“I hid it.”

I tumble out of bed, nearly falling to the floor before I catch myself. I’m standing on wobbly feet, clad only in my underwear, and I wrinkle my nose. My skin feels grimy, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and I bet I smell like one, too.

Wade doesn’t even flinch. He stands there, the calm in my storm, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression firm. I see the sadness in his eyes, though. And the worry.

He’s sad and worried about me.

“Give me my bong,” I say, because it’s all I can focus on. All I’d rather focus on, because facing my reality is just way too difficult to contemplate.

“Fuck your bong. Fuck your weed. Go take a shower.” He shoves at my shoulders, pushing me toward my open bedroom door, and I let him. Give in because it’s easier and he’s right. I’m rank, and I need to take a shower before I stink myself out.

I go into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, turning the lock. Start digging through the cabinets, hoping to score a joint like the last time I looked, but I’m out of luck. I turn on the water in the shower, letting it warm up as I brush my teeth. The bathroom is cold as ice, but the steam from the shower starts to up the temperature. I think of Chelsea taking a shower in here. When my life was normal and good and everything was going my way.

But that’s ruined. I ruined it.

Way to feel sorry for yourself.

I take a quick shower, thankful that Wade pushed me into it because I feel semi-human again. His words are on repeat in my head, reminding me that I am acting like a mopey, good-for-nothing ass**le. I need to pull my head out of my ass and get back to living. Fuck it if Mom’s mad at me. If Fable won’t speak to me. If Chelsea won’t ever look at me again. I can’t let that shit get me down.

Fake it until you make it.

After I throw on some clothes, I check my phone, ignoring the text messages from Des, and from some girl in my English class who has the hots for me and somehow got my number. There’s a voice mail from my coach, and another from my boss at The District, but I choose not to listen to them right now. They’re probably full of nothing but bad news.

I can’t handle that. Not right now.

Then I see Drew’s number. He left me a voice mail. I hit the play button and hold the phone to my ear, the sound of Drew’s familiar voice filling my head, making me sit on the edge of the mattress and nervously bounce my knee. I dread hearing what he’ll say.

What if he hates me?

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but ignoring your sister isn’t doing you or me any favors. She’s mad, but more than anything, she’s worried about you, Owen. Call her. You two need to talk.”

That was it. That was all he said. He didn’t beat me up, didn’t tell me I was a rotten, no-good ass**le brother who’d ditched his sister. Just simple and to the point. Call your sister. She’s mad. She’s worried.

The end.

Taking a deep breath, I stare at my phone’s screen, contemplating giving Fable a call. But I can’t do it. I’m scared to hear her voice. Hear the accusations, the questions. She’s got plenty to say, I’m sure. She always does.

Instead, I text her. Two simple words I should probably send to Chelsea as well, but I’m not ready for that confrontation yet.

I’m sorry.

One step at a time. Fake it till you make it. I can do this. Approaching Fable is the first step. Figuring out what I’m going to do with Mom is the second step.

Begging Chelsea’s forgiveness will be the third and final step. The scariest step of all.

“You dressed?” Wade asks as he barges into my room.

“Would it matter if I was, considering you just busted right in?” I stand and shove my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, pretending it’s no big deal that I haven’t heard back from Fable after my text. She’s usually so quick, texting me back as fast as I answer her.

My phone is silent. Mocking me. Making me feel like a failure.

“Come on.” Wade flicks his head toward the front of the house. “Your guest is waiting.”

I follow Wade out into the living room, nerves gnawing at my gut, making me almost nauseous. I haven’t eaten much this last week either, so that could contribute to the queasy feeling I’m having.

The nausea hits me tenfold when I see who’s sitting on my couch.

“Coach.” I stop when he stands, big and wide and intimidating as hell. He played football all his life, had gone to the pros only to have to bow out due to an injury two months into his first season. So he turned to coaching and is one of the best coaches in the state, if not the entire country.

Everyone has mad respect for Coach Halsey. And I’ve shit all over it practically the entire season.

“Son.” He nods, his mouth grim. “You’ve missed practice.”

I stand up straighter as I watch Wade wander off into the kitchen. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Got any excuses you want me to hear?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head. Coach hates excuses. He thinks they’re nothing but a bunch of bullshit and lies.

“Good.” He approaches me, stopping just in front of me so he can poke the center of my chest with his index finger. “This is your last chance. You screw around again, miss one practice, screw up your classes, whatever, I’m dropping you for the rest of the season.”

Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze, grimacing against the pain in my chest when he pokes me there again. “I understand.”