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Amber Blake is having dreams, and they just might be the key to saving her best friend, Mark.
Unfortunately, she's too preoccupied pretending to hate the boy next door, Carter Hayes. Secretly hoping to rekindle what once was, Amber atte...
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Carter brushes the tears from my cheeks. "Baby, don't."
It's no use. Hard as I try, I can't stop the sobs that catch in my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I pull away from him and stumble to my feet, using the log for balance. He disrupts the blanket in his haste to follow me, but I shake my head.
"Stop, I'm fine, I just—" Talking only makes it worse, but I force it out anyway. "I just need a second."
Turning my back on him, I walk a few feet away to the edge of the tree line. I don't want him to see me. I don't want him to hear me. I don't want any witnesses when I let it all hit.
Because when I do, it's fucking agonizing.
Back in New York, on the day Charlie showed me around the city, we rode the subway just so I could experience it. And when we were down there, I stood near the platform's edge, even after the automated speaker told me not to. Even when the train burst through the tunnel and barrelled down the track, I just watched it come. And when it whipped past, for a split, horrifying second, I imagined what it would feel like if it hit me.
Now I know. It would feel like this.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I throw a hand over my mouth to muffle my cries. Carter's story plays on loop in my head, each detail stabbing me through the chest like a blunt knife. I can't stop picturing their faces — their screams — as they tried to fight something they didn't even understand. Emma and Josie, only a few years older than Brynn at the time. Ronnie, so broken he couldn't do more than follow commands meant to keep him safe.
But Mark is the final blow that sends the blade straight through my heart. This wasn't an isolated incident, not by the way Carter described it. Mark was dealing with this alone, for who knows how long, and I can't help but blame myself. I spent every day with Mark in the months leading up to sixth grade — and I never noticed a thing.
I inhale sharply through my nose to help stop the world from spinning. It's hard to tell if I'm gonna faint or vomit, but I fight relentlessly to do neither. I can't give away how upset I am, not if I want Carter to keep talking. I don't need him trying to make a safety call, even though the last thing I want is to hear more. But this isn't about me, and I owe it to Mark to listen to it all. I wasn't there for him then; he deserves to have his story heard now.
