“Why, though? I mean, I’ve lived with someone who was mentally ill, and that’s not …” I trail off.

Her concentration floats from the playlists, her eyes falling to the scars on my hand. “Was it the people who did that to you? That weird cult thing I found out about?”

I withdraw my hand and tuck it to my side. “It was.”

“I’m sorry, Ayden. About everything. About showing you that tattoo thing. That I haven’t found your brother for you yet.”

“That’s not your responsibility.” I return my hand to the wheel. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Lila told me the other day that she looked into my brother, and … apparently he dropped out of the system a year ago. I’ll more than likely never see him again.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s … well, it’s my mother’s since this whole thing started with her.” My hands begin to shake on the wheel as I remember the day she handed us over to those people.

They were actually our next door neighbors, had been for a while. She needed a babysitter so she could go get her next fix. She questioned nothing, not even the chains in the living room. And they were more than willingly to take us, needing their next victims.

“What about your mom?” Lyric dares ask. “What happened to her? Maybe finding her could help us find your brother and sister.”

“She’s dead. And I don’t know who my dad is, so that won’t help us either. Face it, I’ll probably never get to see anyone from my family again.”

“Ayden …” She clears her throat. “You have a family. All the Gregorys love you. And … so do I.”

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

With the sound of your heart.

With the whisper of your soul.

Until everything connects.

Composes.

And creates a song.

I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Lyric’s eyes refuse to leave mine, even though I’m looking everywhere but at her. I wonder if this is the time she’s not going to give up, if she’s going to push me until I shatter into a million pieces.

“I think my grandmother had a bipolar disorder,” she says, facing forward in the seat and scrolling through the song lists again, going back to the original conversation without missing a beat. “Maybe that’s why my mom worries. Perhaps she thinks I’m going to turn out like her.”

Air rushes back to my lungs at the abrupt subject change.

As we reach the last house on the street, I turn into the driveway. “Why would she think that? You’re like the happiest person I know.” I stop at the end of the drive, shove the shifter into park, and slide the keys out of the ignition.

“Maybe I’m a little too happy, though.” She places the iPod on the dock without selecting a song. “Besides, some mental illnesses are hereditary.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t believe it’s fully true, though,” Lyric states, drawing her sunglasses over her eyes. “I think if you don’t want to turn out like your parents, then you won’t. Look at my mom. She’s a pretty stable woman, and I know from bits and pieces of stories I’ve heard that she had a pretty shitty life growing up.”

I swallow the lump in my throat to stop myself from asking.

What happened to her?

Was she broken?

Is she fixed?

Saved from the darkness.

That once grasped her wrists.

“What do you think about when you daze off like that?” she asks curiously. “I’ve always wondered what goes on inside your head.”

If she did know, she’d run.

“Nothing important.” Before she can say anything else, I snatch up my guitar from the backseat and bolt out of the car.

I don’t look back as I rush up the wide driveway, toward the side door of the detached garage. I free a trapped breath when I hear the car door shut. As much as my emotions are terrifying me, and as much as I know I don’t deserve her to, I need her to follow me like my heart needs blood pumping through it.

“Hey, man,” Sage greets as I stride into the shallow space of the garage. He’s perched on a short stool in front of his drums, twirling the drumsticks in his hands. There’s a joint burning from an ashtray on a table near a leather couch, and the air is laced with the pungent stench of weed. He does this a lot in an attempt to hotbox the garage. Says it makes him play better. The problem is, it also makes Nolan and I a little buzzed, and we definitely don’t play better when we are.

“Hey.” I drop the guitar down on the sofa. “Just so you know, Lyric came with me today.”

He purposely drops the drumsticks and stands up. “Dude, so not cool.” He heads for the joint burning in the ashtray.

“She’s cool,” I tell him as he puts the joint out and flips on the ceiling fan. “She won’t give a shit if you’re hotboxing the garage. I might, but she’ll be fine with it.”

A panicked look crosses his face as he douses the air with Lysol. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

I’m so lost. Sage never gives a shit about anything, even his mom finding out he’s high. “Then what are you worried about?”

He sets the can down on the table. “Don’t you think Lyric’s just kind of, I don’t know, s—” He gets cut off as the door swings open and Lyric strolls into the room.