Since the Internet is giving me nothing, I guess my clues are in my house and with my family. I spend the rest of the afternoon creating new social media accounts in case anyone from my past wants to contact me.

Against my better judgment, I look up Easton Royal. He has an Instagram account that has about fifteen pictures—mostly of planes, his truck and his brothers. While he’s not much of a selfie taker, there are plenty of pictures of Easton out there. In them, he’s almost always smiling, looking impossibly gorgeous and almost always with his arm around a girl. There’s several of him kissing different girls. I find a couple of him with Felicity. She looks at him as if she’s already booked their wedding venue.

He doesn’t take a bad picture. Not when he’s sweaty and disheveled after football practice, not when he’s arriving to school half asleep, not when he’s standing at the pier in front of the Ferris wheel—wait a second.

That’s the picture Felicity shoved in my face at the hospital. I didn’t get a close look at it before. The picture on the screen is so pretty it looks fake. The lights of the pier are like brush strokes against a black canvas. There’s an ethereal glow in the center, highlighting a tall boy bent over a shorter girl. His hand is in her hair. She’s clutching his waist. Her cute cropped hoodie is riding up, exposing a sliver of skin. Their lips are fused together. My heart rate picks up and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I trace the outline of his back and then press my thumb against my lips.

What had it felt like to have been kissed by him like that?

I scroll through the Easton Royal hashtag (because, of course, he has his own hashtag). I pause on one that was taken a year ago. It’s dark, but I can make out the two individuals in the picture. It’s Easton and his stepsister/foster sister/whatever, Ella. She looks hot in a black bandage dress with cutouts. His hands are plastered to the places where her bare skin is exposed. Her arms are wrapped around his neck. Their lips are fused together. His eyes are closed. It’s an intimate, tender moment beautifully captured and it makes me want to vomit.

Easton screws around a lot – 5.

Easton likes his foster sister – 5.

Felicity’s right about a lot of shit – 4.

Unfortunately.

The bell rings. I force myself to turn off the computer. The chair at the end of the table scrapes against the floor, catching my attention. I look up and meet some girl’s eyes. She gives me a quick onceover and then flounces off without a word.

The urge to run after her and apologize is strong despite the fact that I don’t know her and don’t know why she’s mad at me. It’s possible I did her wrong before and can’t remember. Who knows how many boyfriends I’ve slept with, how many classes I cheated in, how many times I hurt people?

The accident is the world’s slap in my face. Wake up. Wake up and do better. I straighten my shoulders. I don’t know who I was before, but from now on, I’m going to be a decent person.

I head directly for the bus stop in front of the French Twist, only a quarter of a mile away from Astor. The route takes me to the shopping center and from there I can grab the No. 3 line, which will drop me off close to home. It’s a hassle, but it’s doable.

As I’m walking along the sidewalk, I hear a honk. For the second day in a row, I look up to see Bran Mathis waving at me. From what I got during our conversation yesterday, he’s the new quarterback of Astor Park’s football team, isn’t filthy rich like everyone else at this school, and he seems like a really nice guy.

He pulls over and brakes. “I was going to get some ice cream for my mom. Want some?”

Chapter 14

Easton

“Do you want anything?” I ask Sawyer. We’ve been working on assignments for our missed classes for the past two hours and I, for one, am ready for a break.

My brother looks better. There’s more pink in his cheeks. The bags under his eyes are more the carry-on size than the fifty-pound luxury steamers that were parked there for the last few days. Between Ella nagging him and me threatening him, he had two meals yesterday and got in at least six hours of sleep. Today, we’re aiming for three meals and ten hours of sleep. We’ve already had breakfast and lunch, played some Call of Duty on the PlayStation, and this homework.

What would really be good for Sawyer is to get out of the hospital. Even better if he went back to school. If he needed to watch over someone, he could keep an eye on Hartley for me.

I asked Ella how Hartley was doing. Her “I don’t know” was snippy but I chalk that up to her anxiety over meeting with the lawyer today. Anything that reminds her of her bio dad, Steve, sends her mood into the shitter.

Sawyer shoves his chem book away and casts a guilty glance toward Seb’s bed, as if Sawyer isn’t allowed to enjoy anything while Seb’s comatose.

I jump up and grab my wallet. “I’m getting a double fudge shake from IC’s.”

Sawyer licks his lips. That’s his favorite.

“Um…”

“Yeah, I’ll get you a large,” I say, not giving him the option.

The drive over to IC is fairly short. It’s halfway between the hospital and school. A ton of the Astor Park kids hang out here and I’m not surprised to see the small ice cream shop full when I arrive.

Dom, one of my football teammates, is leaning against the counter along the window feeding his girlfriend, Tamika, from their shared banana split. “Yo, Royal,” he yells. “What’s up? You drop out?”