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I hear a faint gasp on the other end of the line, as if Michelle has just realized what she'd said. As if she hadn't meant to bring him up. But why shouldn't she? Am I really so fragile that she's meant to pretend he never existed? That there isn't a giant Cam-shaped hole in each of our lives, one that can never be filled. How is that honoring him?

"I miss him so much," I whisper shakily. My eyes fill with tears and my breath comes too fast. But this isn't my anxiety. I'm not panicking—I'm just grieving.

"Me too, honey," Michelle replies. "He loved you so much."

She has no idea exactly how much Cam loved me. She can't possibly know that he'd been harboring romantic feelings for me all that time, that he'd confessed he was in love with me the night before he died.

"I love him, too," I reply, my voice hoarse and weak. I don't use the past tense. Cam might be gone, but my love for my childhood best friend is still very present. I expect it always will be.

Michelle sighs. "I know that, Rory girl. And so did he," she assures me.

I know that, too. I'd told him I loved him plenty over the years, if not that I was in love with him. My feelings for Cam were very real, but also very complicated, and I'll never know how I really felt about him romantically, what those feelings would have evolved into. Not that it matters now.

"I know," I murmur.

"Look, no rush, but when you're ready, I gave your mom some things I thought you might want. I know you're still dealing with a lot, so take your time," she says in a rush.

She gave my mom some things? Like, there are things of Cam's
here
? In this house?

I want to ask a million questions, but all I can say is "okay".

We end the call, each promising to speak again soon, though we both know the onus will be on me to make good on that promise.

I take a deep, settling breath, and turn to find my mother right behind me, watching me warily. I blink back lingering tears as she wraps me in her embrace. We hold each other for long minutes, just remembering, grieving.

I'm conflicted when I step back. I know she wants to ask me about our conversation, short as it was, though she must have heard enough to have gotten the gist. I'm sure we'd both intended on making some small talk and hanging up—not to talk about how much we love and miss Cam, though I'm glad she didn't walk on eggshells because of my issues.

"You okay, honey?" my mom asks. I don't answer, there's no point.

"You have something of Cam's?" My voice comes out accusatory, and maybe unconsciously I'd  meant for it to. How could she never have mentioned this?

She nods slowly, still watching me carefully.

"And you were planning on telling me this when, exactly?"

"When you decided it was time you were able to talk about him," she retorts.

I deflate, my shoulders sagging with the loss of my confidence, and my mother sighs.

"Of course I wanted to tell you, Rory," she says, her arm sliding around my shoulders. "But I wasn't about to risk triggering a panic attack, and then after Miami… it didn't exactly seem like a good time."

"Yeah," I breathe.
Fair enough.

My mother takes pause, as if considering her options. "There's a box in the closet in the guest bedroom," she says. "It's on the top shelf. When you're ready, it's there. I haven't gone through it. Michelle thought you were the one who should have it, not me."

"Okay."

I take my dinner upstairs and spend some time reading. I go through my evening routine, and get ready for bed. Part of me wants to race to the closet in the guest bedroom, to dive into whatever are the last bits of Cam I didn't even know I had left until a couple hours ago. But I have to be cautious.

I'm not me anymore. I have to consider the consequences, and I'm not sure what I can and can't handle anymore. I half think I should ask my mother to go through it before me after all. Maybe even ask Dr. Schall to look at the contents and give his approval first.

It's ridiculous of course. Only I will know if and when I can handle going through Cam's things, and a month ago I might have felt close, but now… I just don't know.

I'm so exhausted I find my eyes closing before ten, and I fall asleep with my reading lamp on.

****

I
wake up screaming, still half trapped in that horrible dream. Robin had come after me. Sam was there. He wouldn't believe me that there was danger. Robin attacked me, and then went after Sam, driving head-on into his Escalade.

I gasp for air, still stuck living the emotions of suffering events that haven't actually occurred.

And yet they have. Perhaps not exactly as my dream portrayed, but close enough, with a slightly different cast.

Cam.

My mind races, the guestroom closet beckoning me.
Holy shit
, I have a piece of Cam left. Just sitting there, waiting. I find myself suddenly unable to follow my own reasoning from earlier, and every second I don't open that box, it's like I'm just willingly giving him up.

I throw off my comforter and scurry across the hall. My mother's room is at the end of the hall, and though she used to sleep like the dead, she's learned to sleep lighter. She's always half listening for one of my nightmares, and though I always try to be quiet once I awaken, she still gets woken up a few times a week.

The shelf is higher than I can reach with the box pushed all the way back like it is. I have to drag an ottoman over to get a good handle on it.

It isn't big, or especially heavy—maybe just big enough for a microwave or small appliance—and I set it on the full size guest bed that's never been used. I can't even imagine who it would be for.

