On the outside, her love for me had never wavered, even after what I’d done. Inside though, she was hurting. She had to be. I needed her to be.

The week on base went by slowly. Too fucking slowly. My friends who I’d once taken a fucking bullet for no longer respected me. They left me alone.

Riley didn’t. She called often. Messaged even more. She asked if I was coming home or if she should come here. After five on the Friday, I finally called her. She answered the phone like she did every time. Her voice high pitched and happy to hear from me.

I guess it’s true what they say; ignorance is bliss.

Why don’t you hate me, Riley?

I showed up five hours later and went straight to bed. No words spoken. No affections shared. Just like I’d planned.

I never looked at her. Never acknowledged her.

Like I said, I wanted her to hate me.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.

No worse than after the fourth hour of lying in our bed—the bed I spent days in, watching her, falling in love with her… she has her arms wrapped around me, her breaths warm and even as they hit my bare chest. I reach over and switch on the lamp on the nightstand, my heart breaking as I look at her sleeping peacefully. My fingers twirl in her hair—her messy hair I’d always loved. Her lashes fan across her cheeks, cheeks I’ve kissed so many times before and for a moment, just one single moment, I second guess myself, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I run the back of my fingers across her face… so beautiful and so innocent and so damn perfect and I know, deep down, I know she doesn’t deserve anything I’m doing to her.

I don’t deserve her.

As gentle as I can, I remove her arms from around me and get out of bed. I look toward the bathroom, to the still-smashed mirror and I feel my heart shatter. Not just for her, but for me too.

It’ll hurt.

Her.

Me.

Everyone around us.

I switch off the light, grab my bag and head for the door, taking one more look at the girl I’d planned on spending forever with. The light from the hall filters through the room, landing on her. Slowly, her hand moves, feeling around the bed, her eyes snapping open when she feels the emptiness. The same emptiness I feel inside me.

Then she sits up, her eyes slowly moving to me.

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, a single sob escaping her. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

But I do. Because it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to her. She needs to know. I owe her that much. “I’m so sorry, Riley.”

I check into a hotel nearby because I’m too fucking tired to drive.

The more time that passes, the more I see Dave. Yes, I know he’s fucking dead. Doesn’t stop him from making an appearance in my life.

Most of the time it’s in the mirror. I should be seeing me. I see him. Right now, I don’t know what’s worse.

Sometimes I hear his voice, the sound of his cry right before he pulled the trigger.

Sometimes—and these are the worst—he just appears out of nowhere. Today he sat in the car next to me. I had an entire conversation with a dead man, out loud. He told me about his brothers, how many birthdays he missed and how much he missed them. I told him he was a fucking pussy. That if he really felt that way he should’ve thought about how much they’d all miss him. It’s not like he’d come home and they’d be able to make up for lost time. He was dead. He was also a fucking asshole.

I blame it on lack of sleep. There’s no other explanation for it. Apart from the fact that I might possibly be certifiably insane.

“I thought you liked Riley.”

“I love Riley,” I tell Dave, or the ghost of him, or my vision of him, or whatever the fuck is happening right now.

“You’ve got a pretty fucked up way of showing it.”

“What the fuck would you know?”

“Man, she would’ve been better off with me.”

I rub my eyes, trying to fight off sleep. “You’re fucking delusional, dude.”

“Says the guy who sees dead people.”

Forty-Six

Riley

I drop the pen on the notepad and read my letter to Dylan over and over again. Sighing, I tear out the page and put it in the new jar and set it on the bench.

I run my fingers across his tools, my lips pressed tight to suppress my cries.

I’m sick of crying.

I’m sick of wiping away the tears.

I’m sick of hurting.

I’m sick of not finding a solution to the pain.

I’m sick of all of it.

“Ry?” Jake calls from behind me. His grin widens as he walks up the driveway and I curse myself for leaving the garage door open. “Dylan inside?”

I fake a smile and shrug.

His eyes narrow as his footsteps slow. Then he laughs nervously. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure,” I tell him.

He drops his gaze to the boxes on the floor—the real reason I’m out here. “What’s all this?”

I smile, a real one, and for a second I forget about the hell I’m living in. “It’s a new work bench… some state of the art thing. I was hoping it would be here before he got home but they were a few days late on the delivery. Not that it matters.” I shrug. “He’s been home a month.”

Jake rears back a little. “I’m confused. Kayla said… wait. So he’s been home a month?”

I nod. “On base. But he’s—” I can’t lie. He’s not home. “Around.”