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One in the morning. Two in the morning. Three in the morning comes and goes with no call. No text. Before I plug in my nearly dead phone, I scroll through my contacts and hit Marisa’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but it’s safe to say that it’s freaking me the hell out.

I don’t think she’s okay. And I have no idea what to do.

chapter eighteen

On my way to school Friday morning, I call her cell again. No answer.

Before homeroom, I break down and call her house number. Her mom says she’s “fine—sick, but fine,” and that she’ll call me sometime later. And I’ve decided that I really freakin’ hate the word “fine.”

On my way to the shop that afternoon, I should be happy that I nailed another Chemistry test. I should be excited as hell that it’s officially Spring Break and I’m free from school for two weeks. But the only things coursing through me are worry and panic because I haven’t talked to my girlfriend in nearly twenty-four hours. When I was with Jamie, going a day or two without speaking to each other was nothing. She had her friends, and I had mine. But with Marisa, things are infinitely different.

Also, Jamie didn’t exactly have a history of slicing up her arm. But I’m trying
really
hard not to think about that right now. And I feel like an asshole for my brain even going there.

I swerve into my spot in front of the shop, my heart skipping a beat when Marisa’s space is empty. She’s supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be here and we’re supposed to talk this out, because that’s the way I’ve been envisioning things in my head all day.
Of course that’d be too easy. I must have seriously screwed something up in a past life.

I jump out of my truck and jog up to the door, where Momma’s cleaning the windows. Marisa’s job.

“Where’s Marisa?” I ask.

Momma looks about as tired as I am freaked. “No practice today?”

“No more practice ’til after Easter. Where is she?”

“That’s right.” She uses her sleeve to wipe the hair out of her face. “She called out this morning. Didn’t sound well at all.”

Somehow, my stomach drops and leaps into my chest at the same time. “Momma—”

“I’m sure your girlfriend’s just fine,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “I know you want to rush in and save the day, but for all you know, the poor girl’s sick as a dog.”

“Then I can help her. She came over for me. I’ll take her soup, or ginger ale, or something. Anything.”

“Relax.” She shoos me on toward the counter. “That’s what her momma’s there for. Give the girl some space. Her momma can handle things just fine until we close up. If she says she’ll be okay, then she’ll be okay.”

That’s three hours from now. I can handle three hours. I think.

Dang it. No, I can’t. I’m gonna go insane. I plop onto the stool behind the counter.

The sky darkens outside as clouds roll in. Our weatherman said to expect one heck of a storm this afternoon. I usually crave a good thunderstorm, but today, I really hope he’s wrong. Storms always bring the bad shit that life throws at you.

The bell above the door chimes. Mr. Joyner strolls into the shop, a frown on his face.

Speaking of the bad shit.

See, people in this town love our team. They’ll do anything under the sun for us when we’re on a winning streak. But when we lose? You’d think we just proclaimed our love for torturing kittens. It turns nice guys like ol’ Mr. Joyner into hornets.

“Lordy, Lordy,” Momma mutters under her breath. She plasters a smile to her face as he approaches the counter. “What can we do for you, Mr. Joyner?”

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he nods toward me. “Thought I’d take a minute to talk to Austin here about last night’s game.”

I’d prefer if he didn’t. Coach talked to us enough. And I’m really in no mood to watch him smack on his chewing tobacco.

Momma folds her arms. “If it’s all the same, Austin has work to do. Some other time.”

Shock flashes across Mr. Joyner’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. He strokes his chin, looking between the two of us. That Lewis Creek High baseball state championship ring on his finger glimmers beneath the store’s lights. I’ve got my own ring from last year, but there’s no way in heck I’d wear it on a daily basis; that thing’s a prized possession. I’m pretty sure Mr. Joyner never takes his off.

He drums his hands on the counter and points at me as he backs away. “Remember to keep your eyes on the prize,” he tells me. “Eyes always on the prize.”

