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“What night?”
“You don’t remember?” He laughs and shakes his head. “I think it was . . . spring? Sophomore year? We threw that big party here for the first time—nearly got out of hand with all the people who came.”
I barely remember the night he’s talking about. I’d never been much of a drinker, but I had indulged that night. Too much—and I’d hated it.
“Anyway—Paloma was there. I remember, she was by herself, and I think she was wasted, but some asshole wouldn’t leave her alone. And I was about to intervene, before your big ass dog slammed past me and tackled the guy. You really don’t remember this?”
Eyes wide, I shake my head.
“Seven attacked someone?”
“It was a mess—I can’t believe you don’t remember this. Although now that I’m thinking about it, I think Seven was only out because Freddy helped walk you upstairs to your room and you both passed out in your bed.”
The smile that pushes at my lips is mild embarrassment but also just a warm feeling of friendship. That might be the closest, at least physically, Freddy and I ever were.
“But yeah, Seven just went after this guy, barking—and I’d never heard him bark before. He was growling and yelping. And then after I pulled on his collar to get him off, he just collapsed himself on top of Paloma where she was sitting. I think he slept there with her that night—I mean, I know you remember us all waking up to fifty-something people in our house.”
He’s right. I do remember that absolute nightmare of anxiety and terror. Rhys nearly had to lock me in his bedroom—the one room somehow untouched by chaos—while he conducted everything.
“It just . . . makes a lot of sense now.” He shakes his head. “And I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. With Paloma or by shutting you out during my panic attack stuff. I just . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I grasp his shoulder. “All good.”
“Is it?” he asks, stopping me before I can pass him by. He’s quieter, even though we’re alone in the room together. “You . . . you skipped practice. Twice. That’s not . . . the last time you did that was with me, freshman year, when you were drowning and wouldn’t tell me why.”
I don’t say anything. I barely move.
“Was it her?” His voice drops, softer. “Was that night, New Year’s Eve, when I found you having a panic attack—was that because of her?”
“It wasn’t her fault,” I insist. “We’d just broken up and I wasn’t . . . I didn’t take it well.”
I’m still not taking it well—I’ve never gotten answers to that night, but I’m not going to ask about it now.
“You’re my best friend, Ben,” he says. “I just want to make sure you aren’t going to get hurt like that again.”
Bitterness and resentment gnaw at me. I jerk my shoulder from his grip, eyes dipping down toward his feet. “Yeah? Well, at least you’ll know if I’m the one hurting. Considering I don’t shut you out.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him, but don’t have it in me to regret it.
“Ben—”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand as I step past him and grasp my door. “It’s all good, Rhys.” I smile over my shoulder at him.
It is all good, at least to me. The past is in the past and I’m tired of everyone wanting me to focus there, when Rhys has Sadie and is okay now; when Paloma is here now—and happy.
That’s enough.
It has to be.
Rhys and I will be fine; we always are. But there are times when I wonder what it was that broke the constant chain I thought would link us forever—the hit he took last year, or the one he dealt me junior year.
Chapter 55
THEN: Junior Year, November
Bennett
“You have to try.”