I stare at the lid a long time. I'm not sure if I'm hesitating out of uncertainty, or if I'm trying to make the moment last, to savor getting some small piece of Cam back.

My name is written on the top, but it isn't taped shut. The tabs are folded in like a four sided accordion so the box stays closed, though, and I sincerely believe it hasn't been opened since Michelle packed it.

I brush my thumb under the seam between two tabs, and pull out the first one. The rest follow quickly, and my eyes land on the item neatly folded on top. Cam's varsity tee shirt. Linton Tornadoes number twenty two. I run my fingers over the fabric, and pull the shirt out of the box, lifting the material to my nose.

I breathe deeply, and I don't know if the faint scent of Cam is really there or just imagined, but I smell it all the same.

I sigh. It's not likely the scent is actually him since I was the last person to wear it. The day he died. He slipped it on me after cleaning the wound from Robin's house key the night before, and I was still wearing it at the hospital the next morning.

I let the material absorb my tears. I let them flow freely. I miss my best friend. I loved him.
Love
him. And it's not fair that he's not here—that because of my decisions with Robin, Cam had to die.

"I miss you," I breathe into the fabric. I hug the material to my chest, and let the sleeve dangle over my shoulder as I reach for the next item in the box.

It's a small photo album from about three years ago. Our parents took countless photos of us when we were kids, but as we got older, most of our photo sharing was done online. But when we were in ninth grade, we took a photography elective and at the end we made this album.

I recall the photos with utter clarity before I even open it. Photographs of the sky, of the school grounds. But mostly we took pictures of each other, and ourselves—making ridiculous faces, or with wide smiles, or rolling our eyes at one another. It's a bittersweet feeling, these memories. Because although it hurts that Cam's not here to look at it with me, I love remembering that time.

We had so much fun in that class. Often we were directed to pair off, which was obviously always with each other, and go photograph certain assignments. I'd always loved our time just the two of us.

It'd been like that when we were kids, but during middle school we became more social. Well Cam did, and so I followed. There were always times when we'd hang out with Chip, Nick, and Perry, but by then the boys and girls had been hanging out together on Friday nights. And then that became progressively more frequent. I still saw Cam plenty, but there were definitely a lot more people around a lot of the time. So that photography class was something of a reprieve for me—a set time where I was certain to get my best friend all to myself.

I smile at the memories. That class came and went with our freshman year, but Cam always made sure to carve out time for the two of us, and he never let me feel left out, or as if his popularity was more important than our friendship. The opposite, in fact. Cam always put me first, with everything, and I wallow in regret that I allowed my hopes for my relationship with Robin to ever come between us.

I remember the morning after I'd overheard Robin tell his friends that he was hooking up behind my back. After Cam retrieved me from my hiding place in the woods, after he took me home and cared for me. I picture his face after I told him I wanted to hear Robin out. The hurt and betrayal in his honey-brown eyes. But also the love and support—the loyalty.

Cam always had my back, even if he didn't agree with my choices. I picture him standing on his front porch as I climbed into the passenger seat of Robin's car. Him calling out for me to call him if I needed him—that he'd come get me. He'd always come get me, I knew. I never doubted that for a moment. Until he was gone.

I lay down in the guest bed hugging Cam's varsity shirt desperately, letting myself feel the loss. I think about how lucky I am to have had him in my life at all. That despite the unbearable loss, that I wouldn't give up a moment of knowing him, of loving him.

I think about Sam. About their similarities, and their differences. I was once put off by how ostensibly similar Sam and Robin seem, but I know now that what makes them alike is barely surface deep. That where it matters, Sam is far more like Cam than he is Robin—that he's more like Cam than anyone else I've ever known. But then again, he is very much uniquely
himself
.

They would have liked each other, I have no doubt of that. In another life, they could have been great friends, and I drift back into sleep with these wistful thoughts of a world I will never know.

Chapter Six

I
wake up feeling a little lighter than most days. Like I do most Tuesdays and Thursdays. Because today I tutor Rory after school, and so I know I have some alone time with her to look forward to. As much as it sucks to pretend I don't want more, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't grateful for every minute I get with her. And it gives me an opportunity twice a week, while tutoring her in a subject she detests, to gauge how she's doing.

Next week will be the final exam, and so this is probably one of the last tutoring sessions we'll have, if not the last. The truth is she's pretty caught up on the coursework, so while I could probably swing talking her into one more session just to be safe, it won't be more than the one.

With the end of the year approaching, there's a cloud of uncertainty hanging over me, casting an ominous shade on everything I do. I see her around, of course, but rarely alone. And as
just friends,
without a legitimate excuse to get together just the two of us, I fear I'm going to lose these opportunities for good.

