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“You’ve had some phone calls,” she says.

My eyebrows scrunch. “Huh? It’s early mornin’. Who the heck called me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Lord have mercy, child, you can be dense as they come. Since when does the sun rise on your side of the house?” I glance over at the window as she says, “It’s six-thirty at night. The sun’s settin’.”

I rub my face, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Messages from who?” I ask. “And what’s a guy gotta do to get some water around here?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Not getting drunk off your rear is a good start toward sympathy. You’re damn lucky I let you sleep it off because Lord knows if I’d done what I wanted to this morning, your cheek would be feelin’ the burn for a week.”

I wince. “Momma, last night was bad. Really freakin’ bad.”

“Not bad enough to halfway kill yourself.” She releases a shaky breath. A tear slips down her cheek, but she wipes it quickly. “Do you have any idea what that does to me, Austin?”

My gaze drops to my comforter. I can’t stand seeing the woman cry.

“Jay called,” she says, and I look back to her. “Wanted to make sure you got home okay. He sounded about as bad as you look. Marisa called the shop a couple hours ago, and called the house phone right when I walked in the door.”

My eyes widen. I reach for my phone, but it’s not on the nightstand. There’s no telling where it’s at. My dumb ass passed out in the same clothes I wore yesterday. I bet I smell awesome. Two-day-old clothes, beer, whiskey, and puke. Nice.

Momma tosses my phone into my lap. “Found it in the driveway. You’re lucky I didn’t run over it. Probably should have.”

I click the phone’s Home button, but it’s dead as a rock. “What’d she say?” I mumble, unable to meet Momma’s eyes.

“She told me what happened. That she’s under at least a twenty-four-hour hold at the hospital. That her dad had to pull strings for her to call you, but you didn’t answer.” She pauses and adds, “I didn’t have the heart to tell her why.”

My stomach twists and flips and turns. Trash can. Need a trash can. I leap off the bed and run across the room, just barely making it to the can beside my dresser before everything from last night spills out.

At least I’m not drunk anymore.

“You all right?” Momma asks.

I fall onto my ass and lean against the wall, cringing at my own stench. It’s a brand-new level of pathetic. “No.” My head throbs, like all the blood in my body is rushing through a single vein. I squeeze my eyes closed. “This crap hurts. It hurts like hell.”

She sits on the edge of my bed, in front of me. “I’m going to let you in on a secret, Austin, but I’m gonna start with this: I can’t imagine what last night was like for you, but if you ever—and I mean
ever
—get that drunk again, I will personally beat the living daylights out of you. I don’t have to tell you that drowning your pain in alcohol will never end well.”

No, she doesn’t have to tell me how it ends. How it almost ended. All I got to say is, thank God for Eric. But sometimes you just want the pain to go away, no matter what it takes.

Wait. Where have I heard that before?

“You can’t carry another person’s burden,” Momma continues. My gaze darts back to her. “You can help them. But trying to change them is useless. We all have our battles, and this is theirs. You can’t—”

“Fix them,” I finish quietly.

She nods. Blinks. Before I can say a word, tears spill onto her cheeks. She doesn’t even try to wipe them away. She just sniffles and looks down at her hands. At her ring, which she still wears every day.

“You can’t fix them,” she whispers. “But you can damn sure be there when they need you.” She points to my dresser. “Now get off your backside, change into some clothes that don’t reek, and wait for your girlfriend to call. Because when she does? She’ll sure as hell need you.”

She stands and starts for my door.

“Momma?” I say. She turns. Waits.

My gaze drops to her hand. That ring. I have no idea how she managed after Dad died. Right now, after what happened to a girl I’ve only known a few months, my heart feels like it’s been shredded into a million pieces. My gut is more like chopped liver. And all I can wonder, all I can think, is why?

But maybe Marisa’s momma was right. Maybe there are no real answers. As much as it sucks, maybe we’re not even meant to understand. It’s not my battle.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “About Dad.” About hating him, about making her pay for that hate, about wasting two years of my life resenting someone I loved, who was sick.

