Chapter 1
one
SASHA
The wind blows the notes off the coffee table, and I scramble to grab them before they all float away.
I don’t know why I keep them, they’re silly pieces of paper that probably don’t mean anything… and yet here I am, reading them for what feels like the millionth time.
I grasp them between my fingers, holding onto them tight like they’re a lifeline, and stare at the words that a stranger left for me.
They started just after Jurian died, appearing in my books after I left them for a moment, or on the seats I usually sit in for class. I never see anyone lingering or watching me as I open them, but I can feel that they know I got them.
How they knew I needed them, I’ll never know, but for the first time in my life, I feel seen. This person sees the deepest parts of me, understands me better than my own brother did, better than my parents do.
It’s kind of ironic that the one time I wish I could disappear is when someone finally notices me. It’s like the universe is laughing at me, like I’m wrapped up in some big cosmic joke.
Honestly, it’s like throwing salt in the wound.
Everyone always talks about the grief after losing someone you care about, but no one ever talks about the guilt of surviving, of knowing that you’re the reason why someone is dead.
I wonder if my mystery person would still be writing me letters if they knew what I’ve done.
Silence fills the apartment in a way that suffocates me. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, the kind that makes you want to pull out your hair.
I’ve never liked the quiet. When you’ve lived your entire life waiting for people to notice you, silence becomes your worst enemy. You’d think I’d be used to it by now… I’m not.
I lost my brother.
Now I’ve lost my best friend.
How could he do that to her? How could he do that to me?
My blood starts to boil, hatred and anger and— and sadness coil around my gut until the tears start to fall again. Tears for the last person I had in my corner, for the last person I thought loved me.
Nathan Thomas is— was. Nathan Thomas was my best friend. Not in the way people say someone is their best friend, but they secretly have feelings for one another, or they talk every once in a while but don’t really know the other person at all.
No, Nathan knows every part of me.
He knows I always tie my right shoe before my left because when I tie my left shoe first, it’s never tight enough.
He knows I like pasta with nothing but butter because when I was ten, I heard spiders sometimes get mashed in with tomatoes when they make the sauce.
He knows I can only fall asleep if I’m lying on my right side, and that I can’t eat celery because I choked on it one time a couple of years ago.
He knows that I have trouble sleeping at night when it’s too quiet, and the stories behind each of my tattoos.
He sat with me for over half of them, holding my hand. Not because it hurt, but because he knew why I was getting them.
When we first moved into our childhood home, and a little brown haired boy with dark green eyes knocked on our door, I was convinced he would want to play with my brother.
I was wrong.
He and Jurian were friends, really close friends, but he and I were closer.
A rock hits my window.
I ignore it.
Another hits, and another, and another.
For fucks sake.
I rip the covers off and pad over to the large bay window, annoyance rising up my throat. Nathan’s wide grin greets me, and even though I’m annoyed he’s here in the middle of the night, I grin back. I pull the window up and lean out, “is this Romeo and Juliet or something?”
He peers up from a foot and a half below. “Help me up,” he whisper yells, “I want to watch a movie.”
“It’s three in the fucking morning and you want to watch a movie?” I reach out a hand anyway, helping him in. He’s heavy, but we’ve done this enough times now, we know how to make it work.
“You can just use the front door, you know,” I yawn, “my parents don’t care.”
He shrugs in response, “it’s cooler this way.”
The front door slams shut, and I flinch.
I sit up straighter, swiping at my tears and pulling all the strength I have left into trying not to cry even more.
Fuck, I really wish Jurian was here right now.
Nathan stomps through the entryway and freezes when he sees me sitting on the worn leather couch we bought off marketplace.
The boys were so proud of themselves when they got it through the doorway, they didn’t even notice one of the legs snapped off in the process.
“You’re home.”
I force my face to stay neutral, “you say that like you expected I wouldn’t be.”
His brown hair is ruffled, messy from the fight that broke out earlier today. I wasn’t there to witness it for myself, but pictures and videos of it are everywhere. The black eye and bloody nose are enough to confirm what I already know.
His forest green eyes grow soft —sad— and he takes a step towards me.
I stop him before he can get too close, holding up a shaking hand, “I called our landlord today, terminated our lease.”
I want to puke right now.
“He was very understanding, considering the… circumstances.”
Nathan’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t need to ask, he knows I know. How long did he think he could keep it a secret? Was he going to let me walk around completely oblivious? Act like he didn’t rape a girl?
Like he didn’t rape Claire Loyola? Or I guess her real name is Claire Taylor. That little secret got exposed in front of everyone when her brother showed face at the game and was seen leaving with her by his side.
