CHAPTER TWELVE
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
· · ·
Another agonizing week passes and my chest still aches.
I’m so embarrassed.
It’s all my fault.
I shouldn’t have let that happen. Even if it wasn’t on purpose. Even if I couldn’t control it.
I haven’t touched myself in two weeks.
Punishment.
Like that somehow makes me less — wrong.
The verdict: does not help. Do not recommend.
· · ·
Another day, my parents pick me up alone.
Another day, I tell them everything’s fine when I feel like digging a hole in the backyard and crawling into it.
RIP Rowan. Stupid idiot who popped a boner on his best friend.
I am a sixteen-year-old boy who got an inconvenient, but natural reaction while wrestling his best friend on a bed and has now spent two weeks punishing himself for it like that does anything.
· · ·
I would reach out to Cassian again if it were literally anything else.
We’ve fought before.
He’s a moody, bossy asshole who thinks he’s in charge of our friendship.
And the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
I always give in.
Because I just want to be around him.
That’s enough for me.
So I go where he wants. Motorcycle shows. Concerts. Loud, crowded places I don’t even like.
When I’d rather be at home. Reading. Sitting with my parents.
But I do it anyway.
For him.
I’d do anything for him.
And he knows that.
And I let him.
Because there’s a version of Cassian that only I get to see.
Not the brooding. Not the attitude. Not the walls.
The version that shows up at midnight when something’s wrong.
The version that sat on the kitchen floor with me without asking why.
The version that reached for my hand under the stars when we were eight like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That version is mine.
I’ve never been able to walk away from something that’s mine.
· · ·
I keep coming back to this one memory.
Thirteen.
My parents went out for the evening and I was alone and I don’t even remember why, but something inside me just — dropped. That kind of bad that doesn’t have a reason. I was on the kitchen floor when it happened. Couldn’t explain it if I tried. I couldn’t move.
I didn’t text him.
I didn’t text anyone.
But an hour later — tap tap on the window.
He came in. Took one look at me. Didn’t ask a single question.
Just grabbed the blanket off the couch and sat down on the kitchen floor next to me.
Held me.
We stayed there until my parents got home.
He left before they saw him.
Never brought it up again.
Neither did I.
But I’ve never forgotten it.
The fact that he knew.
I still don’t know how he always knows.
The sadness and the anxiety that takes a hold of me sometimes.
· · ·
That’s the thing that makes this so hard.
He’s not indifferent. He’s never been indifferent.
He just — can’t.
Whatever it is he can’t do.
And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
· · ·
Hours pass without me doing anything but thinking about him.
Missing him.
Replaying everything over and over until it makes me sick.
Eventually I force myself to get ready for bed.
Striped pajama pants. White t-shirt.
Normal.
Everything is supposed to be normal.
I’m supposed to be normal.
I’m just about to close my eyes when —
Tap. Tap.
My heart stops.
My window.
· · ·
Two weeks without seeing him.
The longest we’ve ever gone.
He’s been on family vacations with us. Sat at our dinner table more nights than I can count. Fallen asleep on my floor, my bed, my couch.
He’s been part of my life since I was eight years old.
And now —
He’s here.
Just seeing him makes the tightness in my chest loosen.
I can breathe again.
I’m not angry.
I don’t think I ever was.
I’m just — relieved.
I open the window.
He slides in like nothing’s changed. Glances around the room quickly, the way he always does — unconscious, like he’s confirming it’s still the same.
It always is.
He smirks.
“Hey, you.”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious?” I whisper. “I haven’t seen you in forever, and all I get is a hey?”
“Well,” he shrugs, like this is all a joke, “I also brought you a surprise.”
My heart stutters.
“What?”
He grins.
“It’s me. Now scoot over.”
· · ·
My brain short-circuits.
He hasn’t slept over in a while.
My heart is beating so loud I’m convinced he can hear it.
I move anyway.
Because of course I do.
This probably means nothing to him.
Even if it means everything to me.
· · ·
We lie there staring up at the ceiling.
Silent.
Too aware.
Too close.
After a while he turns onto his side, facing me.
I follow.
His hair falls into his face and I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to fix it.
“What are we gonna do when we’re older?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not gonna live next to each other forever.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“What do we do?”
“Well,” I say quickly, “we just live together then.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh.
“You’re the one with the good grades. You’ll go off to some fancy college. I’ll still be here. In my dad’s house.”
That —
That hadn’t even crossed my mind.
I’ve never thought about a future that didn’t automatically include him.
I swallow.
“Okay, then I’ll just sneak you in. You take all my classes for me. Boom. You get a degree for free.”
He laughs, punching my arm lightly.
“That’s so dumb.”
But the mood shifts after that.
Something heavier settles between us.
“Then promise,” he says quieter now. “We’ll stay together. Always.”
My throat feels tight.
“Of course.”
A beat.
“You’re my best friend, Ro.”
Right.
Best friends.
That’s all this is.
That’s all it can be.
· · ·
We haven’t held hands as much, like we used to when we were kids.
Not like that.
But after everything — he reaches for my hand anyway.
And I let him.
I always let him.