More than anything, I’m sorry I didn’t tell him I loved him more often.

Marisa doesn’t call until Sunday, right after church. All she says is, “I’m home,” and I’m on my way.

It only takes one ring of the bell for the Marlowes’ front door to swing open. Marisa’s dad stands in the doorway, his face pale, but the space under his eyes dark. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Steps to the side, allowing me through.

I step inside the house, which is quiet except for the low hum of the living room’s TV. Her momma’s nowhere to be seen. There’s no food cooking, no laughing, no anything. My pulse skyrockets as I eye the stairs. I shouldn’t be so nervous. I mean, this is Marisa, for Christ’s sake. The peanut butter to my jelly. The mac to my cheese. The ball to my bat. And she called
me
, so she must not hate me. Maybe. Hopefully.

Dr. Marlowe moves to my side, clearing his throat. “She’s upstairs.” His voice is hoarse. “Packing. We’re leaving for Maryland this afternoon.” He keeps his eyes on the floor as he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “For coming back. You’re the first friend of hers that’s ever come back.” He walks into the kitchen, his head low.

I’m nothing special. I don’t even deserve a thank-you. I just love her.

I take the stairs slowly, gripping onto the railing for dear life. The second floor is dark, with all the doors closed. I stop in front of hers, my muscles tightening as my fist freezes at the wood.

It’s a stupid door. Knock.

Taking a deep breath, I do. There’s a
crash
, followed by a muffled, “Crap!” I laugh, but it comes out more like a donkey heehawing. The door opens, and I think my heart stops. No, it definitely stops, because it’s Marisa. It’s my Marisa. There’s a smile on her lips and in her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed, and her hair’s in that messy-but-perfect knot. She’s wearing jeans that fit just right and a just-barely-too-big long-sleeve Braves shirt. It’s her.

She steps aside and gestures for me to come in, which I do. The overhead light’s on with the fan whirring, creating a draft that feels like heaven to my iron-hot face. I stop in the center of her room. She
clears her throat, and I whirl around, speechless. On the drive over, I didn’t think about what to say or what to do. All I wanted, needed, was to be here. With her.

“Can you please stop looking at me like that?” she says, fiddling with her fingers.

My dead heart jumps back to life with a vengeance. “Like what?”

She rocks back on her heels, chewing her lip. “Like you’re terrified of me.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and I’m done for. I rush forward and wrap my arms around her as tight as I can, kissing her hair over and over because I don’t know what else to do without letting her go, and that ain’t going to happen. She sniffles against my chest, which only makes me hold her tighter.

“I think my parents have even given up on me,” she says, her voice muffled by my shirt.

“They’re probably scared as hell,” I murmur, resting my chin on top of her head.

“Were you scared?” she whispers.

Is she serious? “Marisa, I was freakin’ terrified.”

She pulls away just enough to look up at me, with tears pooled in those green eyes. “I’m okay now.”

She seems to love that word, but I despise it. We must have really different definitions. Instead of saying that, though, I ask, “What happened?”

She shrugs. “My head’s still a little fuzzy. My psychiatrist was on-call, so he met me there. My psychologist rushed over yesterday. I was monitored every minute at the hospital, like I was some rabid animal. The only reason they let me leave this morning was because Dad pulled some power card.”

That’s not what I meant. Something boils inside me. As much as it hurts to do so, I back out of her hold with a shake of my head. I turn so I don’t have to keep looking at the confusion on her face, only to be met with an open suitcase on her bed.

“Y’all are really leaving?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists. After everything that happened this weekend, they’re still shooting off to another state. Un-freakin-believable.

“Yeah,” she drawls. “For two weeks. My grandparents would never forgive us if we bailed. I’ll be back a few days before Jay’s brother’s wedding. I promised your mom I’d help make the billions of arrangements.” She grabs my hand, tugging on it gently until I turn back to her. She narrows her eyes. “Austin? What’s wrong?”

