Four to six months, I think. Riley though—she says it out loud. And having her voice it makes it more real. So does her writing it down, apparently.

The ride back home is exactly the same as it was there. Silent.

She sits with her back to the door, her legs crossed beneath her, writing in a notebook—a different one to the one she had at the hospital—and whatever she’s writing has her mind so consumed she doesn’t even realize that I’ve pulled into my garage and parked.

“So…” I say, killing the engine.

She looks up and around her and for a moment she’s confused. Then she must realize where we are and what we’re doing and the reality of the day finally hits her. “Four to six months,” she mumbles.

“Four to six months,” I repeat.

Blindly, she shoves the notebook in her bag and looks around again. “This your garage?”

“Yep.”

She opens the door and steps out. I follow behind her, meeting her at the workbench where my engine parts sit. “What’s this?”

“Just an engine I’m working on.”

“You think it’ll be done in four to six months?” she asks.

“If I want it to be,” I tell her. My response has more than one meaning, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve pulled it apart and rebuilt it so many times I can do it with my eyes closed.”

“So why not just leave it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess maybe I’m not ready to move on.” Another double meaning.

She picks up the toothbrush I use to clean the smaller parts and lifts it between us. “What’s this for?”

I grab a random part off the bench and hand it to her. “Scrub it clean.”

It wasn’t an order, but she does it anyway, and I watch and wait to see if this is it. If this is her way of avoiding the situation and everything we’ve done to get us to this point. She says, “So you just clean them and…”

I tune her out, my mind too busy screaming all the questions she’s avoiding. “Why did you come today?”

Her hands freeze mid movement, just for a moment, before she starts again. “Because you asked me to.”

I cover her hands. “Riley,” I deadpan. I want her to pay attention. I’ve moved on from wanting the empty silence of her room and the comfort that comes with it.

She swallows loudly and drops the brush and the part on the bench. Then she faces me. “You had sex with me.”

“I’m blindingly aware of that, Riley.”

“And you want to have more sex with me.”

“Again, I’m positive that’s obvious.”

Her gaze drops. “But it’s not just about sex anymore is it?”

“It’s never been just about sex.”

“I mean… we feel things…”

I nod. “I feel a lot of things for you. So? What does that mean?”

Rubbing her temple, she sighs loudly. “It means you were wrong, Dylan, about there being a big difference between can’t and won’t. Sometimes, it’s not that easy, especially when it comes to feelings. I wanted you, but I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“That makes no sense, Riley. You either wanted to or you didn’t.”

“I did want you.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The guilt! Okay!” she shouts. Then takes a calming breath. “The guilt is the problem.” And now she’s crying. “I can’t let it happen again—the sex or the feelings—because the guilt is stronger than the want and it would be okay, you know? For you to be in my room and for us to kiss and touch each other the way we did, but the second you’re gone, I’m surrounded by guilt because Jeremy—”

“Is dead,” I cut in, and the second the words leave my mouth I hate myself.

She starts to leave, but I grasp her arm. “I’m sorry, Riley. That was wrong and completely out of line.”

Her eyes drift shut, her intake of breath long and loud and when she releases it, she opens her eyes—her clear gray eyes. “I need to show you something,” she says, shrugging out of my hold and walking out of the garage. I follow behind her, because I can’t not. And I know whatever she’s about to show me, whatever she’s about to say, it’s going to change everything. Everything.

Sixteen

Riley

There’s no emotion greater than fear.

No ache greater than grief.

No sound greater than silence.

Dylan’s eyes lift from the notes in his hands and the hundreds on the floor—all the notes I’ve written to a boy I love. A boy he so simply worded as “dead” and if it were that easy—for me to say he’s dead and to move on—then I wouldn’t be holding on to him, to the memories of him. Because he’s still here, in my mind and in my heart—he’s still alive, and the guilt I feel now, which is greater than the guilt I felt after Dylan’s kiss is proof of that. Because now, I’m sharing more than just the guilt of our actions. I’m sharing our memories, our lives, our pasts, and our love. Not with the boy I loved, but with a man who’s making me question that love.

“Do you get it now?” I ask, my voice strained from the sob forcing its way out of me.

“How long have you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“You know, it’s strange… that you can see someone every day for over two years of your life… look into their eyes, touch them, feel their hair between your fingers, see them smile, hear them laugh—and then it gets taken away from you and nothing.” I wipe my cheeks, my tears flowing unrestrained. “You close your eyes and you try to picture them and you can’t. You can’t see any of it. You can’t hear their voice, hear their laughter, hear them say your name a thousand different ways.”