Claire Taylor, the beautiful brown brown-haired figure skater who would never hurt a fly. Claire Taylor, the girl who smiles at parties and captures everyone’s attention because she’s a ray of sunshine.
Claire Taylor, the girl who lives with the guy I’m hopelessly in love with.
I always thought she was so lucky, she had everything anyone could ever want. She’s fucking perfect in every way, and all I ever felt when I looked at her was jealousy.
Now I feel horrible that I didn’t see the monster lurking under the surface of someone I considered my best friend.
“Where are you going to stay?” He asks— quiet, almost a whisper.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat, willing the tears in my eyes to retreat. “With my parents.”
He drops the bag that’s been hanging over his shoulder.
His hockey gear, I realize.
He’s been kicked off the team.
For a single second, I feel bad for him. Hockey is his entire life, the reason why he wakes up in the morning. But then I remember that Claire is going to have to wake up every day and deal with what he did to her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, hanging his head low, not daring to look me in the eyes.
Shaking my head, I stand up. “I’m not the person you should be apologizing to.” Walking towards my room, I don’t hear a sound, but when I close my door behind me, Nathan punches the wall so hard it shakes the whole apartment.
Jurian’s room looks the same, but it feels so different every time I walk in here.
The sheets are still ruffled from the last time he slept in them, his textbooks are still open to the same pages, and his notebook is still half written in.
The box that sits under his bed is still there, untouched, with memories from our childhood that he never wanted to let go of.
I come in here and sit on the floor sometimes, just waiting for him to walk in and ask me how my day was. I don’t want to touch anything, I want to leave it just like he left it because it feels like if I don’t… he’ll disappear forever.
Now I have to move all of his things out of this room, disturb the tomb, and lose the last real piece of my brother that I have left.
It’s been weeks since the accident, and yet it feels like I can turn a corner at any second and he’ll be there.
My fingers tangle in my hair, forcing the strands to tuck behind my ears as I sit down next to his bed.
I always kept it long, but after I lost my brother and now my best friend, I felt the need to chop it.
One hour and a pair of kitchen scissors later, and here I am…
sitting on my brother’s bedroom floor with a brand new haircut.
We are— were, twins. From the time we were born up until puberty, we were almost identical, and I guess this is my way of punishing myself further, because the person looking back when I stare into the mirror, isn’t me… it’s J.
At least short hair looks good on me, it makes my features stand out a little more, but every time I start to acknowledge it, I force myself back into the grieving hole I dug for myself. I don’t deserve to be happy, I need to remember what I did.
Silence washes over me, another reminder of what I’ve lost. Jurian’s room was never this quiet. Even when he was sleeping, he would have his TV on… he hated being alone.
My brother loved people more than anything, he always had a crowd around him, was always the biggest presence in a room, and never did anything alone.
There was always someone who wanted a second of his time, so he took advantage of that when he could.
And now, he’s alone for eternity. The thought of my brother lying in that dark grave completely by himself makes me want to crawl right in next to him.
Loneliness is a silent killer, and even though J was probably the last person you’d expect to feel lonely, he was.
Only a select few knew how he really felt, no matter how many people smiled and laughed at his jokes, he still felt like no one truly saw him.
I never left him alone longer than I needed to.
He didn’t need to say it, but he knew I was always hovering so he wouldn’t have to ask for someone to distract him.
Resting my head on the side of his bed, I let the memories wash over me, torturing myself more than some would deem necessary.
“What’s this one?” Jurian asks, pointing to the fresh ink on my shoulder.
I grin at him, “guess.”
His favourite game is coming up with fantastical stories to go with each of my tattoos. He gives them meaning, an adventure that seems like it’s straight out of a storybook.
He adjusts on his bed, sitting up straighter to get a better look.
His hand combs through his raven hair, “you got stuck travelling with a biker gang last month. They accidentally initiated you into their group, and you just went with it. You travelled the country with nothing but the clothes on your back.”
I giggle, knowing he couldn’t be further from the truth.
“After a drunken night,” he continues, “they bring you to a tattoo shop and convince you to get their symbol, leaving a piece of them with you forever.”
I just nod my head, letting him believe the story he’s concocted instead of crushing him with the truth.
I started getting tattoos the day I turned eighteen. At first, it was an outlet, a way to express things when I had no other way to do so, and then I realized if I made myself look scary enough, I could convince myself that’s the reason why no one would come up to me.
Every new tattoo brought me a little peace, but eventually the itch started to come back.
The itch to scream, to claw at my skin until people had no choice but to notice me. It always came back, and when it did, I would run to the nearest tattoo shop.
Looking down, I trace the angry scar on my forearm.
I guess it’s time for a new tattoo…