It could be hours.
Time doesn't mean anything when you're drowning.
Eventually, the tears run dry.
I'm left feeling hollow and raw, like someone's reached inside me and scraped out everything that used to fill the empty spaces.
But there's something else too. Something lighter.
Relief, maybe.
The relief of finally letting go of all the grief I've been carrying since I was nine years old.
I push myself to my feet, my legs unsteady, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.
Red eyes. Wet cheeks.
The face of a man who's been broken open and doesn't know how to put himself back together.
But I'm still standing. That has to count for something.
Leah comes to the clubhouse on day twelve.
I see her truck pull into the parking lot from the garage window, and for a moment, I consider hiding.
Things have been tense between us since Vanna went to rehab.
Leah's never forgiven her for the jewelry—our mother's necklace, the only thing that survived the fire—and she's made it clear she thinks I'm a fool for not giving up on her.
But Leah is my sister.
The person I chose to save when I couldn't save everyone.
I can't hide from her, no matter how much I might want to.
She finds me in the garage, because of course she does.
Everyone knows to look for me here these days.
"You look terrible," she says, echoing Ruger's words from a week ago.
"So I've been told."
She moves into the space, her nurse's scrubs still on from her shift at Ruby Memorial.
There's a weariness in her eyes that I recognize—the weariness of someone who spends her days fighting battles she can't always win.
"Have you eaten today?" she asks.
"Aunt Ellie brought breakfast."
"That was twelve hours ago, Garrett."
I shrug.
Food hasn't been a priority.
Nothing has been a priority except surviving until the next minute, the next hour, the next day.