My words build, but I don’t know how to get them out without spitting them at her, and that’s not really an option. I take a deep breath, and another, and then another before saying, “What I meant is, what
happened
to you? On Friday. What caused that—that—”

She tilts her head to the side. “Oh, my God.” She gapes at me and takes a step back. “Are you
mad
?”

My mouth opens, and closes because I don’t have the slightest clue how to form my whirlwind of thoughts into coherent words. I’m not mad. I don’t think I could ever be mad at her. But it’s not sadness. It’s not bitterness.

“I don’t get it,” I finally tell her. “You were fine a few days ago. You were smiling, laughing, and kiddin’ around with me. You kissed me. You hugged me. You
told
me that you were okay then. So how can I believe you now?”

She sighs, moving past me toward the bed. I watch as she folds a shirt, a pair of pants, then another shirt, and places them all in the suitcase, like this is all just another day. Like she didn’t have a damn razorblade sitting on her nightstand less than forty-eight hours ago.

“There’s something you have to understand about depression,” she says. “Things can be going great, and for me, they were awesome. You helped make them awesome.”

She smiles. Even though I know it’s supposed to make me feel better, I can’t return it.

“Depression’s like a thief,” she continues, closing the suitcase and zipping it up. “It weasels its way into your body. Sometimes it’s slow, and sometimes it just barges in like it owns the place. It robs you. Before you know what’s happened, coal is in the place of your heart. Your soul? Empty. Nothing and no one can bring you out of it. No one but you—and sometimes that doesn’t even work. It can last an hour, a week, or six months. There’s no telling.”

She holds my gaze for a moment before adding, “And sometimes, nothing brings you out of it. And it’s that fear that can drive a person to take it into their own hands. Make it end.”

I can’t handle the thought of her being in pain and there being nothing I can do about it. But she lied to me. When I asked her straight-out if she was all right, she lied. So yes, part of me
is
mad.

“Why are you mad?” she asks, crossing the space between us. “Your subconscious demands to be heard, Austin.”

“I’m mad because you lied to my face.” I’m surprised by the bite in my voice, but she doesn’t seem to be at all. “I was right here, in this room, a week before this happened. You looked into my eyes and said, ‘I’m fine.’” My throat tightens, but I force the words through. “Thursday, after my game, you promised me that you were okay. That was another lie. And you know what? You were right last week. You said that I already knew the worst about you, so you had no reason to lie. Why would you lie when the truth counted the most?”

“Because I didn’t want to put that on your shoulders,” she replies without hesitation. “This is my problem. It’s my load to carry. You can’t fix me.”

“And you can’t keep lying to me! I’m not trying to fix you, but you have to understand that it’s freakin’
hard to wrap my head around this. When this slipping stuff happens? Tell someone. Anyone. I shouldn’t have been the one to call your parents in here.” I breathe heavily, holding her gaze, silently pleading with her to understand.
Please
understand.

But instead she winces, like my words slapped her. “You said you wanted to be my boyfriend. I want to be your girlfriend. But if we’re going to be together, this is part of it.” She gestures to herself. “This is the package. I’m a little screwed up sometimes. I’m kind of crazy. I am who I am, and that’s all I can be. I’ve accepted it.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. I don’t know what to say, what I’m supposed to say. This isn’t something they cover in the boyfriend handbook. In Health class, they tell you everything under the sun about how to handle condoms and pregnancy and STDs, but they don’t tell you shit about depression and being head-over-heels for a girl who’s tried to kill herself.

“You want to bring up things we’ve talked about?” She steps toward me, forcing me to take a step back. Another step. And another, until I’m standing just outside her doorway. “How about that night at the pond when I told you that this happens. That I melt sometimes. And I asked you to think about it, to really think about whether or not you could handle it. So maybe you should take the next couple of weeks to decide whether you still think being with me is worth all this.”