You and Everything After (Falling #2)(55)

I don’t know what happened, other than the fact that my incident with Paul Cotterman left me crooked…feeling dirty. And I just couldn’t shake playing the part.

Sabotage is a funny thing; self-sabotage even funnier. Ty and I—we were both at work—sabotaging left and right until there was nothing left but shreds and a shadow of our dignity.

For an hour, I’ve been staring at the picture he drew; the sad melancholy of The National is playing on random shuffle on my iPod. Even their “pop” songs are sad. The drawing is beautiful, done by his hands, days ago.

“That’s how I see you,” he said.

Not anymore.

I don’t know how the ugliness showed itself—how he saw my history without me ever telling him. But when he put it out there, so bluntly? Promiscuity comes at a high price when you’re a teenager, and it just keeps taking.

I got his watch. I had to. I don’t hate him. I far from hate him. Now that I have it, I understand why it’s so important. Or at least, I have a clue.

ALWAYS—that’s all it says in simple engraving on the back. The letters are a little worn, but you can still read the words. Someone gave this to him, someone who meant that word to him.

Maybe they still do.

I run my finger along the small indents of the word, my mind imagining that I have the power to erase it. I could take a razor blade, scratch the lettering away from the metal right here, right now. But I would never be able to take away its power and everything it means. I know this without even asking.

My phone buzzes, and I jump, simply excited that someone from out there is contacting me. It’s Rowe.



Hey, we’re throwing a late-night party for Paige. Her idea, actually. She wants to thank Nate for his help with the move. Free drinks! I’ll wait for you to finish your workout. We can go together. Miss you!



Rowe misses me. While the fact that she’s enthusiastic about a party with my sister is, well, weird, I’m desperate for my friend to come home. I need someone, even if I can’t tell her the entire story. That’s another layer of Nick Owens’s agreements—they are sealed. No talking about what happened if we want to keep things nice and tidy.



I’m in. I could use a drink.



Or five. Or six.

I tuck Ty’s watch in my sock drawer and change for the gym, not really feeling the energy tonight. My body is tired from pushing so hard yesterday. And I should heed the warning and rest. But I have two hours until Rowe gets home. Idle time isn’t doing me any favors.

Hoping that will ignite my fire, I run most of the way to the gym, searching for that inner competitor that takes over when I exercise and helps me forget everything else. But my inner soldier is tired, too. I end up walking the last four hundred yards. I head right to the locker room, swap out my clothes for my swimsuit, and spend the next hour in the pool.

I really wanted to be in the spa. But heat isn’t great for MS, and hot baths always make my vision blurry. So even though this water is cold, I opt for it, and it still soothes my muscles. I don’t even swim; I just float. I’m surrounded by a bunch of older students, maybe faculty members, who are swaying and swishing their way through water aerobics. Bizarrely, I feel right at home—the thump of the bass from the small boom box near the pool’s edge pulsating in the water. It’s all I hear—boom, boom, boom, boom.

Rowe is waiting for me when I get back to our room, and I actually run to her, hugging her so tightly that it makes her choke a little.

“Sorry. I think I missed you,” I smile.

“I’m glad,” she says, her smile reflecting mine. “Go ahead and shower. We’ll walk over together.”

I want to ask her if he’s going to be there. I want to be prepared. But I don’t ask, because at this very second, I’m happy and looking forward to something. Might as well not ruin it until I have to.

I speed through my shower. My stomach is twitching with the fast beats of my heart, my nerves tangling with my exhaustion. I slip on a pair of black leggings and a giant sweatshirt, just warm enough to keep me comfortable, and I blow my hair nearly dry.

“Okay, I’m set,” I say, grabbing my wallet and keys and stuffing them inside the front pouch of my sweatshirt.

“You have to be the world-record holder for primping,” Rowe says, reaching for the elevator button while we wait in the hall. “Paige would have needed an hour.”

“Paige would have needed twenty-four hours notice,” I laugh. There’s some truth to that statement, though. “I’m lazy. I don’t want to spend time on things I’m not good at.”

I don’t know why my words make me frown, but they do. Rowe reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. I lay my head on her shoulder for the elevator ride. “Thanks for the invite. I think I need to get out tonight,” I say, and I feel her tense under my touch. I know what that means, but I’m still not ready to pop my bubble of happiness.

“So, I’m thinking of joining the soccer team,” I throw out there as we step off the elevator. I can’t talk to my parents about this, and now that Ty’s gone, I’m not so sure I have the guts to follow through with it any longer. As desperate as it seems, I think one little boost from Rowe might keep my dream afloat.

“You play soccer?” she asks, her feet stutter-stepping with her surprise. “I mean, I knew you were in great shape and all. I just didn’t know you did anything like that? Are you…I don’t know…good?”