The door slams behind him. Momma blows out a breath and squeezes my shoulder, her hand lingering there. “There are more important prizes than baseball,” she says. “That’s all you need to remember.”

At six o’clock on the dot, I flip the door’s sign to Closed. Not that I really need to, considering I haven’t seen a soul other than Momma since Mr. Joyner went
on his way. Rain splatters against the shop’s windows like nobody’s business as the wind whips, rattling the awning above the sidewalk.

“Go check on your girl,” Momma calls down from the office. “Be careful out there.”

My shoulders slump as I turn toward the stairs. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“Worried. That’s okay. Go on. Make sure you let me know how she is, all right?”

“Will do.” I yank the door open, cringing at the wind and water smacking my face as I make a beeline for my truck. After hopping in and cranking up the wipers, I speed through downtown.

I grab my phone from the passenger seat, hitting redial over and over, but Marisa’s not answering, just like she wouldn’t answer the other dozen times I’ve tried calling today. And now my panic mode has shifted to full-blown freaking out. Pressing the gas down as far as it’ll go, all I can do is pray there’s no bored cop on the back roads today. Avoiding hydroplaning would be nice, too.

A twenty-minute drive only takes me ten. I swerve into Marisa’s driveway just as the sky opens even more. Thunder crackles with the roaring wind, and I’m soaked in the few seconds it takes to sprint to her porch. My clothes cling to my skin as I ring the doorbell. No answer. I ring it again and again and again. I even bang on the screen door for good measure.

The door finally swings open, and Mrs. Marlowe stares at me, not seeming surprised at all that I was maybe ten seconds away from kicking down the door. “Yes, Austin?” she asks.

“Marisa,” I say on an exhale. “Can I see her?” She looks like she’s about to argue, so I add, “Please, Mrs. Marlowe. I’m goin’ crazy here. I haven’t talked to her since yesterday, and even then she was all down in the dumps and upset, and when Momma told me she was
sick I panicked and drove all the way out here because I’m scared shitless—sorry, crapless—and I need to see for myself that she’s okay. Please let me see that she’s okay.”

And now she looks like she’s about to cry, and I don’t know if it’s my fault or what. Things have a tendency to be my fault, so my money’s on that. She glances over her shoulder toward the stairs and steps to the side. I nearly run into her as I rush through the doorway into the quiet house. The silence is way too loud.

“She’s up in her room,” Mrs. Marlowe says. “She’s had one of her rough days. I’ve been checking on her off and on, and all I’ve gotten are one-word answers.” She rubs her forehead. “But at least she’s answering.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “So—so sick was code for—”

“Sick,” she finishes quietly. “Go on up. I’ll be outside if you need anything. I need some fresh air.”

Without another word, I barrel up the stairs, my steps sounding like a herd of elephants. Stopping in front of her closed door, I knock gently. I’d rather break the door down to get to her, but I don’t think that’d go over well.

“Marisa,” I call out. “It’s me. Can you open the door?”

I’m met with nothing but silence, except for the blood pounding in my ears and the rain hammering against the roof. The dread in my gut is a level I’ve never felt before. It’s terrifying as hell.

Screw it.

I turn the knob, push, and get nothing. I narrow my eyes. There’s no lock on her door. She’s not allowed to have a lock on her door, so why? I try again and it won’t freakin’ open, damn it. She’s got to have something pushed against it.

I bang on the door again. “Marisa! I’m beggin’ you, girl, open the door.”

There’s shuffling, and the door opens just a crack. I shove it open all the way. Slowly, I step inside the dim room, illuminated only by the lamp on Marisa’s nightstand. It’s cold in here. Freezing, actually. Dressed in black pajama pants and my hoodie, Marisa paces in front of me, chewing on her nail with her eyes trained on the floor, where clothes and books are scattered everywhere.

“Marisa?”

She stops mid-stride, looking up at me with a gaze so broken, it breaks my heart right along with it. I inch forward, almost like I’m approaching a deer or rabbit or something, and I hate myself for comparing her to an animal, for Christ’s sake.

