October's Secretum: the first 3000 words (approx.) of EBA2

My face when I saw the poll results:

Real talk, though: I wouldn't have made this an option if I didn't know it would win. So you won't find me complaining. It makes this month's Secretum easy, and gives me more time to prep for the runner-up.

Sometime in November, you can expect to receive my version of a The Making of: Sweet Wicked Thing aka a deep-dive into my process (prepare for a whole lot of rambling vs an actual step-by-step "process"; if it was easy and straight forward, it wouldn’t have taken this long to release it 😅 ).

So, without further ado, for those who want it (I completely understand if you'd rather wait to read it when it's all finalized and there's a set date and whatnot)...

The first 2,900ish words of Every Breath After: Part Two, unedited.

ENJOY.

(And please for the love of Mason and Jeremy, do not share this anywhere. Up until the other day, not even Kayla has read any of it. That's how close to the chest I've kept this book.)

*Disclaimer: while I don't have plans to change anything... because of who I am as a person, I'm reminding you that it is POSSIBLE. I go back and tweak things like nobody's business, usually word placements, syntax, etc. Nothing major that is here SHOULD change...but I like to leave the door open for change as much as possible. #anxietyprobz

Interlude


It’s been said that April is the cruelest month.

“…breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire…stirring old roots with spring rain…”

And standing here, outside O’Leary’s in a puddle of melted snow, watching the hope, relief, and anticipation alighting Mason Wyatt’s face visibly crumble into nothing…

Well, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps T.S. Eliot was right.

The arm that comes around my shoulders is heavy, but not in a domineering way. It’s heavy because of the message I know it sends. Heavy like the single-syllable endearment that just rang out into the night.

Babe.

Heavy like the heart thumping in my chest when I see the wheels turning in Mason’s head—the questions…

The accusation.

Why didn’t you tell me?

He doesn’t have to verbalize it. Hell if it’s not the same question now racing through my mind, despite the fact we both know the answer.

Why didn’t I tell him?

“Mason,” I say carefully. “This is Nick.”

A subtle shake of his head.

A denial—a plea—bleeding from glacier blue eyes that gleam in the night.

Please don’t ruin this for me, I beg silently. Please…

“My boyfriend.”

***

TEN MONTHS EARLIER

JUNE

It’s still dark.

That’s the first thing I notice when I crack my heavy, sleep-crusted eyes open.

The second being the Straylight Run song playing quietly in one ear, and the steady heartbeat thudding against the other.

I didn’t fall asleep like this. He must’ve rolled onto his back at some point during the night. Either I followed, or he took me with him, because now I’m the one wrapped around him like an octopus, using his chest as a pillow.

A very naked chest, might I add.

Eyes squeezed shut, I focus on my breathing and count to five. Bracing for the inevitable, yet wishing for the impossible.

Story of my fucking life.

His chest continues to rise and fall evenly against my cheek and the hand I’ve got splayed over his left pec, the one that twitches reflexively when a pebbled nipple tickles the center of my palm.

I freeze at the same time his breath hitches.

I wait.

What will he do?

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and shifts slightly under me, jostling the leg I’ve got bent and slung over his waist.

And that’s when I feel it.

Fuckfuckfu—

Not just my own morning wood pushing against my joggers. But Mason’s, nudging the inside of my thigh.

This is far from the first time I’ve woken to the feel of his erection pressing against me. It’s biology. It happens. I’m not foolish enough to believe it has anything to do with me.

But it’s one thing when Mason’s passed out after a night of drinking, curled around me from behind, fully clothed, snoring noisily in my ear, dead to the world, reeking of booze and sweat and cigarettes.

And something else completely when he’s sober, shirtless, and smelling like all my teenage fantasies come to life. And it’s me draped over him. And he’s got his hand lazily cupping my thigh, his long piano fingers dangerously close to curling around my ass.

His chest rises, lifting my head with it, and I hold my breath, praying silently, please don’t wake up… knowing I won’t be able to resist doing something stupid if he does. One look at his sleepy pale blue eyes and it’ll be game over. I’ll be lost. I just know it.

Would that really be so bad? a voice pipes up softly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and mentally tick off all the reasons why yes, yes it would.

I can’t.

I refuse to.

No matter how tempting it might be.

No matter how easy it would be to give in and believe he could actually want this—want me…like he hinted at back in March, when he started to offer up the idea of exploring something before I shut it down. Like how it felt when he met my goodbye kiss with enough passion to make me hesitate. Make me question. Make me hope, if only for a moment, before reality came crashing back down on me.

It’s not real.

It’s not you he wants.

And even if by some crazy fucking twist of fate it was and he did…

It still wouldn’t change anything.

And that’s the real tragedy here.

I scoff silently. That’s the tragedy here? Really?

With that much-needed, yet equally despised sobering reminder, a familiar weight presses down on my chest that has me internally scrambling and slamming down doors upon doors to keep out as many negative thought patterns as I can.

On the outside though, I’m calm and in control as I carefully peel away from Mason. Holding my breath and steeling myself for what will happen if he wakes up.

