my own fingertips, comforting myself the way Tate used to. It's a habit I can't break—just another way my body remembers its phantom limbs.

My phone vibrates again, and Mason's name pops up on the lock screen.

MASON You're god drunk, so if you want to pretend this didn't happen tomorrow, I will, too.

It's tempting. But I've been doing this with him—lying to him, leading him on—for almost four months, and I like him too much now. But I'll never love him like I loved them, and I need to stop.

I sigh, and before I can toss the phone aside, it vibrates twice more. Don't read it, I tell myself. Save it for the morning when you're more rational and better equipped to deal with this .

But I don't. And this message isn't from Mason.

UNKNOWN Hey, little lost girl.

UNKNOWN Found you.

Hands shaking, I throw the phone across the room and scream. I don't sleep at all.