“Fine, fine. I just wanted to check in with you, seeing as how I haven’t heard from you in forever.” I did let her know Sylas and I are ah “back together.” She wasn’t too pleased and he’s not on her list of favorite people right now.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s finals week and I’ve been doing nothing but studying.” And rescuing Sylas.

“Sure, sure. And I bet you’ve had some lovely breaks. Naked breaks.” If only.

“Lo,” I say in a warning voice.

“Fine, fine. I’ll get to the point. I knew you had finals coming up and I thought maybe you might want to take a break and have a drink with me. Away from your study partner.” I can’t say no to her without sounding like I’m blowing her off.

“I guess. When were you thinking?”

“Well, if it’s going to be a chore for you to hang out with your best friend, then never mind.” Why did I pick such a difficult woman to be my best friend? Why couldn’t I have befriended a shy girl who wouldn’t call me and demand I hang out with her when I’m in the middle of several crises?

“Lo, seriously. I’m exhausted and I still have to get through two more classes.” Including my drawing class, which is my least favorite. I still have to do my final project to get my portfolio ready. I’m not sure what I’m going to draw, but it’s supposed to be something I love, which is a rather broad category.

“Friday, five o’clock. That little hole-in-the wall that makes the good dirty martinis.” I agree I’ll be there and she lets me go.

I send Sylas a quick text asking how his day is and get a message back immediately.

I don’t know how to do nothing. It’s really hard.

It’s good to see him regaining his sense of humor. That’s something I love about him. He’s not the funniest guy at all times, but when he is, I can’t stop laughing. And when he’s dirty and funny… well. That hits me in all the right places.

I’m going to have to tell him Dad is going to Texas. I’m not sure how he’s going to take it, and there’s no way to drop that bomb gently. I ponder it as I get my fourth cup of coffee on the way to drawing.

My talents just don’t include drawing. No matter how many times I repeat the techniques I’m supposed to be using, my pictures never come out right. If I were better at the subject, then it might be a more relaxing class. I could lose myself in the process, the movement. But I can never get the drawing on the paper to match the drawing in my mind and it drives me crazy. I wouldn’t call myself a perfectionist by any stretch, but I do like things to be a certain way.

This day is no exception and I get so fed up I want to break my charcoal in half and throw it across the room. The vase we’ve been working on is uglier than sin and I wish someone would walk by and accidentally knock it off the stand in the middle of the room.

At last the professor tells us time is up and we all put our supplies away. As a result of who I am, I tend to keep to myself in classes. I don’t usually think about it, but as I pack up, I realize everyone is talking to someone else. There are small groups and pairs and trios all chatting about weekend plans and jobs and study sessions. I hurry out of the room and head to my next class.

It’s the same there. I sit alone and don’t talk to anyone. I’ve also cultivated an effective Resting Bitch Face that keeps a lot of people at bay. Even when someone talks to me, I make sure they never want to do it again.

I’ve been doing it so long, I stopped even thinking about why I do it.

As I leave another class where no one talks to me, I head to my car and briefly consider not going home. Or at least just… not going home right away. I drive around for a little while. I used to drive around all the time when I was younger. I got my license as soon as I could and of course Dad bought me a car. It was my refuge. My home away from home. Sometimes I’d even drive somewhere, park and sleep in the backseat. Mostly it was normal teenage rebellion, but it was also so I didn’t have to go home and listen to my mother pick apart every little flaw she perceived I had.

Feeling foolish for dredging up the past, I make the turn that will take me home. My Sylas is waiting.

He’s stretched out on the couch with Leo sleeping on his stomach when I walk through the door. The television is on some cooking show, the volume turned on low.

“Hey,” I say, and he looks up, a sleepy smile on his face. He’s wearing… sweats. Actual sweats. I didn’t even know he had them. The dark gray bottoms are baggy in places and tight in others and totally working for me.

“Hey, Redhead.”

I move his feet and sit down on the other end of the couch, replacing his feet in my lap.

“What did you do today?” I ask.

“This,” he says, gesturing to his current state. “I can’t remember the last time I did nothing. I didn’t even know I could do nothing without having my mind racing and plotting all the time.” I know how he feels. I have to force myself to slow down and smell the metaphorical roses. Both of us are high-strung individuals.

“Feel good?” I ask, starting to rub his feet.

“Oh, that definitely feels good,” he says, his eyes closing. “How was school?”

“Fine. Same old, same old. Lo called and she wants me to go out with her on Friday night for drinks. I couldn’t see a way out of it.” Even if I gave her an excuse, like I was sick or something, she’d just show up here and make me prove it.

“That’s fine. You deserve a break from everything.” So does he. Maybe the two of us could go away together after I’m done with finals. It would be complicated to plan, but we could make it work.

“There’s something I have to tell you and I don’t want to tell you, because I’m scared of how you’re going to react.” He’s still so fragile emotionally, and this could reverse all the progress we’ve made since I found him in the hotel room.

He opens his eyes and I see the worry on written on his forehead. I reach out and take his hands, hoping that if he holds onto me, he’ll stay with me.

“Before I tell you, I want you to breathe with me.” I do the slow breathing technique and wait until he’s nice and calm.

“Dad is going to Texas.” I don’t need to say anything other than that. He knows what that means. His fingers clench onto mine so hard that the joints crack and it hurts. I fight the need to tell him to let go. I can take the pain.

He bites his bottom lip between his teeth and a little bit of blood runs down his chin.

“Are you okay?” I ask, even though it’s a stupid question. I need to keep him talking.

“No,” he says, his tongue darting out to lick the little spot of blood. I’m glad he didn’t bite right through his lip.

“Talk to me,” I say. His grip loosens, but I can see that he’s starting to withdraw into his head. “Talk to me, Sylas. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

He lets out a lungful of air.

“I’m feeling like I’m a failure. That I’m a stupid little boy and I’ve betrayed my mother and Lizzy and I’m going to hate myself for the rest of my life because I didn’t have enough balls to put a bullet in the brain of a monster.” I keep my reaction neutral, but my heart aches for him. No one should feel that way. No one. But at least he’s letting it out and telling me and not holding it inside.

“And what would have happened if you had killed him?” I ask.

“He’d be dead and I’d be free. My mother would be avenged and I could go on with my life. I could plan. I could be with you without thinking about him. I could be the man you need me to be.” I start rubbing his fingers. His hands are so cold.

“You’re not a failure, Sylas. Your mother wouldn’t want you hurting yourself like this. She would want you to live and let yourself be happy.” He can’t be happy if he doesn’t allow himself the opportunity.