Page 2

“My baby,” she mutters, and my mouth hitches into a bright smile. “C’mere, Seven.”

He doesn’t wait for my permission before hopping up into her arms to loll his head next to hers.

My dog is loyal to a fault, has protected her from the first day he met her. When I first started coming home without her, Seven whimpered and whined, echoing my own grief of it all. He still whines at least once when I show up at home without her.

Now, his tail wags happily as he snuggles into her on the bed.

“Did you want a shower, P?”

She shakes her head, eyes half lidded as she gazes up at me. “Too tired.”

I comb back a few strands of her hair, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her fingers lazily graze the sides of my jaw where I’ve recently shaved.

“Sometimes I think you’re not real,” she murmurs, soft and sleepy. “That I dreamed you up.” Her brown eyes are burning, almost distraught as she takes me in. I feel like I’m losing her in real time, so I sink into the mattress and tighten my arms around her.

As if that might keep her here.

As if that might make her mine again. How it’s supposed to be.

The soft glow of the lamp dances over Paloma’s face as she drifts to sleep.

Once, she’d told me she didn’t like total darkness. “I don’t like finding my way in the dark,” she’d admitted softly, shrinking in on herself. “Like when I turn off the light and it’s too dark and my eyes haven’t adjusted. I just . . . I don’t like not being able to tell where I am.”

Now, I always keep it on for her, an amber hue to everything in my simple room. It won’t be long before she rouses, usually frightened at first, and then hungry when she realizes she’s here, safe with me.

It’s our routine now. It hurts, but I worry it would hurt infinitely worse to not know if she was okay.

To always be wondering.

So, for now, this is enough. I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give—even if it’s only this, forever.

Chapter 1

NOW: Senior Year, January

Bennett

“Sometimes I think you’re not real,” she whispers, her hands tracing my jaw lightly, brown eyes burning enough that my throat catches. “That I dreamed you up.”

Then she opens her mouth again. She’s asking me something—begging me—but her words are silent screams and no matter how much I plead, I can’t hear her.

I feel a little like I want to cry, enough that my hand reaches up to rub at my eyes.

Water—not tears.

The harsh spray of the shower turns painful. My focus shifts to the soap suds sliding down my body to swirl into the drain, shaking me from the memory.

She’s not here. I’m alone. Again, I remind myself, a harsh but necessary mantra.

I’m in the shower. She’s not here.

I’m in the shower and she is gone. Remember.

I press my hands to the tile, breathing harshly as I try to center myself. I count the scattered black squares amongst the gray tiles again, then reach for my body wash again—despite how inflamed my skin is from the steaming hot shower I’ve been standing in too long already.

It’s the only way to make the vision of her disappear.

Today is a game day, which means I need to get back into my routines before something completely derails my focus.