Page 6 of Endo

But now, the ocean is just another reminder of what I’ve lost. As I clean one of the tanks, the memories creep in, uninvited and relentless. Cruz’s laughter echoes in my mind, teasing and warm. I can hear him calling me “Lenny” with that stupid grin of his, as clear as if he were standing beside me.

I try to shake it off, focusing on the task at hand, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide. I finish up for the day, running my fingers along the edges of the tanks as if drawing strength from the creatures within them.

They’ve been through hell, just like me, but they’re still fighting. Maybe I can too.

By the time I step outside, the sun is hanging lower in the sky, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. The warm Tampa Bay air wraps around me, thick with humidity but comforting in its familiarity. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, glancing at the screen. Bexley. Again.

I don’t bother opening the message. She’s checking in, I’m sure—trying to pull me back into the world I’ve been avoiding since Cruz died. I tuck the phone away, pulling the hood of Cruz’s sweatshirt up over my head.

I take the long way home, winding through side streets with the windows down. The salt-laden breeze feels good against my skin, but it does little to quiet the ache in my chest. By the time I reach my apartment, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and the shadows feel heavier than ever.

My apartment is suffocating.

It’s still the same as it was six months ago, every piece of furniture, every photo, every scrap of Cruz’s life untouched. His helmet sits on the shelf by the door, his jacket slung over the back of a chair. Even the faint scent of his cologne still lingers, clinging to the spaces he used to occupy.

I drop onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest as I grab my phone. The screen lights up with our last photo together—Cruz’s arm around me, both of us laughing like the world couldn’t touch us. My chest tightens as I scroll through the album, picture after picture ripping open wounds I’ve tried so hard to ignore.

A text from Revel buzzes on the screen.

Revel: Hang out tomorrow? I’ll swing by in the afternoon.

I stare at the message, my stomach sinking. I know exactly what “hanging out” really means. Revel’s going to show up here, take one look around the apartment, and start lecturing me. He’ll tell me again how it’s been almost six months, how I can’t heal if I keep clinging to Cruz’s stuff, how I need to start moving forward. I’ve heard it all before.

And I don’t want to hear it again.

But I also know Revel. If I ignore him, he’ll just show up anyway. He doesn’t take no for an answer, not when it comes to what he thinks is best for me. With a sigh, I shoot back a reply:

Lena: Sure, knock yourself out

The smart-ass tone is half-hearted at best, but I hit send anyway, tossing the phone onto the coffee table before I can second-guess it.

I lean back onto the couch, pulling the sleeves over my hands. The fabric still smells faintly like him, like salt and cedarwood, and it cuts through me as sharply as a knife. The apartment is silent except for the soft hum of the fish tank in the corner.

The glowing water casts ripples across the walls, the colors dancing faintly in the darkness. Cruz had set it up for me when we moved in, saying it would remind me of the ocean when I couldn’t be there.

My gaze drifts to the cracked bedroom door. The bed inside is untouched, the sheets still the same as the day Cruz left for his last race. I haven’t slept there since. The couch has become my refuge, the only place where the grief doesn’t suffocate me completely.

I curl up tighter, pressing my face into the hoodie’s collar. “I can’t do this,” I whisper to the quiet room, my voice breaking.

The fish dart around in their tank, oblivious to the heaviness pressing down on me. I wish I could be like them—unburdened, free to simply exist. But I can’t. The ache is always there, constant and unrelenting, as steady as the tide.

Closing my eyes, I let the exhaustion pull me under, hoping sleep will give me a reprieve from the weight of everything I can’t let go.

3

REIGN

Help - Papa Roach

I hesitate outside the Speed Demons’garage, fingers tightening around the door handle of my Mustang. The familiar sounds of the guys working inside hit my ears—tools clinking, metal clanging, and the laughter that used to fill me with a sense of belonging. Now, it just sounds like a reminder of everything I’ve lost since the crash.

The scent of oil and rubber is thick as I step inside. Talon notices me first, his head snapping up from under the hood of a bike.

“Reign! About time, bro.” His grin is wide, but there’s something behind it, something cautious. “Thought we were gonna have to send out a search party.”

I roll my eyes, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Yeah, well, here I am. Happy fucking reunion.”

Thorne’s voice cuts in from across the room. “Well fuck me, look what the cat dragged in! Or should I say what the bottle vomited out.” He leans against a workbench, a smirk tugging athis lips. “How’s it going, sunshine? Judging by the smell, you’ve been doing serious field research in whiskey distillation.”

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