Would he know something’s wrong if he saw me right now?

The Mason from my childhood—my best friend, the one who didn’t lose the love of his life, the one who wasn’t an addict—yes. He’d notice something amiss immediately, even if he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

But this Mason? I’m not sure.

Up until last fall, I would’ve said no.

Now though…now I just wish I could say no, and not question whether or not if it’s true. It would make things easier. Make things simple again.

Make it easier to walk away.

Biting my lip, I take a step back from the lounge chair. I don’t tear my gaze from his face, watching as creases form, his lashes fluttering…

He brings the arm that was just holding me to his chest. Shifting it around like he’s searching for something.

A lump hard as a rock lodges itself in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Seconds pass.

He doesn’t wake up.

I wish I could say I’m not a little disappointed. Angry even, irrational as it is. Who I’m angry with I couldn’t even say.

You know that’s not true.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat to collect myself, before quickly gathering up my things. Sketchbook, pencil…

I search the grass for my phone and the other earbud, only belatedly remembering I let Mason wear one.

Shit.

I glance at his downcast face slackened with sleep, frowning when it occurs to me how unusual it is for him to sleep this heavily. 

Is this why he was so desperate for one last night together? Has he not been sleeping well?

And the one question I resent more than anything, but can’t not ask:

Is he using again?

My pulse quickens. Skin growing tingly in a way that signals nothing good.

No, no, if he relapsed, I’d know, I tell myself firmly.

You haven’t been around…

I give my head a little shake at the reminder.

Fuck.

No.

No.

Shawn and Waylon would’ve noticed. Someone would’ve noticed and done something. Someone would see…

But what if they don’t?

What if they’re too wrapped up in their own lives to pay enough attention to him?

What if you leave, and—

Putting a grinding halt to that train of thought, I’m just about to say to hell with my AirPods—hopefully the music cutting out won’t wake him—when I realize the one he had in must’ve fallen out at some point. Taking care not to touch him, not to wake him, especially now, I pluck the white plastic earbud from where it rests near his shoulder.

Keeping it clutched in my hand, I take a step back, then another. And another.

Turn around, I order myself.

Walk away.

Despite the warning bells going off in my head, there’s a familiar itch tugging at my fingers that has nothing to do with my clammy hands and racing heart and clenched throat, but one that begs for me to flip open my sketchpad and put pencil to paper.

It’s Pavlovian at this point—drawing when I feel an oncoming panic attack.

But it’s more than that too. It’s the knowledge that this is goodbye. For real. My goodbye. The one just for me to carry, like so many other moments that have gone into the saga that is our friendship…and the unrequited feelings I’ve never been able to shake.

I can picture exactly how I’d draw this scene with my mind’s eye. Mason, asleep under a starlit sky. In his arms a spectral figure in place of where I just laid, tangled with his limbs, held protectively, possessively against his chest. An amorphous figure made of galaxies.

Who haunts your dreams, Mason Wyatt?

It would make a good epilogue to follow our bittersweet goodbye in the cemetery.

Soft. Simple. Left open to interpretation, as with each new panel, the image of him shrinks, darkness edging in from the sides. A cloud-streaked night moving in, slowly blotting him out.

But who’s letting him go?

Who’s flying away?

It will be as much a mystery to those who look at it, as the identity of the figure he clutches to his chest. A little bit of a mystery even to me.

Sometimes, that’s just how it goes.

Finally, I manage to get my feet moving, when something sticking out of a wicker basket over by the door catches the corner of my eye.

A blanket. I didn’t notice it last night.

Before I can think better of it, I set my stuff on the patio table, grab the blanket, and return to the lounge chair, hesitating only for a moment before shaking it out and spreading it over Mason. I tell myself it’s because he’ll get cold now that he no longer has the warmth of a body next to him. I tell myself it's just the nice thing to do. The friendly, considerate thing to do.

My hand hovers near his face. Fingers twitching inches from the ashy brown hair messily falling over his forehead.

My eyes burn. My throat constricts painfully.

There’s a rope around my chest slowly growing tighter. And tingles have spread from my fingers all the way to my neck. Am I too hot? Too cold? My body can’t seem to decide.

All I know is I’m too something, when I really need to be nothing at all right now.

Go.

Go now.

Screwing my eyes shut, I retract my hand, and turn away without a backward glance. A silent goodbye swelling my throat.

Closing out the music app on my phone, I stuff the earbuds in my pocket, and collect my things, moving on autopilot as I creep back inside the house and through the kitchen. Bypassing the living room, I ascend the stairs as quietly as I can so as not to wake anyone.

The guest room is dark, save for a halo of soft white light cresting my periphery. But my feet are moving faster than my thoughts now, so it isn’t until I’m kneeling over my backpack, shoving my stuff inside, that the source of that light registers in the form of a hand brushing my shoulder.

Izzy?

It’s so stupid. So senseless and irrational, the way her name rings out in my head like a lost little boy’s plea.