Lately she's seemed a bit better. Ever since that God-awful brunch. Not all better, of course, but better than she's been since Miami. Except she's still so damn tired all the time, and it drives me crazy.

I jog through the double doors that lead out the gymnasium wing and down the concrete steps to the student lot. Tucker and Dave are already chatting by my truck and I greet them each with our standard handshake.

"'Sup, bro," Dave says in greeting. He's not actually asking me what's up, just saying hello. I nod in return just as the rest of the boys join us.

"Pizza?" Luke asks. He and Marshall always want pizza.

I look to Tuck, silently asking him what only he knows will decide where I'm going to eat lunch.

"Girls want to meet at the diner," he replies.

I nod, tell Luke and Marshall that I'm going with Tuck and Andy, and they shrug and head on their way. Dave comes with us, too, and they climb into my car. I see Carl and Tina by Carl's car, waiting on Rory, who always takes an extra couple of minutes taking the long way around the outside of the building to avoid walking by the locker rooms. If my last class wasn't on the exact opposite side of the building, I'd go out of my way to walk her every day.

I wait to get into my car until I see her joining her friends. I want to wait even more, to see if she seeks me out, makes eye contact, maybe even gives me that sweet smile of hers, but I don't. I have to play the game.

Just friends.

And so I drive my boys to the diner and pretend like hearing the girls will be meeting us for lunch didn't just brighten my day even further, and as I sit in the booth, pretend I'm not carefully positioning myself to sit next to her. It's a farce that at least Tuck, and probably Dave and Andy, see right through, but they don't say a word.

The girls arrive and I get up to let Tina and Carl sit next to their guys. Rory makes her way over to my side of the booth to sit next to me as planned, and her lips slide up into a small, sincere smile. I watch her face with greed, and my eyes inexorably skate over her tight ass as she bends to scoot in next to me. I can't pull them away, so I shut them instead, for the barest of moments, before I grab a menu and pretend to look over offerings I've long memorized in an attempt to disguise my longing.

Dave and Tuck start arguing about the Knicks, who are actually in the playoffs this season, and I take advantage of the distraction and take another survey of Rory. I watch as she stifles a yawn, grinding her teeth together to quash it. But the scrunch of her eyes, they way they water slightly, gives her away.

I lean down to her ear, I can't help it. "You okay?" I ask.

She doesn't turn to me. I guess she's used to me whispering words for her ears only. Instead she bites her lip, telling me that whatever she answers, it won't be the whole truth. She's not a liar, but she does rationalize half-truths to herself, and put enough half-truths together, and you have total bullshit.

"Yeah, fine, why?" Her tone is meant to be light, blasé. But it rings false to me, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have believed her even if I hadn't seen her bite her lip.

I don't call her out on it, though. What would I possibly say?

"You just seem… tired," I make an attempt.

She's not surprised by my words, and I half think she was expecting them. She swallows anxiously though, and I think that maybe she'd been worried I'd notice.

She fakes an ironic chuckle. "I'm always tired, Sam," she murmurs. No one else at the table is remotely interested in our conversation, all engrossed in their own. Either way, only I know why Rory is always tired. Only I know about her nightmares. And it fucking kills me. Knowing I can't protect her from them.

Fuck that. I
can
protect her from them. I
did
protect her from them, in Miami. And a small part of me even resents her a little that by breaking up with me, she took that right from me. And the worst part is—she's the one suffering for it. Because I can handle my own suffering. It fucking sucks, but if it's what she wants, then it's what I'll give her. But watching her yawn for the third time since we sat down fifteen minutes ago, and seeing the sorrow in her eyes… it fucking destroys me. Whatever is left of me, anyway.

She barely picks at her grilled cheese sandwich, maybe eats one and a half french fries. When she yawns again not another ten minutes later, this time unable to even try to suppress it, I narrow my eyes at her. She blinks away from me, swallowing nervously again, or maybe it was another stifled yawn, who even knows anymore?

I lick my lips unconsciously, still leaned into her, itching to say something to her, to tell her she needs to get some fucking sleep, to accuse her lying to me about how she's been doing.

But I say none of these things. I can't. Not in front of half of our friends. They're starting to gain interest in our conversation just from the way I'm glaring at her, and so I turn my attention to my burger. A minute later and everyone is talking about some bar we're going to the night before Senior Sleep-In next Friday.

I glance at Rory's plate and notice she's barely made it on to french fry number three. I nudge her lightly with my elbow, and nod my chin at her plate.

Fucking eat.

She picks up the grilled cheese and takes a small bite, exaggerating her chewing for my benefit. I smile, subtly nodding my approval.

