Page 143 of Before Now

“You heard us,” I say.

He nods, pursing his lips. “I heard enough.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. Are you mad at me?”

“Not really. I’m fucking livid at Foster, though.”

I’m about to tell him it was me who didn’t want to tell him, but he sighs and tips his head back.

“No one ever told me your name after they got back from Europe. Just that some chick broke Foster’s heart, and he went afterher. And then everything went to shit. Months went by with Chase in his recovery. There never felt like a good time to bring up the ghost girl. The one time I did, Foster asked if I’d do him a solid and forget about it entirely.”

I nod, crossing my covered arms as I go to lean beside him. He angles his face to see me, solemn and with a haunting devastation to his eyes. Suddenly I wonder if it’s always existed, and I haven’t noticed until now.

“I’m sorry for what happened to Chase, too.” I pick at a loose thread on the sweatshirt’s hem. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”

His gaze lowers. “Yeah.”

We fall silent, and I stare up at the sky even if the city lights block the stars. The pang in my chest grows as I think about the extent of the damage caused—one moment catalyzing so many others. It all comes back to me.

When I ran from Daniel, I set so much suffering in motion.

After a few minutes, Colton straightens, listening to someone through his earpiece.

“Be there in a few,” he tells them. He tips his head toward the bus’s door. “We can come back out after everyone else is on the bus if you want.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be okay.”

And I am. Until I climb the ladder and crawl under the blankets. Then I’m not okay for a while.

* * *

When I wake up—thoughI barely sleep—the erratic emotions from last night have dulled to a soft blur.

The last couple weeks of challenging myself to not hide from the past so much, I imagine, make a difference in how I’m coping with the new information. The reawakened anxiety that accompanies it.

No panic attacks though.

It’s early, so I expect everyone to still be asleep. But when I descend, all the emotions surge again. Foster’s on the couch in sweatpants and no shirt. He’s facing me, his back against the arm, both knees bent to prop up his notebook as he writes.

He flicks his eyes up to me and slides out an earbud. The apprehension’s evident in his face while he waits for me to decide how the scene unfolds. I feel the new tear, which first developed last night. Hearing the strain in his voice when talking about Chase had part of me wanting to run into his arms. But the other part can’t reconcile how he played a role in what nearly cost Roman his life—and broke me in ways I never thought possible.

Suffice to say, I hate this tear as much as the old.

Especially since Foster’s no more at fault now than five years ago—I’m still the root.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I admit.

He nods. “You don’t have to know. You just need to feel it.”

What I feel is the tug. To him.

So I follow it.

Foster moves the notebook aside when I come to crawl between his knees to lie on his chest. He adjusts to accommodate. Once we’ve settled, he kisses the top of my head. My cheek presses against his heated skin, and he sets his music to play through the speakers. His fingers run up and down my back as I absorb everything him and fall asleep.

If dreams were premonitions, mine would be something about lights and tunnels and annihilating trains.

* * *

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