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Guilt crashed through my champagne-shaped equilibrium, exposing the painful void in my chest, leaving me raw and hurting. The white noise roared like a mighty wave, louder than ever, amplified by the alcohol. Consuming me. Drowning me.

I’m the problem. It’s me.

I was such an inconvenience.

I should not be here. I should be with them. I should be with them.

“Please, I don’t want any more. I’m done,” I whispered, placing my glass on the breakfast bar. Turning slowly, I walked, with as much nonchalance as I could muster, away from their frigid hostility and out of the kitchen.

I had to go. It was the only answer.

Go.

Go as far away as I could.

I headed to the front door, opened it, and before I knew it, I was running. Running hard, running fast, running away—away from the pain, away from them. Running like I’d never run in my life. My body answered my need to disappear. Adrenaline, fueled by alcohol, coursed through my veins, helping me flee. I ran onward, oblivious to my surroundings, just wanting to get away from everything. I kept going, an extraordinary, elemental energy driving me forward, emanating from my dead empty soul—allowing my aching limbs to move. I ran until my lungs screamed in agony. Any pain was better than the hideous grief that was slicing me open.

And then someone or something grabbed my hair, and I was falling, falling down, but not onto the ground—into Dylan’s lap, where he’d sunk down on the pavement, his arms curled around me.

Holding me close. I opened my mouth in a silent scream as grief overwhelmed me. “I miss them so much. I want to die. I want to die.”

“I know, Emily. I know,” his anguished, winded voice murmured, hoarse and plaintive against my ear.

I buried my head in the crook of his neck, clinging to him as huge, gut-wrenching sobs wracked my body over and over and over.

“Please, make it go away,” I cried.

“Oh, sweetheart, I would if I could,” he said in an agonized whisper. He cradled my head and held me.

And through the haze of my pain, I became aware that he was panting hard, dragging air into his body.

“I should be with them.”

“No, Emily. No. You’re here with me now. I’ll take care of you.” He sounded raw, close to tears, as he rocked gently to and fro. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he soothed.

“I never got to say goodbye.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart.”

We stayed huddled on the pavement for I don’t know how long as I sobbed uncontrollably, soaking his shirt with my tears.

“That’s right. Cry it all out,” he murmured.

After a while, my cries subsided into dry heaves and hiccuping sobs. He shifted and stood, in one steady move, managing to keep hold of me in his arms. And he turned around and carried me back to the house. Through the fog of grief, I was vaguely aware that I had run three blocks.

Who knew I could run so far?

Lulu was waiting, pacing in the driveway, her hands clasped together. She hurried ahead to open the front door for us.

“Do you want me to fetch your bag?” Lulu asked.

“No.” Dylan’s response was curt.

He carried me upstairs and into the spare room, where he laid me on the bed and sat on the edge, gazing down at me, his eyes as bleak as winter.

“I want to be in the new room,” I whimpered.

“Please no, not now, not tonight. Not when you’re like this. When you’re on a more even keel, you can move in then. Please.”