That's it, baby girl,
I think to myself when she takes a second bite, bigger the first. I can call her what I want in my head, and I do. It makes all of this the smallest bit more bearable.

We talk about some events coming up, including prom, which Andy, Tucker, and their girls are looking forward to, but that's about it. To be completely honest, I don't even want to go. But my friends would never let me out of it, and it's easier to just go along with it. It's just one night.

Chelsea has hinted that she'd like to go as friends, but so far I've played dumb to her subtly. I honestly probably won't take her either way, but it's hard to even think about her, to consider her, when I can't think of anything other than the possibility of taking Rory.

That is the one thing that would make that night not fucking suck.

But I don't know if she's up for something like that right now. A month ago I would have said she was. But
that
motherfucking bastard…

Anyway, something tells me that now she might not be open to going with me, even as a friend. She would probably see it as crossing the line of friendship either way, and wouldn't want to blur those lines. And
fuck
am I scared to push her.

I glance over at her again, and am pleased as fucking pie to see that she's finished half her grilled cheese and more than half of her fries. I don't bother hiding my smile. If any of my friends notice the lift in my mood, they don't show it. Rory doesn't notice a damn thing, she's too fucking exhausted to function, but at least she ate something.

I remember that Carl drove them to lunch, and am grateful that Rory's not driving. I'd hate to start a fight by insisting she hand her keys over to Carl.

We walk them to their car and Dave follows along. Tucker kisses Carl through the driver's window as I help Rory into the backseat. She gives me a curious look, acting like she doesn't need my help, but she practically stumbles into the seat. I grimace. She really needs to get some motherfucking sleep.

When there is nothing more I can do without making a scene of one kind or another, I reluctantly close the door and step back from Carl's A4.

I keep my eyes open when we pull back into the student lot. We left just after the girls, but only we got stuck at that damn red light on Branch Road, and their car is already parked, Carl and Tina heading up the steps and back into the building. But Rory's not with them. She wouldn't be, of course, and I scan the perimeter of the building in search of her, but she's nowhere in sight.

There's no way she could have made it around the corner of the building so quickly, and I cut the engine and jump out of the car before my boys can even unbuckle their seatbelts. I catch up to Carl and Tina at the double doors.

"Where's Rory?" I demand.

Carl gives me a look, telling me she thinks I'm overreacting. But I don't give half a shit.

I raise my eyebrows, waiting with thinly veiled impatience until Carl rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Relax, Cap. She just had to get something from her car."

I don't wait. I turn and scan the lot for her jeep. I don't know why I'm suddenly overcome with the threat of panic. Somehow I know that Rory's story about getting something from her car is bullshit. It's another one of her half-truths, I know it. She may have gone to her car, but I have the terrifying, plaguing suspicion that she intends to get behind the wheel and the girl can barely walk straight right now.

It takes me an interminable moment to spot it, parked against the back fence, just about as far from the school building as she could possibly have parked. And it pisses me off further. Has the girl learned fucking
nothing
? Getting behind the wheel when she can barely keep her eyes open, and parking so far away when she knows she'll be leaving school late after our tutoring session. Even if she knows I'll walk her to her car, it's still an unnecessary risk, and she should fucking know better.

I jog to her jeep in record time, ignoring curious looks. The only relief I have is the absence of her brake lights, telling me that at least she's not pulling out. But she doesn't appear to be retrieving anything from it either. In fact, she doesn't appear to be outside her car at all.

I peer through the back window, but can't see if she's in the driver's seat, she keeps the headrest too high and she's too small. I make my way around to the driver's side and feel a simultaneous surge of anger and relief. Because her small frame is slumped in the seat, her head laid back and mouth slightly open in sleep. I don't doubt that she had every intention of driving out of this parking lot, but I thank God that she didn't even get to start the engine before she closed her eyes and passed the fuck out.

I take a deep breath, exhaling my frustration with the whole situation. I run hand after hand through my hair, before I decide what I need to do.

Rory needs a fucking nap. And I'm going to make sure she gets it. And not in a goddamn car.

I pull the handle, further conflicted over my relief that she didn't lock it, and my anger that she
didn't fucking lock it.
She doesn't even flinch at the sound.

She looks like an angel when she sleeps. Her thick fans of lashes hide the soft gray circles of exhaustion that I know lie just under her tired eyes. The faint flush of sleep stains her pale cheeks, which still have the slightest spattering of sun freckles from Miami—physical proof that our time as something more than friends was real.

A thick curtain of her long, auburn hair has fallen over half her face, and it blows faintly with each puff of air exhaled from her perfect pink lips. She's so beautiful it takes my breath away like some fucking cliché. I shake my head, silently chastening myself. I didn't come here to stare at her while she sleeps. Well… not in her fucking car, anyway.