And yet, for a moment, hope pierces me all the same, overriding logic. Driving through my chest like an arrow. It’s so sudden and unexpected that I have no time to prepare for the flesh-ripping agony that comes not even a second later when reality rips it out of me.

My eyes fall shut, and I clutch the bag like it’s the mangled shreds of my flesh where the barbs tore through.

“Jeremy?” a voice whispers.

Phoebe.

Swallowing thickly, I ease my grip, flexing the stiffness out of my hands. With the bag in hand, I take it to the attached bathroom, flipping on the overhead light. I ignore the figure following after me, hovering on the threshold, watching on silently as I grab my shit and stuff it in my bag.

“Should I get my brother?”

Yanked from my spiraling thoughts, I snap my head up, meeting Phoebe’s worried gray eyes in the mirror. “What? No. Why?”

Her frown deepens, and I wince, averting my gaze.

Defensive much?

“He’s sleeping,” I mutter, shoulders slumping.

She doesn’t say anything right away, so I busy myself scouring the mess we made for anything that might be mine.

Most of the make-up belongs to the girls, but there’s a couple things that are mine that I bought specifically for this weekend. Body paint. Glitter.

 It looks like a bomb went off in here: clothes strewn across the floor, make-up scattered across just about every surface…

We’d left the bedroom in a similar state before leaving for the parade. Quite the feat, seeing as we’d only been here since Friday, and it’s barely even Sunday now.

I bunked with them, because the only alternative was the living room with Shawn and Mason. Mason, who said he’d be happy to take the floor so I could have the second couch. All but begging me with his sad puppy eyes to say yes.

Yes, let’s pretend I didn’t hammer the final nail in the coffin that is our friendship by confessing my love for you.

Yes, let’s lie to ourselves and imagine it’s just like old times, having a slumber party on my parents’ living room floor.

Yes, let’s torture JJ some more.

Okay, is that last one completely fair to him?

No, but fuck if I’m thinking rationally right now.

 “Are you leaving?” Phoebe says, yanking me from my thoughts. 

“Yeah,” I reply tightly. “I’ve gotta get back home.” I frown, glancing at her over my shoulder. “Wait, what time is it? Why are you awake?”

“Just after four…” she says distractedly. She wrings her hands together, brow furrowed as she stares at the bag in my hand.

It doesn’t escape me she only answered my first question. “Are you okay?”

Blinking, she looks up at me. “What? Oh, yeah.” She waves me off. “They upped my Spiro last week. Makes me wake up to pee a lot.” Concern returns to her gaze, sharpening her focus on my face. “Did…did something happen?”

I frown, about to ask what she’s talking about when it hits me, understanding washing over me like a bucket of ice water. I shake my head. “No, he’s fine. It’s nothing like that. He—”

“I wasn’t asking about him,” she cuts in bluntly, not breaking my gaze. She tilts her head. “Are you okay?”

I stare at her for a beat too long, before glancing away.

No. No, I’m not.

But I will be.

I have to be.

Anything else is out of the question.

In my periphery, Phoebe’s rapidly shaking her head, her features scrunching like she smelled something bad. “Don’t even answer that. You’re obviously not.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, calling forth that numbness I’ve spent years relying on to shield me from the pain—from the truth that is so determined to grind me up into dust. It feels as selfish as it does selfless.

Taking one last sweep of the bathroom to make sure I didn’t forget anything, I bottle up the emotions that would betray those two words for the lie they are, before zipping up my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and turning to face Phoebe head-on. “I just have to get home. Something came up.”

She frowns, clearly not falling for my bullshit..

I go to brush past her, but she refuses to move, effectively blocking my only way out. Eyes wide and bright, she searches mine.

“Phoebe…”

“What do I tell him when he wakes up looking for you? Because you know he will.”

I smooth out my expression. “Nothing. You never saw me.”

Her eyes bug. “You do realize— 

“I’ll text Will and let him know I left.”

Her brow pulls in tight, lips pursed.

“Phoebe,” I say quietly, my voice straining when I add, “Please.”

Something knowing fractures her gaze, and she nods, hanging her head. I try not to feel bad—like I did something wrong…hurt her…

She might be more observant and intuitive than most people I’ve met, but she’s also only sixteen. Life hasn’t yet dimmed the stars in her eyes. But one day it will, and then, she will understand.

Drumming up something to say, all I manage is a weak, pathetic, “I’m sorry.”

Her head snaps up, eyes rounding. “Why are you apologizing? You have nothing, nothing to be sorry for.” She searches my gaze. “You know he loves you, right? He just—”

I flinch. I can’t help it.

She didn't mean it like that.

“Jer—”

“Don’t.”

Her eyes fall shut and she nods.

Biting back an angry retort—the urge to snap and tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, not really, not when it comes to this… I remind myself she’s just a kid. And Mason’s her brother. Obviously, she’s going to try and defend him.

Hey, guess what…we both have little sisters now.

The memory strikes forth like an anvil, cleaving me into pieces.

Fuck. Fuck, I can’t do this.

This time, when I shoulder past her, she doesn’t try to stop me.