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I remember his face.

Red from alcohol and anger.

Fuck you, Ryder.

Last thing my little brother ever said to me.

“I walked away.”

Clara doesn’t move.

“I figured I’d give him ten minutes to cool down. Went around back with some friends.” My throat tightens. “When I came back, he was gone.”

“How?”

“Got into another car.”

“With someone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Were they drinking too?”

I nod. “The driver took a curve too fast.”

Clara’s face changes.

“They hit a tree.”

“Ryder.”

“Cole died before the ambulance got there.”

She doesn’t say she’s sorry. Thank God. I’ve heard sorry enough times for ten lifetimes.

I stare at the floor. “I was supposed to bring him home.”

“You tried.”

“I didn’t try hard enough.”

“You were eighteen.”

“So was the asshole driving.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

She gets quiet again.

I hate that she’s here.

I hate that I told her.

I hate even more that part of me is relieved.

“My dad met me at the hospital.” I haven’t said this out loud in years. “He was fucking destroyed. My mother was screaming. Lila was little. Everybody was losing their minds.” I swallow. “Dad asked me where I’d been.” Clara’s eyes stay on mine. “I told him.”