I wipe my eyes, my tears flowing faster and freer than ever.

“But it is relevant. Because is and was is the difference between time standing still, and time moving forward.”

Thirteen

Riley

I can feel his eyes on me. Not that he’s trying to hide it, though I really wish he would. I look up from my blank page and glare at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, sitting on the edge of my bed with his elbows on his knees. Days have passed since I’ve told him about Jeremy and he hasn’t brought it up since. He shifts in his spot. “Do you always drink the same stuff?”

I pick up the bottle sitting next to me and take a sip, cringing slightly when the foul taste of it hits my tongue. “It’s the cheapest stuff they have that’ll give me a buzz,” I tell him.

“A buzz? You’re more than buzzed.”

“Not yet.”

He shrugs. “It’s early.”

I pick up a cushion and threaten to throw it. “You can leave if you plan on judging me some more.”

He laughs and sits down next to me. “Give me some.”

“No.” I hold the bottle to my chest.

“Dependent much?”

I roll the back of my head against the wall and turn to him. “The door’s right there.”

“You’re so cranky when you’re on your lady business.” He starts to get up but I stop him.

“Where are you going?”

“Liquor store.”

“Why?”

“To buy my own shit.”

“Don’t,” I tell him, the plea in my voice evident.

“Don’t what?”

“Drink.”

He chuckles from deep in his throat. “Seriously?”

“It’s not good for you,” I tell him, my gaze dropping as soon as the words leave my mouth and I realize how pathetic I sound.

“That’s a little rich coming from you.”

“I know,” I say through a sigh. “I just don’t want you to drop down to my level.”

“You’re so cute when you’re pouty and needy.”

“Shut up.” I scribble across the page and tilt it so Dylan can’t see.

He’s just kidding, Jeremy.

Then I close the notebook and face him.

“Hi,” he says.

I laugh. “Hi.”

“You’re real pretty, Riley.”

I hide my smile. “Shut up, Dylan.”

He rolls his eyes and scoots closer to me, his arm against mine. “Tell me something, Riley.”

“Like what?”

He runs his hand over the top of his head, his short hair shifting beneath his touch. “Anything you feel comfortable telling me. Like…”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue.

“…Where’s your dad?”

I can totally answer that. “My mom and him split when I was super young. Like, three or something. I don’t really know much about him and I guess he doesn’t care to know much about me.”

“Yeah?” he asks after a moment. “You think maybe your mom has something to do with that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I hate your mom.”

I don’t respond.

“I’m sorry if that’s out of line but what kind of mom supplies their underage daughter with enough alcohol to keep her in a permanent stage of semi-awareness and thinks it’s okay.”

“It is out of line,” I tell him. “There’s a lot of shit you don’t know about, Dylan, and she does it because she cares. Because she doesn’t know any other way to show me that and because it’s what we both want so—”

“If you want to believe that bullshit lie she feeds you then you’re weaker than I thought.”

“Fuck you.” He’s so fucking good at pushing the wrong buttons. “And where the hell’s your mom, by the way?”

“Dead.”

I drop my head in my hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he tells me, rubbing my back. “She died during childbirth… with me, obviously.”

“Jesus Christ, Dylan…”

He laughs, which is such a strange reaction given the conversation. “We suck at talking.”

“I know.”

“Want to make out instead?”

I pause a beat, either from shock or… no. Just shock. “No.”

“It was a joke, Riley. Relax.”

Relieved, I try to come up with something lighter to talk about. “I was looking through the yearbooks after you left last night.”

“Yeah?” He shifts next to me until he’s lying across the floor, his head on my lap. “Find anything interesting?” He looks up, the blue of his eyes brighter than I’d seen them.

I lose my breath, along with my train of thought. And as much as I’d like to blame it on the alcohol, my mind is clear when my hand reaches out, my fingers brushing his hair. “Kind of.”

His eyes drift shut, his hands resting on his stomach as he releases one long, drawn out breath. “What did you find?” he murmurs.

I pull my hand away.

“Don’t stop,” he pleads, his eyes open and on mine. “It’s nice. You touching me like that.”

I continue to stroke his hair, even though it’s wrong, and I glance at the notebook quickly before pushing down the guilt. I grab the bottle and drink as if my life depended on it. “You and Jeremy,” I begin, my stomach turning at the mention of their names together. I fight through it, just enough to say, “You guys played a few games together.”