I reach for her hand, but she jerks away. “You need to go,” she snaps.

Her words are daggers. I don’t know if I did something wrong, but if I did, she needs to tell me. Preferably now, before I crumble to bits. “Marisa, what’s goin’ on?”

Chewing on that nail again, she resumes pacing. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Nothing. I’m having a really bad day, and I want to be alone right now. Need. I need to be alone right now.”

“Please don’t shut me out.” She stops again but says nothing, so I continue. “If there’s something you need to talk about, tell me. If I did something, tell me. Whatever’s wrong, please just
tell me
. Don’t push me away.”

Her eyes finally flicker back to mine. “I’m not trying to shut you out. I just don’t want you to see me like this, okay? All I need is a night of decent sleep, and I’ll be good as new tomorrow. I swear. Trust me on this.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m
fine
,” she shouts. “Stop asking me. I’ll be fine.”

She is so far from fine. Holding my hands up, I take a step closer. “All right, I get it. I…” I almost say “I believe you,” but that’s not true.

Last time something like this happened, that night in my truck, my holding her hand helped. So I grab that same hand and tug it gently, pulling her to me for a hug. It takes a few seconds, but her arms circle around my waist, gripping me tightly like she’s latching on for dear life. Closing my eyes, I breathe her in, citrus shampoo mixed with the cologne on my hoodie.

As my eyes open, my gaze falls upon the nightstand. And right there, the world melts away. The floor disappears and the walls collapse and there’s nothing, nothing, but—

“Marisa, what is that?”

Her body tenses in my arms. “What’s what?”

Pulling away, I stomp over to the nightstand and grab the tiny straight-blade razor from beneath the lamp. My hand trembles as I hold it up. “I said, what the
hell
is this?”

“It’s n-nothing,” she stammers. “I wasn’t going to—”

“You have a fucking blade beside your bed,” I shout. “So try again, Marisa, because ‘I wasn’t going to’ isn’t going to work.”

“I wasn’t!” Tears spill down her cheeks as she steps forward. “I almost slipped, Austin. Almost, but I didn’t. See?” She yanks up her sleeves, revealing nothing but the marred skin already there. “Nothing. And I’ll be fine, I swear. I just need sleep.” Her voice cracks. “Just let me sleep it off. Please.”

My own tears cloud my vision. My lip quivers as I set the blade back on the cluttered nightstand, next to my old lucky hat of all places. God almighty, I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know.

I don’t.

“Even with my meds, I slip sometimes,” she continues, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

She slips. So this—this is slipping.

“I thought I could work through it on my own this time because things have been so good lately,” she rushes to add. “But I’m calling my doctor first thing Monday, okay? I swear, Austin. You’ve got to believe me.”

There’s an awful lot of swearing going on. Dad swore in his letter. That swear didn’t mean a thing once he drove his truck off a bridge.

The letter. Marisa’s notebook.

I can’t breathe.

“How long’s it been?” I manage to ask. “Since this… this ‘slip’ thing started?”

She presses her lips together, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not long.”

“How long?”

She seems to struggle as she answers, “A little over a week.”

My mouth drops open. “Are you shittin’ me? And you said
nothing
? I’ve been right here the whole damn time, Marisa!”

Her lip trembles, and now tears are sliding down my cheeks. Shaking my head, I storm past her to the door. But I can’t leave. I can’t look at her, either—not without completely breaking apart. Instead, I grip the doorframe and stare down at my feet.

Breathe. Breathe. Damn it, breathe
.

The front door slams closed downstairs, and her parents’ voices mingle together. I sigh with relief. They can fix this. They’ll know what to do.

Marisa lets out a sob. I whirl around, finding her on her knees, her face in her hands.
No, no, no
. I rush forward and fall to my own knees, wrapping her in my arms and holding her to my chest as she cries. I want to protect her from whatever’s going on in that head
of hers. God, I want to make it go away more than anything. I wish I could save her. Fix her.
Something
.